I, Erin Winans, hereby release and discharge Vermont Skydiving from any and all liability, claims, demands, or causes of action that I or any person or entity may have for my injury or DEATH or other damages arising out of my participation in “skydiving activities.”

I sign, acknowledging that I’m okay with death as an outcome. I sign as neatly as possible; I want to make sure that my potential last signature looks good. The last mark on earth that would validate my presence. But, at 20 years old, is that enough time to leave a significant mark? Senior year of college hasn’t started yet, I haven’t had a professional job, haven’t received my diploma, yet I sign the paper to jump out of a plane.

I lie about my weight on the form and say I’m heavier just to have that security blanket. If they were filming this part, they may have caught the brief flash of guilt that temporarily invades my face, but retreats with thoughts of safety. This five-pound ball of security will ensure that I won’t fall from my partner’s grip because they will prepare for someone heavier; they will be able to handle my true weight—at least that’s what I tell myself. I don’t know if I even believe it though. 

As my tandem partner instructs me on my duties, I can barely retain the information. Lean my head back, arms out, bend my legs back through his, and don’t forget to release the parachute—wait why is that my job? What’s the elevation at which I’m supposed to pull the release? Will we just go up if I pull too soon?

With death looming in my thoughts, they videotape my experience as if to create a tribute video for people to view in my remembrance. As I walk toward the plane, it’s like walking to a fate which I have to trust. I trust the earth, which bleeds security and safety, but I don’t know who to trust in the air. My tandem partner says he’s jumped out of this very plane so many times, and that should be enough to build a mountain of trust to stand on, but my hands continue to shake, creating an earthquake that crumbles the rocky terrain. Does the video capture my trembling frame?    

Walking toward the plane, the lining of duct tape doesn’t register as a warning flag. Turn back.

Metal is molded by sticky strips that don’t even stay on walls sometimes. From what I can see, it looks like two, possibly three, rolls have been used, but it seems to be holding firm—maybe for my sake. The plane I’m about to get in is held together by duct tape; the plane I’m about to jump out of is held together by duct tape.  

In the small plane, we somehow fit six people in the plane—six. It doesn’t seem possible, yet we all fit. There is only one seat and that’s for the pilot; I’m standing back-to-back with the pilot’s chair. I try to focus on the ground as the plane gets higher and higher, but I lose sight of it. I’m in a new element now, with only the blue sky and clouds to look at, but nothing concrete.

The earth usually dictates when my feet are on the ground, but that foundation vanishes with our growing altitude. I soon find who I can turn to: the wind. The plane itself and the camera filming are the only things that remind me of the ground. They ask me for my last words—I should’ve prepared a speech. How am I going to go out? Should I try to be funny and let my last words cause laughter?  

I’m smothered by cold air when the door opens like a mouth of a monster preparing for a meal.I’m going to be earth’s pancake. I somehow get to the edge of the plane and almost lose my feet. Once they breach the doorway they are swept to the right so fast I fear my body will follow because of the speed. Through some mercy of control, I’m able to plant them on the ledge where they need to be.

I can feel my tandem partner behind me, attaching himself to me and asking if I’m ready. That’s a loaded question.

My tandem partner starts rocking and counting, which means I’m about to leave a solid support and let the sky have me. Looking at the video, my face screams of whether or not this is a good idea, but I’m already at the open door. I hear three—let’s go back to ten—and two—let’s count up to ten—and next thing I know I’m in the wind.

For a brief moment, I can pretend that I still feel steel underneath my fingers where I gripped the edge of the plane. I know that’s a lie, but clinging to the straps of my harness lets me believe I have some control, even when I have none. They’re something I can latch onto for support as my cheeks feel like they’re being stretched right off my face.  

Once I feel like I have a semblance of control, I notice that it’s true what people say; it’s colder higher up. My whole body tingles and I have as many goosebumps as I do freckles. My mind freezes on confrontation with the fact that I’m free falling, but my body remembers the commands: lean head back, arms out, feet curl.

After my body obeys my tandem partner’s instructions, I’m free to focus on the sensation of air whipping by me. As I accelerate closer to earth’s crust, I temporarily forget that I’m hurtling downward as I close my eyes. My lack of sight creates an awareness of the strands of hair escaping my ponytail due to the strong wind pushing against me. Ironically, as I’m falling due to the weight of my tandem partner and me, I’ve never felt so weightless.

My body is just a free-falling object that feels like it’s staying in the same place, but the size of the trees lets me know I’m moving.    

As I open my eyes, I remember I’m also free to worry. My faith breaks when it hits me that I have no control. There’s no ledge to grab onto to stop the sensation of oncoming impact, nothing to stop my stomach from rolling. But, there’s a beauty of having nothing to stop you, no man-made construction that would cause injury. I’m just falling in open air; there is no skyline of New York littered with skyscrapers that smack people into reality. I’m in a reality where open air and just fresh air, in general, is present.

After what feels like an endless descent, I see my partner wave his hand in front of me, alerting me that we’re almost at the proper elevation. Trembling hands search for the release to get a grip, but they only find a way to disconnect me from my partner. The mad dash doesn’t do anything to calm my nerves; I’m just getting used to the wind in charge.

Suddenly, my body lurches forward without warning, but I know I didn’t pull the line that saves me and I have never been more thankful for my tandem partner. The mountain is reassembling. The pace that seemed too fast to begin with becomes a quarter of that speed and the tingling I experience from the free fall changes to a feeling of excitement.

Now, I am the wind and there is nothing to disturb me. Floating is a sensation like no other. There is nothing to navigate because everything is in open air, free from construction. I see the wind as a peaceful entity that is trying to show me the world like I have never seen it. Vermont is a quilt of greens with varying shades of natural tones, a combination of rough and smooth patches.

But, a constant ringing in my ears reminds me that this won’t last long and soon I will be joining the world again.

Unfortunately, my piercings are causing this unnecessary noise that takes away from the natural beauty. A reminder of the incessant noise that people and construction create, which turns the wind—a peaceful, natural phenomenon—into wailing screams. Currently, I’m putting my trust in nature to deliver me safely to the ground. At any moment, the wind could send us spiraling, but it’s as if it can sense my complete trust during this point. But, can the Earth say the same about people?        

While enjoying the view, I feel a slight push on the reigns from my partner and jolt back into the territory of the wind as everything goes silent. I’m in a new world where noise doesn’t exist, only observation of greens and blues, land and sea. No constrictive forces are acting upon my ears and no thoughts are invading my mind, just a screenshot moment in which I’m out of time observing the world as it should be. The canvas of Vermont is reflective of the canvas of how the world should be—just tints of blue and green and any color Mother Nature chooses to produce, not the artifice creation of unnatural views to which we have all become accustomed. Maybe, we all need to go skydiving to make us see.

Every minute in the air is a minute of knowledge gained, awareness of what the Earth should really look like. Each breath, a physical washover of relief. As my tandem partner and I get closer to the end of our journey, the ground, I begin to see details in the trees that line the open field. Now that I can make out the rustling leaves, it appears as if the swaying trees are waving, inviting me back to land.

Approaching the final turn, I prepare my legs by lifting them horizontally and wait to slowly slide into a green field. The grass acts as a pillow that cushions me as my butt drags along the floor of the earth. My shaking legs barely keep me up, but the smile on my face never wavers.

When can I go again?