You are cramped inside a teensy, tiny jet—chest pressed tightly into the back of the
person in front of you, someone else pressed just as close behind. Everyone is dressed
in identical red and black jumpsuits, sitting on the floor in single file. To see anything
ahead, you have to awkwardly peek over a stranger’s shoulder. As the engine roars to
life, a timer with bright red numbers begins ticking down from ten minutes.
You are strapped—literally chained—to the person behind you. As the concrete building
below dwindles to the size of a toy house, fear creeps in. You start to wonder if this is
just your life now, being transported in a cramped metal box toward an inevitable end.
You watch in abject fear as the timer ticks down.
But you aren't on death row. You are about to fall out of a plane.
24 Hours Before the Fall: Zurich
Zurich greeted us with sunshine and impossibly clear skies, leading us straight to the
Lindt Home of Chocolate. The building is a stark, glowing white, housing a massive
centerpiece: a giant spoon pouring a literal waterfall of melted chocolate into an
enormous Lindor sphere. It felt like Willy Wonka was going to step out at any moment to
invite us into his emporium.
Inside, we wandered through the museum, attempting to learn the history of chocolate.
We tried to be "good students," nodding along to the audio guides and diligently
scanning our devices at every station. We’d listen to a fact about the 19th-century
invention of milk chocolate, but our minds were only on one thing.
The moment we saw the tasting stations, we made a beeline for them. We stood there
spamming the button that dispensed silky chocolate into tiny plastic spoons like
self-proclaimed connoisseurs.
“Ah yes,” we’d say with unearned confidence, “this one is clearly an 80%
Belgian cocoa with orange zest and a hint of salted caramel.”
We got almost every single flavor wrong. But considering I ate my weight in free
samples, I’d say I still won.
Eight Hours Before the Fall: Interlaken
The next day, we took a bus to Interlaken. Strangely, there was zero anxiety all morning.
We were joking and laughing in the van, even as we suited up in our dark red jumpsuits
and met the instructors. While others looked visibly pale, I was genuinely excited. I
figured I finally had something good to say during icebreakers.
All twelve of us piled into the plane, and it finally took off.
Then it dawned on me: I was going to fall out of a moving vehicle 4,000 meters in the
air. I was going to fall out of a plane. Read that again: I AM GOING TO FALL OUT OF A
PLANE. If any of the straps or buckles tying me to the parachute failed, I was done for.
Oh, and I’m also terrified of heights! Read that again: I. Am. Afraid. Of. Heights.
The door slid open and a deafening wind bellowed into the cabin. The timer hit zero. I
watched in utter shock as the pair ahead of me—a pro and a student—shuffled to the
ledge, rolled out, and promptly vanished into thin air. I motioned to ask if anyone else
was going (to be polite, of course), and the cameraman pointed directly at me.
My shaky smile was instantly wiped off my face. My instructor shunted me toward the
opening. The exit was inches away, the wind was deafening, and before I could process
a single coherent thought, we rolled out.
The Fall:
You know that "hypnic jerk" where you wake up in the middle of the night with a falling
sensation? This was that, on steroids, except this was real. I squeezed my eyes shut as
we plummeted. I was screaming my lungs out, but the wind was so loud you couldn't
even hear the sound leaving your own mouth.
I was afraid for maybe a total of three seconds. You accept your fate because there's
nothing else to do, and that’s when the terror is replaced by a surreal, heavy calmness.
What people don't tell you is that after the initial drop, you don't actually feel that
"stomach-drop" sensation anymore. Once your body adjusts, you're just... suspended.
We went screaming past wisps of white clouds, falling through a sky so blue it looked
painted.
The Swiss Alps were everywhere—jagged, snow-capped giants that looked close
enough to touch. As we lost altitude, the freezing mountain air shifted into a warm,
gentle breeze. The world below opened up into a vibrant tapestry of bright green grass
and the glittering, turquoise water of the lakes.
By the time the parachute deployed and we drifted quietly back toward the fields, the
fear was long gone, replaced by pure euphoria. I landed gently on the grass plain, still
dazed from it all, wondering dreamily if the instructors would notice if I snuck onto the
second flight for another round.