I could have dwelled on the hundreds of things that might go wrong in the next sixty seconds of my life–or the fact they could be my last–but when the pilot opened on the bay door, all I cared about was stepping onto the rail and rolling into open sky. Let me backtrack. I did my first sky dive today over the Jersey Shore, jumping at just under 10,000 feet. That was probably the only downside of the experience. By law, the pilot must remain 500 feet beneath the cloud ceiling, and a dense patch hung stubbornly at 10,300–an obstruction which cropped a precious second or two of free fall. Well, maybe next time I’ll get the difference back.

Oh yes, there will be a next time. I signed up for certification classes. Right now, I’m trying to recenter myself. Six hours later, the bulk of my thoughts flow like a stream carrying pieces of the free fall, the feel of my back wedged against the firewall of the plane, and the jump masters joking with each other on the ascent.

“Oh, Christ,” Jonathon said, as the plane veered down the runway a second before takeoff. “I hope it goes better today than last week.”

“You gotta get back on the horse,” Joe said.

“Hey, Joe, when was your first jump?”

“About thirty minutes ago.”

It would seem sky divers share my Far Side sense of humor. First I found a job where I fit in; now I found a hobby. What next?

Anyway, I need a few more beers to get back on planet Earth.

In honor of the event, an awesome coworker made shirts for the few, the proud, the jump list:

Front is a modified school mascot.

The back is even better.