The jumpmaster unlatches the lock and opens the bay door of the Cessna 182. Wind roars through the cabin like a hurricane. Outside, the prop hums like a low pitched buzzer, relentless. There’s two inches of air between us and 10,500 foot descent. It’s the sort of day jumpers dream of: an unlimited ceiling, moderate to light winds, and a crystal clear view spanning more than thirty miles in every direction. The only speck of white below are breakers gnashing into the Jersey shore.

I pull my goggles over my helmet, covering my glasses securely.

It’s time.

“Are you ready to sky dive?” That’s the question the jump master bellows.

“Yes, sir!” I boom back. With twenty-two years teaching Army Rangers, Spec Ops and other airborne units how to jump, firing back with anything less than an equal intensity will mean push ups after the debriefing. I hate push-ups.

“Then let’s sky dive!”

The railing over the wheel of a 182 is wide, yet stout, and maintaining balance is easier than I expect, even into 120 mph winds. I point my toe towards the wing tip. Over my left shoulder comes the all clear from the jump master.

We break away from the plane and barrel heads down through nothingness.

“Arch, arch, arch, breathe!” I yell. Instinctively following the vocal prompts, my body thrusts out at the hips, resembling a banana from the side.

Three seconds later, I’m stable and dropping 1000 feet every 5.5 seconds.

I have thirty seconds to live the rest of my life.