Coming in for a landing, I fell on my ass like a clumsy clown.

Standing at the plane’s open door, the person before you steps out and just…disappears. Your brain can’t comprehend how something could be right here, then instantly so far away. It’s disorienting.

“Free fall” from 14,000 feet doesn’t feel like falling in your dreams, or jumping off the roof. It’s more like you’re suspended in air, motionless, with a huge blowdryer blasting cool air in your face. It’s loud, like sticking your face outside the car window at 65mph, but there’s no real sense of movement. The earth approaches too slowly for that.

You are intensely focused. Will the chute open? Will the chute open? Remember the backup plan if it doesn’t. Okay. Breathe. Then it does open, and you’re safely drifting down, nothing to do but enjoy the scenery. Peaceful.

These days it’s quite safe, not too expensive, and you can do it in half a day. If you don’t mind being strapped to an expert, you only need a one-hour training course. Mostly they just tell you over and over about the backup cord. Statistically, the riskiest part is the ride up in the small plane. It’s safer than driving to work.

At Sega, where I worked that year, our department had about 16 people. About half  joined us on the excursion. Confronting primal fears together is not a bad team-building exercise.