NONFICTION  -  
​      With a Theme of Time       

"The memory of landing all alone miles off the drop zone in rural Illinois--
all consumes me as we head single file to the rear exit."   
             Photo by Weebly                                   

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When Time Stood Still
by  Pat Usner

I am more afraid than I ever remembered being. We had jumped out of the Boeing 727 a few years earlier, and now we're doing it again. Last time we were told to double tie our shoes and tighten our helmets really well so the force of 180 mph exit wouldn’t rip them off. My feet were practically numb from the tightness. I could hardly swallow from the helmet strap cutting into my throat. This time I’ve loosened things up a bit, more aware of what’s to come. Still, the memory of landing in a remote farm field by myself—snagging my jumpsuit as I climbed through a barbed wire fence, landing all alone miles off the drop zone in rural Illinois—all consumes me as we head single file to the rear exit. My stomach lurches, my intestines angry. Will Dave and I connect for our planned two-way dive? Or will I tumble uncontrollably through the sky? Where will I land? Is a bull awaiting my landing in some remote pasture?
 
When a 727 takes jumpers it can only slow to 180 mph. Terminal velocity in freefall is 120 mph, so you leave the plane in a blast that rips at your face and tumbles your body until you stabilize into freefall.
 
Ninety of us line up—half of the planeload—hands on the shoulders in front of us, the safest way to exit without tangling bodies, we’re assured. This way of exiting is the exact opposite of how you exit a typical skydiving airplane. But the jet was not typical. Once a year, it arrives at the World Freefall Convention to drop 180 jumpers at a time over Illinois farmland.​

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I go first. Dave is right behind me. We step off into the sky. Relief! I’m stable, intact, in one piece. My terror dissolves into thrill. And then time plays a trick, stands still. I’m absolutely certain Dave’s hands were on my shoulders when we exited, but when I steady myself and look back, he is just now coming out of the door a hundred yards away. How could that be?  I was swept away, expecting that Dave was right on my back. And yet there he was, just leaving the plane. The forward thrust at 180 mph created a time warp.
 
On a normal skydive, Dave would never have been able to close that distance between us. But in a split second he was there, grabbing my hands as we fell belly-to-earth 13,000 feet above the Earth—90 seconds from impact. We moved through our choreographed sequence: Our four hands clasp, a quarter turn clockwise, grab a jumpsuit handhold, another quarter turn, and another, a 180-degree turn, and another, back to the center. All to be performed in a mere 75 seconds of freefall. How could so much happen in a bit over a minute?
 
Nothing else occupies my mind during a dive—just pure joy and elation—and doing what we practiced. Those 75 seconds stretch out like eternity. Then my altimeter reads 2500 feet. Time to pull. The chute snaps open, yanking me upward as if a crane suddenly hooked my body. I drift down under my teal and purple canopy, taking in the distant hills and trees, spotting the landing zone, and gently touching down safely.
 
I never again viewed time in quite the same way. In the air, time swells—Dave is suddenly an impossible distance away, yet able to resurface in a fraction of a second, and a single minute unfurls into a full skydive dance. Skydiving bends time, turns it inside out, and forever alters what we consider reality. The thrill, the buzz, is etched forever in my bones.

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​​Pat Usner is semi-retired, working as a fundraising advisor. After decades working in healthcare public relations in Philadelphia, she followed her passion, changed careers and moved to San Francisco 20+ years ago. She was drawn here by Pachamama Alliance—a nonprofit that partners with the Indigenous people of the Amazon to preserve their land and culture. Their vision of an environmentally sustainable, spiritually fulfilling, socially just human presence on this planet continues to guide her. Writing is in her blood. Both parents were journalists, and her degree is in Journalism. After decades working in public relations, marketing and fundraising, now she’s writing just for fun. Her writing is mostly reflective, how stories from her past inform who she is today.

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