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It all started something like this:

Coworker: Let’s go skydiving.

My head: Don’t say yes, don’t say yes.

My mouth: Alright, let’s go.

My head: Oh, crap.

Before I realized that the words “sky” and “dive” don’t necessarily go well together, I had boasted my intentions to too many friends to back out. Next thing you know, I was on Interstate 15, heading toward Skydive Elsinore, fittingly located in the town of Lake Elsinore, fittingly adjacent to a body of water named Lake Elsinore.

Why jump out of a plane, you ask? Having a 15-page research paper to write and no job after graduation will do that to a man. But seriously, it’s the perfect end to a wild and crazy four years in college.

Surprisingly the most surreal moment was actually reading the contracts and signing my life away. It’s jarring and oddly funny reading all the hypothetical situations in which you can sustain an injury or die, and Skydive Elsinore will not be responsible for any of it. Also, the contract doesn’t pertain strictly to skydiving.

If I hit my head while entering the small doorway of the plane and get knocked unconscious, I can’t sue. If a rattlesnake in the area deals me a fatal bite, it’s my fault. If I go to the rest room and slip and break my neck, I just have to suck it up.

And of course the good people at Skydive Elsinore videotape everyone reading and signing the final clause. Now, I was ready to skydive.

Not so fast, the receptionists alerted me. My friends and I still had to watch a video presentation about tandem skydiving. Footage of skydiving tricks with U2’s “Elevation” as the soundtrack was expected, but the image of tandem skydive pioneer Bill Booth and Bill Booth’s beard brought down the house. The man grew his beard well past his chest like a real pioneer riding a covered wagon to the Gold Rush. Many of us couldn’t take him seriously even if our lives depended on it, which, sadly, was actually the case. We couldn’t help but giggle throughout the video. “The last time I shaved was the last time I lost a lawsuit,” quipped my friend.

Back to the business at hand: It was time for some simple training. Instructor Tigger’s sage advice included: 1) arch your back, 2) relax and remember to breathe, and 3) don’t hit your head on top of the plane’s door opening.

Now, I’m ready. Any last-minute jitters were quickly quashed when my friend reminded us all that “we have a higher chance of getting killed driving here than the actually skydiving.”

The plane was a piece of junk, but nobody seemed to mind because we all had parachutes, backups, and backups for the backups. We strapped onto our instructors and jumped out of the plane.

You can’t help but let out a scream or a curse word at the instant your feet find out there’s nothing beneath them. I was speechless when I reached the ground, and am still speechless now.

One minute free fall, seven minutes of dangling on a parachute, and $184 well spent (includes a complimentary Skydive Elsinore T-shirt).

Now I just have to find a job so I can afford to go up again