by Tim Smith
I could never quite get it out of my mind—I wanted to skydive.
When I was younger, part of me—the part that craves adventure, like fast motorcycles and fast cars—kept urging me to stop at that little airstrip in North Carolina I passed so many times. But the other part of me—the husband and father—stayed practical and responsible and usually won out.
Then the kids grew up, retirement came into view, and life was supposed to slow down… right?
Well, yes—except that thought, that curiosity, that persistent tug just wouldn’t go away.
I finally said it out loud.
Me: I want to skydive.
Wife: Ha!
Me:
Wife: Wait… really?
Me: Yes.
Wife: I wonder if your life insurance would still pay.
Me: Does that mean okay?
Wife: Whatever.
We were planning a trip to visit friends with a beach house on Ocean Isle Beach in North Carolina in a few months. My phone—which can read my mind—started feeding me skydiving ads. I quickly found Skydive Coastal Carolina. Skydiving at the beach… now that sounded pretty good.
I knew there was a place in Shreveport, but it didn’t offer the same view—the ocean, the coastline. And before Responsible Tim could talk me out of it, I went ahead and booked a jump for the week we’d be there.
When the day arrived, I still wanted to do it. So off to the airport we went. Mary, Jacque, and Celeste came along—Mary because she’s my wife, and our friends, Jacque and Celeste, supposedly, to support and cheer me on. But I had a feeling they were really there to keep Mary company… just in case. Well, you know.
If the folks running the skydive operation were trying to calm my nerves, they might want to rethink their process. I’d scheduled a 10:30 a.m. jump—late enough for a good breakfast, early enough to enjoy the rest of the day.
It quickly became clear I wasn’t going up anytime soon.
I told the girls to go shopping and that I’d text them when I had a better idea of when I might actually jump.
It was hot. After getting checked in, I waited in a hangar with the other jumpers.
It was really hot.
Then I watched the plane land and pick up two people who had been waiting when I arrived.
This was the plane?
Wait… what?
That was not the plane from the website videos.
In those videos, jumpers sat on benches in a large, twin engine, colorful aircraft, casually making their way to a wide door before boldly stepping out into the open sky.
This plane? Not so much.
It was a small tail-dragger—a four-seat, single-engine plane with everything but the pilot’s seat removed. Built for four people, it now held two jumpers and two instructors and a pilot, all crammed in with parachutes. I watched it struggle—yes, struggle—to get off the ground.
Hmmm.
Two things became clear: that was the one and only plane, and it would be at least an hour before it came back.
While I waited, I watched an instructor carefully pack a parachute from an earlier jump. That turned out to be the most reassuring thing I’d seen all day. It was a meticulous, precise process—every fold and line placed just right to ensure it would deploy properly.
I remember thinking, I hope that’s the chute I get.
Nope.
Eventually, my time came, and I was approached by a guy who looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. Good sign. His name was Thomas—he pronounced it “Toe-maas”—and he was from South Africa. He explained the entire process while filming me with a camera strapped to his wrist—for posterity… or possibly insurance purposes in case… you know.
Around this time, I noticed something.
It was HOT.
Not just hot—HOT.
I had sweated through my T-shirt. Droplets ran down my face, arms, and legs. At the same time, my mouth had gone completely dry—like Arizona in August. Drinking water helped for about three seconds.
What’s going on? I’m not nervous. I want to do this.
And why is my stomach feeling funny?
I’m not nervous. I want to do this.
The plane returned, and I gave Mary a quick kiss and waved to Jacque and Celeste. The other jumper and instructor climbed in first. Then Thomas and I squeezed in, struggling to shut the door. I ended up facing backward, staring at the face of an 18-year-old kid who was also jumping.
Last in, first out.
Given how tightly we were packed—and the fact that I was pressed up against the door—I was definitely going to be first.
Two things became immediately clear. The kid crammed in the back of the plane was either extremely nervous or possibly stoned—his mouth hanging open didn’t help me decide which. The other thing I noticed was the pilot.
She was 12.
Our pilot was a blonde girl who might have weighed 87 pounds soaking wet and looked like she’d skipped middle school to be there.
Did I mention it was hot?
As we started rolling, I realized I couldn’t see where we were going—and that bothered me. I like to see where I’m going. The plane smelled funny, a weird mixture of aviation fuel, feet, and sweat. But that was probably me.
I’m not nervous. I want to do this.
As the pilot pushed the throttle forward, the plane rattled and shook its way down the runway. Eventually—after what felt like a very generous definition of “enough speed”—we lifted off.
It was still hot in the plane, and facing backward didn’t help. Then a thought crept in that I did not appreciate at all:
I hope I don’t get sick.
I’m not prone to motion sickness, but the mind is powerful. Before long, I started to feel queasy.
Oh no.
If I throw up, it’s going all over that kid—and that’s definitely more than he paid for.
As we climbed toward 10,000 feet, something finally improved. The air got cooler—much cooler. The breeze coming in around the door helped settle my stomach, though it did nothing for my desert-dry mouth.
Thomas kept filming and asking questions. I tried to respond, but with no saliva to speak of, I probably sounded like a man chewing sand.
Finally, he tapped my shoulder.
Time to go.
He told me to open the door.
I had this image of those folks in the videos—standing up, walking calmly to a wide doorway.
That was not happening here.
We were sitting on the floor of a tiny plane with zero extra space. I realized I was leaning against the door, and opening it might just spill me out.
Still, I opened it.
Air rushed in, Thomas tightened the straps connecting us, and then he yelled in my ear to step outside.
“Step” is generous.
It was more like placing one foot onto a platform about the size of an iPhone—attached to the wheel strut.
Then he said, “Lean forward and fall out of the plane.”
Wait… what?
Oh. Right. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?
So, in one of the boldest—or perhaps most questionable—decisions of my life, I leaned forward and fell.
And just like that, we were tumbling through open air.
As we spun, I caught a glimpse of the plane we had just left. Funny—it looked bigger from the outside.
Then Thomas deployed a small stabilizing chute—that is the “handkerchief-on-a-string thingy”—and we leveled out.
For the next forty seconds, the rest of the world disappeared. It was just me, soaring through the cloud speckled sky.
It was just me, flying over the Carolina coast.
It was incredible.
The freedom, the exhilaration, the view—it all came together in a way I had never experienced before.
Then came a strong tug.
The parachute opened.
My first thought: Aw, no—I want to keep flying.
Followed quickly by: Oh, good—I’m not going to die.
Everything grew quieter as we drifted down. Thomas handed me the control lines and let me steer for a bit. I turned left, then right, enjoying the feeling—until he decided it was time to take back control as the ground approached.
He guided us smoothly back to where we started, landing in the grass beside the hangar. Mary, Jacque, and Celeste were there, waving. Thomas told me to lift my legs, and moments later, we touched down gently, standing upright.
I still hadn’t produced a drop of saliva.
As soon as he unhooked us, Thomas went straight into interview mode with that wrist camera.
What did I think? Was it fun? What was the best part?
I almost said, “The part where I didn’t throw up,” but instead went with, “The freefall—it was amazing.”
Was it fun? Was it worth it?
Absolutely.
Would I do it again?
Yes… but I don’t need to. I do believe that sometimes we all need to do something that wakes us up. Something that immerses us in this thing we call life.
I probably won’t be back to Skydive Coastal Carolina, but my experience was amazing.
I would, however, still like to know if they really have that plane from the videos.
