I take a gulp of diesel-tainted air and my finger twitches against the airplane's cold door and I look out and see the spinning whizzing propeller and the infinity of blue up above and the specks on the ground below and someone behind me yells what sounds like a New York taxi driver's war cry and I lean back a little then fling myself out through the door and into that tenuous, intangible place called mid-air.

The ground rocks and I twist and see the plane shoot out of sight and I twist again and see the waves of air whip themselves at me and I feel the heaviness of the parachute on my back and I remember to breathe in again and the air stabs me through the spleen and my eyes wobble at the widening ground and I reach for the life-saving ring to open my chute and for a moment I feel the busying sky rush through me.

With a stomach-ripping tug, the large sheet of poly-something catches me impossibly like a giant, three-fingered hand that flies from the sky and picks me out from my fall and my head spins for a moment and I look up at the bright colors of the chute floating above me and I look down at the patchwork tracks of terra firma and I breathe in a cool breeze that was on its way down to meet me on the ground. n