Galavanting Globally

Queenstown Skydiving

So that "maybe" on the last post turned into a "hells the fuck yeah"!  Kelly and I, I still can't believe this happened, threw ourselves out of a plane.  Ok, the tandem instructor threw us out of the plane kicking and screaming.  None the less, it happened.  Happened big time.  When faced with the options of a 9,000; 12,000 or 15,000 foot drop, we went for the full monty.  Jumping at 15,000 feet, high enough to be classified as a high altitude jump.  That's right, because we are bad ass (suckers).  You might be thinking, "Wow, Krista, you are so responsible to plan for this expense on your budget backpacking around the world tour".   No, this was not a planned expense, but we figured it was a once in a lifetime opportunity.  We're just going to pretend for a moment that skydiving only exists in Queenstown, New Zealand and not EVERY single city in the United States.  Once in a lifetime for sure.  I'd like to take this moment to thank MasterCard for their generous limits and no questions asked attitude (MasterCard, if you're reading this, please send your sponsorship royalties payable to Krista M. Gust for the free advertisement you just received, obviously this blog is read by millions).  

The high altitude jump requires a waiver swearing upon the head of your first born child that you are by no means hung over.  Oddly enough you could have drank your weight in Malibu Rum before the 9,000 and 12,000 foot jumps without cause for denial.  So we crossed our fingers, the fail proof way to get out of a contract or death, and certified that we had not, in fact, drank Queenstown under the table the night before.  After a shockingly brief instructional section, we were handed a jump suit, complete with FUPA enhancer, and sent off to be awkwardly bound, S&M style, to our newly acquainted tandem instructor.  I would usually find the crotch-to-butt bondage situation uncomfortable with most new friends, but considering my life was now securely in their hands (groin?), I felt it was only appropriate to skip the formalities and get straight to the personal part of our relationship as soon as possible.  My new back buddy, Dimitri, was a short, stalky trunk of a man from Bulgaria.  His accent was as thick as his thighs and I'm not quite sure he understood when I asked him, in all seriousness, if anyone had ever peed on him before.  Somehow the dense Eastern European accent was comforting.  As if he had grown up in a highly regimented soviet camp where he grew up eating rocks for breakfast.  Trained and tough, just the kind of guy I want handling the complexities of jumping out of a moving vehicle.  Kelly's instructor on the other hand was a 7 foot tall perverted Russian who kept making her sit on his lap in order to "affix the harness better".  After he asked her if this was her first time jumping, he said, "me too".  

The actual flight up was gorgeous, overlooking the Remarkable Mountains (it seems like they're tooting their horn a little with a name like that, but they are actually pretty amazing).  I might have actually enjoyed the view too if I weren't totally preoccupied with keeping last nights vodkas in my digestive tract.  At this point you have absolutely no power over whether or not you are jumping.  I think they call it "jumping" to give you a false sense of control.  You are literally shoved across the floor of the plane and thrusted out the door.  As we tumbled out of the door my only thoughts were "sweet bajesus, what have I done"?  And then you fall and fall and fall.  And in my case you scream every expletive you've ever heard your mom say to your dad growing up and then some you make up.  I'm apparently very creative in this aspect when faced with life and death situation.  65 bowel shaking seconds of the noisiest, wind whipping free fall and Dimitri deploys the life saving shoot.  The next several minutes were the most peaceful moments of my life and I actually can appreciate the surrounding mountains and pristine turquoise waters of New Zealand.  Dimitri even gave me the reigns to the parachute so I could do all the 360 spins and turns to my stomachs content.  I don't know what made me so trust worthy, but apparently Kelly's perverted Russian did not relinquish control of the reins.  As we approached landing, it only then occurs to me that Dimitri's legs only hang down to my knees.  I'm I supposed to land this myself with the weight of the tree truck of a Bulgarian on my back as well?  Thank god I am instructed to lift my legs as high as possible and we slide on our asses to glorious stop.  Kelly got the courtesy of the more respectable, and ass saving, upright landing.  Chaffed buttocks be damned, the high of being alive wins.  The high, however, unfortunately does not cancel a hangover.  So many life lessons learned that day.  

The look of success