The car stays silent on the drive south. I stare out of the passenger window. This is my third attempt to jump from an aeroplane for Cats Protection.
A news event forced the cancellation of the first booking in August. For the second booking on May 10th, I drove myself down to Cornwall, needing something to focus on. Nicola sits beside me. The date marks my dad’s birthday and the anniversary of Elaine’s passing, Nicola’s mum.
Conversation is sparse as we head down the A30. We stop at a service station. Even here, Cornwall announces itself. The toilet signs are written in both English and Cornish, with “Ahloeades” and “Gwer” sitting beside the familiar Ladies and Gentlemen. I cannot face breakfast. A cappuccino is enough. Back in the car, the radio plays “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” by R.E.M. We both laugh at the timing as we continue towards an aeroplane I am planning to jump out of.
The airfield at Perranporth feels cold and exposed. A hazy breeze moves across the grass runway. Lex walks over with messy curls, a deep summer tan and a pair of tatty trainers that have seen hundreds of landings. He delivers the safety briefing.
“Listen carefully,” he says, explaining the body position. “Otherwise I’ll open the parachute a thousand feet lower.”
The dark humour helps.
I am sixth on the list. The first jumper is a young lad preparing to join the army in the autumn. He lands looking completely relaxed. The second jumper, a young blonde woman, is equally calm.
By the time the third jumper prepares, the wind hits twenty-five knots. At three o'clock, the instructors cancel the remaining jumps.
We drive to Perranporth beach. Sand blows directly into our faces. I buy a tasty cruffin from a nearby café, but it feels like a small consolation. Instead of stepping from an aircraft at ten thousand feet, I am walking along a windswept beach with sand sticking to my face.
Five days later, another text message arrives. The re-booked flight is cancelled due to unscheduled aircraft maintenance.
June 21st brings bright sunshine. It is Father’s Day. An ear infection throbs in the side of my head. Blood came from my ear yesterday. I swallow strong antibiotics and ignore the pressure. I pull on a pair of green socks for my mum and force down a yoghurt.
Travelling from Plymouth, we cross the Tamar Bridge in calm conditions. Sailing boats move slowly below the suspension cables, following their own lanes through the water. Perranporth is busy with summer visitors. Pink hydrangeas fill the local park.
The place feels familiar. It is where my family takes our first proper holiday outside North Devon. In 1994, aged nine, I spent a week in a caravan here. I still have my Haven Tiger Club membership certificate tucked away in a drawer somewhere.
The clouds burn away, and the sun warms the tarmac. Lex delivers the safety briefing again. We practise the freefall position, pushing our hips forward into a concave shape.
“Pretend you have a horny instructor strapped behind you,” he says.
The first jumper is a red-haired girl taking her first-ever flight. She lands grinning, having completed her first flight but still waiting for her first aircraft landing. A Romanian girl follows. She screams throughout the descent but beams when her feet hit the grass.
The skies are clear, and the forecast looks good for the rest of the day, but Lex still studies them carefully.
“If I got it wrong as often as the weatherman, there would be holes in the ground.”
Two men arrive for their fiftieth birthday presents. They are not charity jumpers. One daughter stands nearby, drinking cider before eleven in the morning. Ben, one of the other instructors, announces to the waiting group that nobody has died and nobody has got pregnant on his watch. Lex lifts the parachute rig.
“Twenty-five kilograms,” he says.
I sit beside Louise, who is jumping for Bowel Cancer UK. She completes a challenge every year, and we share stories about our running history. Just after midday, a faint rainbow iridescence appears around the sun above the airfield. I take it as a sign from my mum.
A gentle onshore breeze moves the thin wispy clouds. A driving school uses the far end of the runway. A twelve-year-old boy sits behind the wheel, learning to control the clutch. A ladybird crawls across a warm paving slab. A jackdaw drops down and steals a chip from a discarded tray.
They call my name. I expect another jumper, Colin, to go next, but I stand up. I step into the heavy webbing harness. The ground crew attach a bulky buoyancy aid in case the wind carries us towards the sea. Lex mentions that his sister lives in North Devon. The familiar connection helps settle my nerves.
I meet Andy, my photographer. He films a short introduction. I explain that I'm jumping for Cats Protection, the charity that brought Herbie and Lola into my life eleven years ago. Since losing my mum, and later Nicola’s cat Nala, they have been a constant presence through difficult months for both of us.
I wave cheerio to Nicola and we walk out to the tiny aircraft. The cabin is stripped bare. The metal floor vibrates beneath our feet as the engine starts and the smell of aviation fuel fills the cabin. I sit between Lex’s legs so he can connect our harnesses. Andy sits near the front. The engine roars. The plane bumps along the grass runway and climbs.
The coastline stretches north past Newquay, Tintagel and Bude. To the east are St Austell and the white domes of the Eden Project. Truro and Falmouth sit to the south. Far west, the land reaches Lands End, with the Isles of Scilly visible in the distance.
We reach ten thousand feet. The door opens. Cold air rushes into the cabin. Andy climbs onto the wing strut. Lex and I shuffle towards the edge. My legs tuck underneath the aircraft. My hands grip the harness straps. I look at Andy.
Lex counts.
“Three. Two. One.”
We jump.
For the final minute, Lex takes control again. He checks our height and lines up the landing zone.
“Legs out straight.”
We make one final pass over the field. We land ass first.
I walk back across the airfield in my sunglasses. Nicola looks at me and laughs. Apparently, I look like Maverick from Top Gun.
If you would like to donate to Cats Protection, you can do so from this link: https://www.justgiving.com/page/mezza-skydive
Photographs accompanying this article are available for editorial and commercial licence. Further details are available on the licencing page.
