Why the fuck am I doing this?
(When I was six years of age I had an imaginary friend called Nougat. Whenever I did anything wrong broke a plate or a window, cut my kid sister s hair off, etc. I always tried to blame him. It never worked).
Why the fuck am I doing this?
(I smoked my very first cigarette when I was seven years old. It was a half-finished Embassy Blue that I d stolen from the ashtray in my grandmother s house. It had red lipstick on the filter).
Why the fuck am I doing this?
(The first girl I ever kissed was called Sarah. We were both nine and it happened in a field in Wicklow. Her mouth tasted of blackberries. In fact, I think her mouth was full of blackberries at the time).
Why the fuck am I doing this?
(When I was 14 I used to sit beside a guy in school who . . .)
AAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!
Readers, it s true what they say. In that moment just before you die or think you re about to your whole life really does flash before your eyes. It s exactly like that whiskey advertisement on the telly. Something chemical happens in your brain you get a pure sunburst hit of psychic adrenaline and a million half-forgotten or long-repressed memories suddenly flash through your mind in fast forward.
If, at any stage in your childhood, your uncle ever took you out and buggered you senseless in the garden shed then you re going to recall it just as the final curtain falls. Thankfully, I can now state unequivocally that no uncle of mine (or anyone else for that matter) ever did. For if anyone had then I d definitely have remembered it as I hung precariously off the wing of a noisy light aircraft several thousand feet above the earth, looking down at fields the size of playing cards, with a 70mph wind straightening out the wrinkles around my eyes.
Asking myself, for the umpteenth time in 24 hours, why the fuck am I doing this?
/* /*
As with most of my Hot Press assignments the whole thing started with a phone call. Unusually however, this particular call came just after 9am on the morning after a particularly heavy night before. In retrospect, I can t help but suspect that this was a deliberate move on their part. They knew I d been drunk as a skunk the previous evening and that my guard would be down. Mette, Niall s assistant, wasn t giving much away but she knew which carrot to dangle.
Olaf, there s something really special we d like you to do this weekend, she purred down the line.
What is it? I groaned.
Well I haven t quite got all the details yet but you re gonna love it, trust me.
I don t trust you. What is it?
Look, I just need to know if you re going to do it. I have to book the flight today.
Flight? I m going somewhere?
Erm . . . yeah. On a plane.
Where though? With who?
Look, I ve got a call on the other line! she snapped, somewhat impatiently. Will I book the flight or not? I can always get someone else you know . . .
Oh . . . yeah, alright, I relented, too tired to argue. Go on then.
Had I not been so hungover I probably would ve thought it curious that she was laughing as she hung up. Instead I crawled back to the womblike environs of my bed and dreamed of an all-expenses paid, week-long trip to some exotic destination with a bunch of hedonistic and impossibly glamorous rock stars. Sydney with the Rolling Stones perhaps . . .Tokyo with Bono and the boys . . . New York with Liam and Noel . . .
Two days later my dreams were abruptly shattered when I bumped into the boss in the office corridor. All set for the jump? he asked grinning widely. Jump? I exclaimed. I thought Van Halen had split up. No, he countered, looking somewhat confused, I meant the parachute jump.
Oh, are Something Happens re-releasing that single somewhere?
Something Happens? he queried, raising an eyebrow. Hasn t Mette told you what s going on?
Just that I m flying off to do a big story tomorrow, I enthused eagerly, but she hasn t told me who the band are yet.
Em, I think you better sit down, he sighed. There s something you should know.
And so the truth came out. I was getting a flight alright but it wasn t to any exotic foreign location. Nor was it with any rock band. Christ, it wasn t even first class! It wasn t even one-way. No, it was half-way. Apparently some wag had proposed that I do a parachute jump a parachute jump! at an editorial meeting. Everybody thought it was a great idea. They even took a vote on it unanimous. I hadn t been there to protest. I was in bed hungover. My mother was right. Drinking too much can really get you into trouble.
But I m not one of those Patrick Swayze Point Break types! I protested. I shave every day! I don t even drink Pepsi Max! I can t do a parachute jump!
Take it like a man, boy, our glorious leader ordered. Do it for your magazine.
But . . . but . . . but . . . I stuttered, desperate to think of a way out of this, I don t even know if I ll get a good story out of it. Like, what if my paragraph doesn t open?
You re not scared are you? he sneered.
Course not! I snapped. I m not scared. I ll do the stupid jump, no problem!
Actually, I was telling the truth. I wasn t scared I was fucking terrified! People die doing parachute jumps. Stuart Clark didn t do much to relieve that fear when I met him a few minutes later. Can I have your computer if anything happens? he enquired, concerned as always for the health and safety of his colleagues.
No, you fucking well can t, I replied, as gracefully as any man with rapidly loosening bowels could.
/* /*

Statistically speaking, you ve actually got a better chance of being killed on your way to the air-field than you have when jumping out of the plane, Dave told me as I climbed into his car the following morning. Dave was a twenty-something computer programmer with a ponytail and a penchant for jumping out of planes at weekends. A veteran member of the Irish Parachute Club, Mette had organised that he give me a lift to the air-field. Photographer Mick Quinn would give me a lift home later. Well, either Mick or an ambulance.
Is that so? I said, I feel much better about it already.
Suddenly my stomach leapt as he gunned the motor, spun the wheel and took off at 60mph, causing sprayed gravel to hit my neighbour s windows like staccato machine-gun fire. Twenty seconds later we were doing 80mph.
Training starts at 9.30 most weeks, he told me, so you ll be there in plenty of time.
I looked at my watch it was 8.45. And we were going to County Offaly!
Would you describe yourself as being hooked on danger? I asked in a trembling voice as I reached for the seat belt.
Not at all, he laughed, taking a corner without slowing down. Why do you ask?
Never mind, I muttered, please just keep your eyes on the road. MIND THAT TRUCK!
He was right. Statistically speaking I did have a much better chance of dying on the way to the air-field. Particularly if he was doing the driving.
We arrived ten minutes early.
/* /*

The Irish Parachute Club is based at the Offaly Regional Airfield, near Clonbullogue. Basically just a large hangar and a couple of sheds, the club has been in existence for 41 years and, most weekends, a large number of otherwise sane and hardworking men and women travel here from all over the country in order to fling themselves from aeroplanes with bags on their backs, armed only with the hope that said bag will open and let a parachute out, thus preventing them from making a big sticky mess on the ground. Like most other clubs it has its customs, traditions and token mad bastards.
IPC customs include adopting a similar attitude to novices as fifth years do to new students on the first day of school. You re doing your first jump today, eh? they ll say, clapping you on the back. Good on you. Just hope you don t get the chute with the hole . . .
IPC traditions have a certain stag-night quality to them. When a member completes their 100th jump they get tied up and smeared with cowshit, a regular supply of which is conveniently available from the field adjacent to the drop zone.
The IPC s token mad bastard (and jump co-ordinator) is a middle-aged gentleman by the name of Tommy Morrissey. When I joined the group of beginners in the yard, he wandered over to me and said, you re the Hot Press fella? When I nodded that I was, he suddenly blew loudly on a whistle and screamed at the top of his voice JUDGEMENT DAY IS HERE! Then he ran off, laughing hysterically. I was freaked. Maybe he was an anti-drugs activist? Or a Catholic who thought I was Liam Fay? Or a Liverpool fan who thought I was Jonathan O Brien? It wasn t until I saw him do it to someone else that I relaxed. Prior to that I was convinced I d be getting the chute with the hole! Bastard!
For all the jocularity and humour, however, the club has a very serious side to it as well. Over the years a small number of people have died at the airfield. Many more have been injured (not so long ago, someone hit a power line as they landed and sustained serious burns). To their credit, the organisers don t attempt to gloss these facts over. Before any training commences Liam McNulty, the chief instructor, guides you through a forest of forms that, behind the legal jargon, basically say something along the following lines: I m doing this of my own free will. I understand that skydiving is a dangerous activity and, although every precaution will be taken, it s possible I may be seriously injured or even die. If I do die, I instruct my family and heirs not to sue. If I land on someone s car then I agree to pay for it.
I signed the last one Niall Stokes.
/* /*

There were about 16 first time jumpers training on the same day as me. A few were doing it for charity, a few were doing it for kicks. For my own part, I had already begun my mantra of why the fuck am I doing this?
Following all the form filling (which took nearly an hour) we were separated into two groups and assigned different instructors. Some people were doing tandem jumps a 10,000 foot drop strapped to an instructor while others were jumping solo. I had opted for the solo jump 3200 feet on a static line deciding that, if it came to the crunch, I d much rather die alone, thanks all the same.
Training takes about six or seven hours, after which you know just about all that it s possible to know about parachuting from the ground. Our instructor s name was Eddie Duffy a soft spoken man in his mid thirties, with a fairly direct way of putting things ( If you pull this handle without pulling this one first SPLAT! ). Having being born with a chronic aversion to education, I was surprised to find myself listening to his words of advice with more attention than I d ever paid to anything in my life. The rest of the class were the same. We hung onto his every word as though our lives depended on it, mainly because our lives did depend on it.
Parachuting is all about drill. There s a particular way of wearing a chute, of getting into a plane, of getting out of a plane, of controlling a chute and, most importantly, of landing. Procedure and instructions have to be repeated so often that they re ingrained onto the surface of your brain. I must admit I felt faintly ridiculous standing up in front of a roomful of strangers, arching my body into an x-shape and screaming the following exit drill at the top of my voice: One thousand! two thousand! three thousand! four thousand! check canopy! cells! lines! slider! check harness! one! two . . . and so on. However, any self-consciousness was quickly dispelled by the notion that I d look even more ridiculous with my head and shoulders buried a few feet into the earth.
A lot of the drill is about things going wrong. If your lines get tangled, you try and twist them out. If the cells on your chute don t open, you pull the toggles three times. If that doesn t work, you have a reserve chute. If you open the reserve without first jettisoning the main chute (quite easy to do if you re in a panic) then they ll get tangled and you ll probably die. And if the reserve doesn t open for any reason then you ll never find out why . . .
After several hours of intensive training we were all set to do our respective jumps. Unfortunately the wind had picked up and all jumps were off. You re in the hands of God with parachuting, someone explained to me, if the weather isn t right, you just can t do it.
But you ve driven here from Cork, I said, what if the wind doesn t die down?
Then I don t jump, he stated with a shrug. What a sport, eh?
For their part, the club members amused themselves by roller blading, motorcycling and, eventually, doing both at the same time. Us novices just stared glumly at the air-sock, half hoping the wind would die down, half hoping it would pick up.
It didn t die down. I didn t jump. I drove home with Mick Quinn not sure whether I was relieved or not.
/* /*

Later that night I got a call from the boss. How d it go? he chuckled. It didn t, I explained, I m going back tomorrow if the weather s okay.
Oh, right, he said. There s something else I want you to do anyway.
Don t tell me snowboarding? Mountain climbing perhaps? Or maybe you d just like me to save time by putting my head in the door-jamb and slamming it shut?
No, nothing like that, he demurred. I want you to write an obituary.
And so it came to pass that on the night prior to my debut parachute jump, I stayed up till 5am writing 2500 words on the death of William Burroughs. Actually, I was only writing the Burroughs piece till 3am. From 3-4am I was scanning the Situations Vacant section in The Guardian. And from 4-5am I was writing a Just In Case note.
/* /*

The following morning the weather was beautiful, absolutely perfect for parachuting. Shit! I exclaimed looking out the window, shit! shit! shit! Then I went back to my why the fuck am I doing this? routine. Mick Quinn arrived to give me a lift. Why the fuck am I doing this, Mick? I asked him at the door. Fuck knows, he shrugged. Personally I reckon you re just plain dumb.
We arrived at Clonbullogue shortly after lunchtime. Sensing my nervousness, the instructors organised an early jump for me. To be honest, I just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. I got into a jumpsuit, put on the parachute, helmet and altimeter and thought of a joke:
Q. Where do parachutists go when they die?
A. Back up!
What they don t tell you in training is that you wear a radio in your ear during the jump and an experienced parachutist helps talk you down. The reason they don t tell you is so you don t decide to rely fully on the radio and ignore the drill during training. The radio operator talking me down was a guy called James Gossie Brosnan (temporarily grounded following a harsh landing some months back). Sometimes the radios don t work, he explained as he fitted it to my suit. There s an RTE transmitter nearby and, if the signal s strong, that s all you can hear.
I looked at my watch. Top 30 time! Bloody great, I thought to myself, knowing my luck my chute won t open and I ll fall to the earth with fucking Boyzone playing in my ear!
Solo jumpers go up three at a time. Thankfully, I was fortunate in my parachuting partners. Two pretty young blonde girls Lucy and Patricia were going up (coming down?) with me. I had been worried that I d be jumping with a couple of macho types who d put me off. At least with a couple of females around, I d be too proud to back out (a reasonably regular occurrence with novices, apparently). Both had jumped ten times before so they knew the ropes. Having said that, both were just as nervous as me. The moment you stop being scared, you should stop jumping, Patricia advised me. That s when you start making mistakes, when you get cocky.
As we walked towards the plane, Mick Quinn took a few photos. Just think Mick, I said as I boarded, if I hit the ground and die you ll get a great shot.
Nah, he smiled, I d never get that lucky.
/* /*

The plane we went up in had been specially stripped down for parachuting. There was one seat for the pilot, and the girls and I had to get down on our knees behind him while an instructor sat by the door. It was cramped, noisy and unbearably hot. Parachutes are incredibly heavy and between the weight on my back, the pain on my knees and the sweat under the helmet I was almost looking forward to jumping out into the fresh air. Almost. . .
The plane circled for about 10 minutes before the time of reckoning arrived. Lucy was jumping first, I was following. The instructor opened the door and suddenly the noise grew even more intense like the death throes of a million knackered hairdryers. You couldn t hear a thing. I watched Lucy climb out onto the wing, jumpsuit rippling like crazy, and then suddenly disappear. Her static line (a rope attached to the plane that pulls your cord automatically) went taut briefly and then began to blow around the place. ( Why the fuck am I doing this? Why the fuck am I doing this? Why the fuck am . . . ). Then it was my turn. I tried to turn my mind off and edged towards the door.
The procedure for climbing out of a jump-plane is quite simple but if you get it wrong you could be in serious trouble. Exit is everything. Right foot, left hand, right hand, left foot. Basically you climb across the wing until you reach a spot with a couple of hand-prints painted on it. The word SMILE is painted in bright green between the two. You hang there, blowing in the wind and, when the instructor gives you the signal, simply let go and gravity takes care of the rest.
My life flashed before my eyes. And then: AAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!
In space, nobody can hear you scream. In the sky, everybody can hear you. It s just that they can t help you.
/* /*

I forgot all of my training. I forgot the drill. I was supposed to be shouting one thousand two thousand three thousand . . . but instead I was completely breathless. It took me about thirty seconds to realise that my canopy had opened and I was, well, sort of floating over the earth. Actually, according to the altimeter on my wrist I was falling pretty rapidly but it felt like I was floating. Once I d gotten over the shock, I remembered the words of my instructor the only thing that can hurt you is the ground and decided to enjoy myself. I did. For the next two minutes I was a human kite, swooping through the silence, interrupted only occasionally by Gossie s reassuring voice in my ear (no Boyzone, thank Christ!). It was a wondrous feeling, completely life-affirming. I decided that if I didn t break my neck landing, I d recommend it to all of my friends. And if I did break my neck landing, I d recommend it to Stuart Clark.
It s only in the last twenty seconds that you realise how fast you re falling. Parachutes have breaks on them that stop you dead in the air but you have to time it right, otherwise you stop too soon and fall the final distance. Luckily Gossie s exact instructions kept me in check and I managed to land perfectly. On my feet! I haven t smiled so widely since I first had sex.
I was still smiling when I got back into the hangar. Did you like it? a group of members chorused in unison. I loved it, I beamed back. Great! There s room on the next jump if you wanna go, they told me. Erm, maybe I ve had enough excitement for one day, I smiled.
Best not to tempt fate. Besides, I had a Just In Case note at home to rip up before anybody found it. n

The Irish Parachute Club can be contacted at 1-850-260-600.
IPC Website: http://indigo.ie/-skydive