When I get that feeling like I need to go for a drive but don’t have a destination in mind, I often end up on the frontage road leading to the Parachute Center. It’s its own little world of billowy parachutes, international accents, daredevils, airplane engine roars, mismatched couches and dots turning into people as they fall from the sky. It’s not a place I belong at all, but I like to go, to be a spectator of this culture that is so different from my own.
A couple of weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, I met my dad for a breakfast date at the Airport Cafe. Over eggs and coffee, we watched the skydivers fall in the distance. He had time to kill before a haircut, so I made him go with me to watch them come in for the landing. “They’re nuts!” he said, though he was thoroughly entertained.
Would you ever jump? Have you? Ooh, I don’t think I could.