In adventure sport—just as in surgery—there’s never just another day at the office
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We have Thursday morning off, before we take the flight back to Mumbai,” my dad reminded me as we were winding up a one-week workcation. “Do you have something specific you’d like to do?”
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We were in Australia, invited to speak at the annual meeting of the Neurosurgical Society of Australasia in the lovely resort town of Port Douglas, an hour’s drive from the relatively placid city of Cairns. After completing our work assignments, we took a few days off to visit the Daintree Rainforest—1,200 sq km of wildlife habitat that is more than 180 million years old, 10 million years older than the Amazon.
I contemplated the question he had just asked me. “Let’s go skydiving,” I suggested. Last-minute weather problems meant that we missed doing it on our individual travels the year before. Without batting his 78-year-old eyelids, he concurred. “But let me check first if they have an age limit,” I hurriedly added. “What age limit?” he shot back, “I’m fitter and stronger than you!” It was indeed true. I’m 42 and everything hurts every day.
“Hello, is this Skydive Australia?” I called, making a booking for October 4 and enquiring about any of their stipulations for guests jumping off a plane from 15,000 feet. “We don’t have an upper age limit,” he confirmed politely, “as long as you don’t have a serious medical condition and are above 18 years of age and below 110 kg.” We met these criteria. Our bookings were confirmed. After having snorkelled Down Under, in the Great Barrier Reef, it was time to see what it looked like from a little higher up.
On the designated radiant morning, when the sun shone its golden whiskers through the turquoise Aussie skies, a bus took us and three other fellow jumpers to the office where the first thing we did was sign a waiver: If we died, they would not be held responsible. It was like taking consent before brain or spine surgery. Only today did I realise the tumult of emotions that patients must feel every time we explain the risk of death to them, but they sign the form, trusting us in full faith. Today, we were the patients and we had to trust our diving doctors.
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We were shown a safety briefing video with gorgeous views from a Cessna biplane soaring up into the skies, and people jumping off it like giant bird poop. Olivia, my diving instructor, was going to do the tandem jump with me. “What’s the most common question people ask you?” I quizzed, as she put on my harness, double-checking all the locks. “Has the parachute ever failed to open?” she replied. “Has it?” I asked with a little trepidation on the inside, but sounding cheery and confident on the outside. “Ah, a couple of times, mate!” she said casually, “But we always have a standby, so don’t worry!” she laughed.
“Let’s slay it,” she gestured, as we took a picture and video together before walking on to the tarmac. “Do you wanna say your final goodbyes to people at home?” they always joke on record. “Not required; we’re coming back soon to haunt them!” I quipped.
“Does this ever cause motion sickness?” I asked the other instructors of their experience. “We’ve had a few people throw up mid-air,” Damien said, unflustered even as he was on his fifth jump of the day.
“The first one minute is a free fall at 200 km per hour, and then we open the parachute, which lasts for about five to six minutes. If it’s windy, you can feel a little nauseous,” he warned, munching on berries.
Damien, my dad’s instructor, was a strong, well-built man with a golden beard and long hair. He had four missing fingers on one hand. “Skydiving accident,” he joked. “I’d happily take that if I only lost that much in a skydiving accident,” I told him. “Nah—got chopped off by a saw while doing some carpentry as a kid,” he explained, his voice muffled amid the roaring sound of the plane nearing us. Just before boarding, I tightened my shoelaces, lest my shoes fly off and hit the person jumping behind me at 200 kmph.
The five of us got onto the plane tagged to our instructors. It had no seats, just a low-lying flat couch one could hop on to, and a sliding door that they closed way after the plane took off. As we rose to 5,000 feet and saw the panorama of the world below, tiny ripples gradually started roaring in my stomach. I could feel my heart race. I wondered if this would match the adrenaline rush of performing a difficult surgery—one where there was profuse bleeding, with the patient’s blood pressure crashing and monitors beeping.
“Do people ever refuse to jump after being airborne?” I joked around with Olivia as she did the final tightening of the harness onto hers and put on my goggles. “Now is not the time to be asking that question, mate! Once we slide the door up, just remember what we rehearsed. As we get to the edge of the plane, curve your legs in, arch your back, make a banana, and jump. When I tap you on the shoulder, pull your arms out wide like you’re soaring.” She gave me a final thumbs up as she tightened the GoPro camera fixed to her wrist to record an unforgettable adventure.
Once we reached 15,000 feet, one of the instructors pulled the door open. “1-2-3 jump!” he went out with his jumper in a jiffy. The cold wind blew straight into my face, reminding me of my journey to the Everest Base Camp a few months ago. Five seconds later, the next person jumped off. My heart was racing but I had a huge smile on my face. “We’re next!” Olivia slid me to the edge of the plane as I tucked my feet in and arched my back to her face, the force of the wind trying to rip the skin off my face. I felt like the animated version of Jim Carrey in The Mask. I gave a thumbs up to my dad behind me. Olivia screamed, “1-2-3 jump!” and we somersaulted out.
I didn’t know what had hit me, but after the first three seconds, I could vividly see the vast expanse of the horizon in front of me. The clear sky with the glimmering sun shone sharp on us. Suddenly, all the rush disappeared, and I experienced a sense of calm I have never felt in my life. It was so surreal that I thought of my patients, my family, and my dear friends while plummeting into the clouds below us. Even though I was plunging down at 200 kmph, I felt like I was afloat, suspended in space and time. True freedom means not longing for anything to be other than what it is. This is what freedom felt like, I thought, even though I was attached to Olivia. We both smiled into the camera and took what looked like soothing pictures mid-air.
As we descended into the clouds, she pulled on the parachute and both of us transformed into eagles, buoyant in the air, enjoying the beauty of the terrain below with the Gods looking on above. It was ethereal. We swerved with the wind, making gentle circles in the air, chatting about surgery and skydiving—both professions were never just another day at the office—as we gracefully approached our landing. “Pull your knees into your chest and straighten your legs,” came the instruction, as we made a smooth landing onto the soft verdant grass—the sort of landing one would have never imagined.
I quickly turned around to catch a glimpse of my dad, who was 10 seconds behind me, land right next to me. We had experienced an adventure of a lifetime. Both of us were grinning from ear to ear, as we kissed and hugged each other once we were free from all the strappings. “Paisa vasool,” were the first words that came out of his mouth. I couldn’t agree more.
The writer is practicing neurosurgeon at Wockhardt Hospitals and Honorary Assistant Professor of Neurosurgery at Grant Medical College and Sir JJ Group of Hospitals.
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