We looked at the airplane we would be flying in: a Cessna 182 with a modified door.

"Look left!" I continued screaming, even though I was 2700 feet high in the air. It was part of the training; it was automatic.

I grabbed the silver release ripcord--a Dshaped handle about belly level on my left harness strap--and pulled down as I screamed, "Pull!" I threw it away from me--using both arms--then went into the hard arch position: pelvis thrust out, arms, legs and head thrown back, and started counting again.

"Arch thousand, two thousand..."

We were in the classroom until about three in the afternoon. Then, the simulation training started. These were the "stress situations" Kevin had been talking about earlier.

First, we worked with a mock-up of a plane and wing, learning the sequence of commands that would get us from inside the plane to the final jump position, holding the wing strut, left foot on the wheel, right foot dangling in the 75 mph wind.

Then we stepped off the wheel onto the ground, threw ourselves into an arch and counted to four, while Kevin held flashcard pictures of parachutes in various states of malfunction over our heads.

Line twists. Failed slides. Streamers (parachutes that open but don't slow you down). The proper reactions were drummed into us. When to dump the main canopy and go to the reserve. When to fly the main. How to fly the main. How to fly the main. How to land in power lines (don't move, don't let ANYONE touch you under ANY circumstances). What to do if a parachute opens in the plane (if it gets outside, "expedite the jumper from the aircraft as soon as possible").

And we practiced the simulations, over and over and over again.

The opening shock of the reserve parachute snapped my head forward and back, but heck, who cared. As Kevin would have said, my vertical rate of descent was slowed.

I quickly looked up to check for problems with the canopy, but it looked good. With shaking hands, I reached up and grabbed the steering toggles, waiting for instructions over the radio.

Packed behind the pilot's seat in the Cessna, second in the jump order, I began to doubt my mission. I stared at the altimeter on my chest as the plane wore upward through the rapidly closing clouds. 1000 feet, 2000 feet, the ground looked too far but too close.

I began to wonder how the four seconds of free fall would feel, the rushing air, the height. What if my parachute didn't open? Look right--pull-throw it away, I said automatically.

What was going to happen when they opened the door. There was nothing to hold on to. I would be blown out...

"Nice job, John," Kevin said.

He unhooked my harness from the simulator.

"The clouds are too low," the pilot said. "We'll have to go back down."

I didn't get to jump the next day, either. But all five of us swore we'd be back. We had no choice, really. Skydiving had reached in and captured our imaginations. We had seen the other side. We were hooked. Skydiving was the most fun I've never had.

Come reading period, you know where to find me.