Talking Sports: The Eagle – and this writer – have landed

There's only one thing that's ever been on my bucket list. But I did it well before the term bucket list was ever coined.

When the 1990s began, I believed I should commit myself to achieving the goal, before the decade was out, of jumping out of a plane and returning safely to earth. No single space project in that period would be more impressive to me, or more important, to my long-range exploration of space; and none would be so difficult or expensive to accomplish.

President John Kennedy's goal of sending a man to the moon and returning him safely to the earth was a little loftier than my own. While no story has ever had me so riveted as when the crew of Apollo XI was lunar bound, my own exploration of space was pretty exciting too – at least to me. Most especially since I have such a fear of heights.

For $100, I and the several other strangers who showed up, were given an all-day training session on how to safely jump out of a plane. I didn't pay to ride down underneath someone's stomach. I paid for a static-line jump. I was going to jump out of the plane – like they do in World War II movies – with a line attached to the inside the plane. The jumping act itself pulls the rip cord.

There was one little detail that wasn't part of the training, however. All the instruction took place on the ground. Not a minor detail to me. The wing strut we practiced on was made of splinter-laden wood and sat firmly on planet earth. The wind wasn't whipping by at hurricane speed either. But there was no way I was going to back out.

As the plane neared jumping height and I got ready (I was going to be the first to go), the pilot starts waving at me violently. He's not audible with the wind whipping by the open door. He starts pointing at my back, and then his own back in what seemed like a game of charades.

Suddenly the instructor gets it and leans close so I can hear.

"We have to go back down," he yells while pointing over my shoulder. "Your reserve chute has popped out. We need to get you back down for another parachute."

"OH ?%&!!!," I think while trying to play it cool.

"At least," I thought again. "At least, this way I get to live a little longer."

While being fitted for a new chute back on planet Earth, I'm able to see the others in the class jump. Wow. They all came down slowly and lived to tell about it. Nobody died. And when they landed they were all really excited, jubilant and euphoric.

"Wow! Unbelievable! That was so coooool! Amazing! Can we come back and do it again!"

I don't know how many people die jumping out of planes, but after seeing four others land successfully, I should have felt more relaxed. Instead, I figured my odds of landing with a splat just went up exponentially. Darn those odds.

So back up I go – new parachute and all. Ready to die for my cause. Maybe I should have just shot myself at 3,500 feet. That way I'll be halfway to heaven and not have to retrace the same ground over again.

But I didn't shoot. I crawled out on the wing strut. When I got there, I was being blown parallel to the ground by the forward momentum of the plane. Nervous, but determined, I looked to the instructor and somehow gave him the smile he demanded.

"Go," he signaled.

So I closed my eyes, let go and fell as instructed. An instant later, with my heart pounding through my chest, my rapid descent was suddenly halted. There was absolute silence.

Is that you St. Peter?

No, I realized when I opened my eyes and looked up. Instead of seeing angles carrying me aloft as expected, I saw a giant rectangular canopy floating above me. All seemed perfectly silent – no more was there the sound of the wind whipping at hurricane speed. All I could feel was a gentle kind of a whooosh.

Since my ride into space was delayed about 40 minutes, I had the added treat of seeing the sun slip over the western horizon. After a long, hot, sometimes nerve-wracking day, the sun was now bidding its farewell over the Adirondak Mountains.

As if saving its fondest good byes for days like this – the sun shimmered a long, orange triangular glow over the ripples of Lake Champlain that spread from the New York State shoreline to the banks of Vermont. And I saw it all from 3,500 feet. And it was absolutely quiet, absolutely stunning, absolutely beautiful.

Wow. That was amazing! And the Eagle had landed safely. But not on tranquility base. My tranquility base was back up there – floating through space.

While my journey to the heavens was merely a "small step for man," and not especially meaningful to mankind, it was still one heck of a ride.