How I helped a friend cross off the #1 goal on their bucket list

When I set out on my mission to complete 52 goals from my bucket list in 52 weeks, I saved the best for last: Goal #52 “Help someone else cross something off their list.”

The Text That Started It All

It began with a simple Instagram post on my birthday asking what people want to do before they die. Among enthusiastic responses about learning new languages to see more of the world, writing books for future generations, and starting nonprofits to end world hunger, an old fraternity brother, Rob Meraz, had a response that stood out in its beautiful simplicity: 

"Sky dive." 

It’s actually one word, Rob. But got it.

Six months later, I texted through the list of responses that I got, in the order they were received. I shot a text to Rob: "Yo Meraz, I don't know if you remember, but you told me you’ve always wanted to go skydiving. One of my goals is to help someone else cross something off their bucket list. Would you be down to do that, like, next month?"

Within a few minutes, Rob responded, "Shit. I'm scared as fuck, but I'm down."

Well that was fast. Guess I’ll be hurling myself out of an airplane 13,000 feet above the earth. 

The Group Grows

We originally scheduled our jump to take place in Santa Cruz, a convenient midpoint between Rob and me. But the day before our jump, they canceled due to high winds. When I told Rob, I worried he’d let this be an excuse to back out. “Ok. Well, should we do it somewhere else?” he replied.

Hell yeah, Rob! I immediately rebooked – found an opening at Go Jump America in Oceanside for the same week. But there’s no way I was driving down and back in a day. We’d need somewhere to crash.

I texted my buddy Berman, who lives in downtown LA and also knows Rob. Now, you need to understand something about Berman—the man is absolutely terrified of heights. Like, will-start-shcvitzing-on-a-stepladder terrified. (Would’ve been a terrible house painter). So I knew he wouldn’t want to join, but I figured he’d at least let us crash at his place for a night or two after the jump.

Daniel gets back to me, “Well damn, I’d rather be up in the sky with you guys than sitting on the sidelines. How much is it?”

Oh shit. The wolfpack grew by one.

The Morning Of

(Possibly the last picture that would ever be taken of us.)

I picked up Rob and began our journey south. The conversation drifted between nervous jokes and long stretches of contemplative silence. Then we got Berman. “Hope you guys got good life insurance policies!” We laughed. Then everyone retreated into their darkest thoughts.

We arrived in Oceanside to a cloudless SoCal sky—perfect jumping weather. Well, I think that’s good jumping weather? What do I know, I’ve never done this before.

We were anxiously early, like kids on their first day of school, so we stopped for lunch. Berman ordered a beer. "I think I need one too," Rob admitted with a nervous smile.

I could tell it had hit them—we were really doing this. In a few hours, we'd be freefalling through the atmosphere with nothing but a stranger and a backpack of nylon between us and oblivion.

But me – I was actually pretty chill. Mostly just excited. Am I normal?

Sardines in a Tin Can

(I was last in line. Still not sure if that’s the best or worst spot to be in.)

The plane was smaller than I expected—basically a flying tin can with the seats removed. There were about 20 of us total, all sat in a line, butts on the floor of the plane with our tandem instructors strapped behind us. We were packed in there like nervous sardines. 

The propellers roared to life, and my heart matched their rhythm. OK, now I’m starting to feel it. Mom, Dad, Jenny - I love you guys. And sorry I didn’t invest in a life insurance policy…

As we climbed higher, the casual banter of the instructors was surreal – how could they be so calm? Didn't they know we were about to defy every survival instinct encoded in our DNA?

At 13,000 feet, the door slid open. The sound was deafening—a howling vortex of wind that seemed to be screaming, "Close that door, you fools!" in Gandolf’s voice.

The Point of No Return

(Of all people, Berman was at the front of the plane first in line for the free-fall LOL.)

Berman’s instructor tapped him on the shoulder. "Once we get to 13,000 feet, we’ll go" he said, as casually as if telling Berman to slide his carry-on underneath the seat in front of him.

"Uh ok?" Berman's voice cracked.

A few moments later, they were gone.

One by one, I watched each body that was on the plane drop off and disappear.

My instructor and I shuffled toward the gaping doorway, my feet suddenly weighing a thousand pounds each. We perched at the edge, the ground impossibly far below.

"Ready?" he asked.

(Nope. Absolutely not.)

"Let’s do it!" I heard myself say.

(Where’d that come from?)

We tumbled forward, and my world turned upside down.

The Jump

(The “oh shit” moment.)

Nothing can prepare you for that first moment of freefall. Every atom in your body saying, “Get the fuck back to safety!” The wind hit me like a physical wall, like someone was stuffing socks into my mouth. 

My mind went completely blank except for one thought: "I. Might. Die."

We flipped and spun, my instructor guiding us through aerial maneuvers that sent my stomach into my throat. The earth and sky traded places in a dizzying dance. 

Amidst the chaos, there was something exhilarating – pure, distilled life force pumping through my veins.

Sixty seconds of freefall felt both eternal and instantaneous. 

Then came the jerk of the parachute deploying—a violent upward tug followed by the most profound silence I've ever experienced.

Curvature of the Earth

(Like babies in a jolly jumper.)

With the canopy open above us, the roaring wind subsided to a gentle whisper. We floated, suspended between heaven and earth, with all of Southern California spread out below like Google Maps satellite view.

My instructor handed me the steering toggles, letting me guide our descent in lazy spirals. As Berman later pointed out, "you can see the curvature of the Earth from here."

The horizon bent ever so slightly, a humbling reminder of our place in the cosmos. 

In that moment, you’re reminded of how infinitesimally small you – and your problems, your desires, your expectations – really are.

Reunion on Solid Ground

(Lived to see another day.)

Touching down was surprisingly gentle—a few running steps and we were firmly back on Earth. I spotted Berman running across the landing zone towards me. 

We collided in a group hug, laughing and fumbling our words about what we'd just experienced. Berman was in such shock he later admitted he barely felt our embrace—his body numbed by the massive adrenaline dump.

Rob rushed over. "We didn't die!" His grin wide like the curvature of the earth.

Goodbye Letters

Later, over celebratory drinks, Rob shared something that stunned me - "I wrote goodbye letters," he admitted quietly. "To my parents. To Leslie (his fiance). Just in case."

We all fell silent.

"I didn't want to tell you guys because I didn't want to bring the energy down," he continued. "But I thought, hey, this might be our last day, and they should know how I feel."

He continued.

"When I was writing those letters, I could see what really matters in the end," he explained. "And now I want to live each day with that in mind."

Rob had experienced the profound clarity that comes when you confront mortality. 

Lessons from the Sky

There are two ways to face the reality that any day could be your last: with paralyzing fear or with empowering clarity. Our skydiving adventure had pushed us toward the latter.

When your life literally flashes before your eyes as you plummet toward Earth at 120 miles per hour, you gain perspective. The petty annoyances that fill our days dissolve.

The people we love come into sharp focus. The gift of being alive—truly, vibrantly alive—becomes undeniable.

As Berman so eloquently put it: "Those moments when you think you might die are the moments you feel most alive."

I couldn't have said it better myself.