The Text That Started It All

It began with a simple Instagram post on my birthday in November 2020 when we were all still locked down due to COVID. I asked people what was on their bucket lists, curious about the dreams others carried. Among responses about writing books and learning languages, Rob's answer stood out in its beautiful simplicity: "skydive."

Six months later, on a whim, I texted him: "Yo Rob, I don't know if you remember, but you told me you wanted to go skydiving. Would you be down to do that, like, next month?"

His response came within sixty seconds: "Shit. I'm scared as fuck, but I'm down."

I was floored. I had fully expected to work my way through a long list of friends before finding someone to say yes. But Rob? One and done. The man is pure courage #yolo.

The Countdown Begins

Our adventure grew when my buddy Daniel Berman decided to join us. Now, you need to understand something about Berman—the man is absolutely terrified of heights. Like, break-into-a-cold-sweat-on-a-stepladder terrified. Yet there he was, climbing on board because he’d rather be up in the sky with us than sitting on the sidelines missing out.

"Your enthusiasm got me excited about doing something I'm absolutely petrified of," he later confessed. That's friendship, folks.

We scheduled our jump with a place in Santa Cruz, but they canceled at the last minute. I refused to let the momentum die—we were doing this. I immediately rebooked with Go Jump America in Oceanside for the same week. There was no backing out now.

The Morning Of

The day arrived with a cloudless Southern California sky—perfect jumping weather, though I wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse. I picked up Berman, and we made the drive to Oceanside in a state of suspended disbelief. The conversation drifted between nervous jokes and long stretches of contemplative silence.

We stopped for lunch, and Berman ordered a beer. "I think I need one too," Rob admitted with a nervous laugh.

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.

Sardines in a Death Tube

The plane was smaller than I expected—basically a flying tin can with the seats removed. We sat in a line on the floor, tandem instructors behind us, packed together like the world's most nervous sardines. The propellers roared to life, and my heart tried to match their rhythm.

Berman was stationed at the front of the plane, closest to the door. Poor guy would be the first to be sent into the abyss. 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!"

The Point of No Return

I watched as Berman's instructor tapped him on the shoulder.

"We're about to open the door," he said, as casually as if announcing the drink cart was coming through.

"What do you mean you're about to open the door?" Berman's voice cracked.

And then they were gone. Just... gone. Vanished into thin air.

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 Fall

There is nothing—and I mean nothing—that can prepare you for that first moment of freefall. Not movies, not VR, not even your wildest imagination. The wind hit me like a physical wall. My mind went completely blank except for one thought: "HOLY SHIT!"

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. And yet, in 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.

Floating Through Heaven

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 a living map.

"Look," my instructor pointed. "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, I felt both infinitesimally small and deeply connected to everything.

My instructor handed me the steering toggles, letting me guide our descent in lazy spirals. I laughed out loud—a child-like release of joy and disbelief.

Reunion on Solid Ground

Touching down was surprisingly gentle—a few running steps and we were firmly back on Earth. I spotted Rob and Berman across the landing zone and ran toward them, adrenaline still coursing through my system.

The three of us collided in a group hug, laughing, cursing, and babbling 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.

"We didn't die!" Rob kept saying, his grin threatening to split his face in two.

"Not today!" Berman replied, finally able to feel his fingers again.

The Afterglow

Later, over celebratory drinks (which we'd definitely earned), Rob shared something that stunned me.

"I wrote goodbye letters," he admitted quietly. "To my family. To Leslie. Just in case."

We all fell silent.

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

It was a sobering reminder of what really matters in life. Rob had experienced the profound clarity that comes when you confront mortality. 

"Taking that moment of reflection, you see what matters in the end," he explained. "And now I try to live each day with that in mind."

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.

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