Liz's flying leap: to me, skydiving always seemed like the ultimate leap of faith. But here I am, strapped to an experienced jumper in an Alouette helicopter hovering at 3,000 metres, all for Swiss News.
The boats on the Zurisee look like those teeny bugs that skitter across serene lakes at dusk. I thought it would be good to shake things up a bit in my predictable existence. Now, I feel more like a fish on a bicycle-not quite up to the task and fully aware that the old fins won't work the brakes at this point.
At 45, I'm not the oldest fish to leap into thin air. The age of Swiss jumpers ranges from late teens to over 70. Women make up about a third of regular skydivers and about half of first-timers.
Strapped reassuringly to my shoulders and hips is my tandem skydiving partner, Donat Curti, a man with kind eyes and-more reassuring to a fish like me-the experience of 7,400 safe jumps.
I think back to other conversations that persuaded me--a seasoned wuss--to take this on. For example, a seasoned skydiver mentioned that landings are so soft with modern equipment that he doesn't always wear shoes.
True enough, the landing is no longer my immediate concern. As the chopper door yawns wide open, I'm fixated on blue sky and the next 50 seconds. Free fall.
The longest minute
I should feel free to scream as much as I want on the way down, Donat tells me, because "no one is going to hear you." This is not as comforting as he might think.
Yet the deft actions of my Swiss partner comfort me as we edge toward the open door. It's as if, after rehearsing it in my mind, I'm absorbing his confidence.
Still, this isn't exactly how I pictured it. For one thing, I had figured on a dignified, heroic leap out the door from a standing position, but instead I now realise we're supposed to simply tumble forward from our seated position on this bench in the chopper.
Not that sitting down makes this less scary. I've just watched someone else do it, and he shot out of sight faster than a speeding bullet.
Now I'm sitting in the doorway, feet resting on the landing runners. Over the chopper blades, I hear Donat telling me it's time to let my feet dangle. Between my dangling feet and the ground are 3,000 metres of empty sky. And so it begins.
Out the door we go, plunging upside-down as if diving from a high board. Then we flip, head over heels. This is deliberate. To demonstrate the full experience Donat tries to perform an airborne version of water ballet, despite the porpoise-sized woman strapped to his stomach.
The roar of rushing air as we plummet towards earth is enough to take my mind off the song I've been rehearsing to get me through the longest minute.
I...
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