Go now. If I don’t, we won’t be safe. We can’t be here when my husband returns.
I want to live. Owe to the baby inside.
I need to save her life. Or would she save mine?
I drive to the airfield and rented a Cessna 172 Skyhawk. The clerk who takes my cash doesn’t notice I wear a drysuit under my jeans and sweatshirt. Flying in the direction indicated on my bogus flight plan, I bank the plane toward my true destination, throttle back and engage the autopilot, so the plane holds a steady course until it runs out of fuel.
Showtime.
I climb into my parachute harness and rub the small mound above my navel. This is it, baby, we’re going to safety. I tighten the straps, open the door, and jump.
My stomach somersaults.
Free fall, feeling freer than I’ve felt in years. Floating. Do you love this, baby? Or do you float all the time?
The meadows below beckon. Wind ruffles the leaves. Bends the branches. Wind?
No! I hadn’t planned for gusting wind. Bile rises in my throat. The wind snares me, pulls us toward water not land.
The water, inky. Whitecaps.
An iron vise squeezes my lungs. No time to scream.
We’re going to hit the water, the deep inky water. If we hit it too fast it . . will be like slamming into concrete.
I pull the ripcord.
The chute’s not opening!
I wait a second, pray for the exhalation, the lift. Inflate, chute!
Grab the cord, pull harder.
The water’s coming fast. Pull!
Not working. Think!
The emergency chute, oh my God, yes. Pull!
Opening. At last. A jolt, lifting us. Bring my legs together. Tuck my chin down. Too little, too late?
Boom, boom, boom. Blown across the top of the water. Dragged crest to crest. Crashing into concrete water walls.
The water, frigid, slams into me. Sucks the air out of me.
Quick. Unclip the harness. Free us.
No! The lines tangle around my legs. Shake this blasted chute off before the silk fills with water and drags us down.
Where’s my hook knife? Cut the rigging. Swim away from the parachute. Get away. Now.
We’re caught by the waves. Cold burns my cheeks. Turns my lips to ice. Turbulent water swamps me. I swallow. Desperate for air. Water stings my eyes. I’m going under. Help.
Don’t panic. No time for fear. All I need to do is swim.
Find shore. For her.
For you, baby, I’m finding the shore.
Count on it.
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