They jump-started the aircraft, a Cessna 207 turbo (for those of you in the know), with a Fiat Uno. It wasn’t enough that I was hyperventilating with terror at the thought of hurling myself out of the plane in the first place, now I was set for complete and blinding panic stations. Engine failure and visions of crashing and burning into a tiny runway in the middle of nowhere flashed before my eyes.

I was on holiday back home in Cape Town. Before I had settled into sunny skies, braaivleis and chevrolet, eight (so-called) friends of mine ambushed me at home, packed me into a car and took off at pace down the N7, past Malmesbury and Piketburg in the Cape Province, to the picturesque valley of Citrusdal. Apparently we were off on a skydiving weekend. It was a treat they said. It would be fun they said.

On arrival and clawing wildly for the car seat like a cat arriving at the vet, I was extracted by force and handed a bottle of neat spirits. After my nerves had been calmed sufficiently, I was introduced to the chief instructor and salesman of the century. On reflection, how it was that he got me through the training programme and up in the air after witnessing the tiny Uno, the big aeroplane and a set of jump-leads betwixt the two, will remain one of the universe’s unsolved mysteries. But I digress...

On a gin and a prayer

Kevin is one of those larger-than-life characters who simultaneously reminds you of a complete nutter from one of those MTV shows and, strangely enough, your own father. He has an aura about him that screams crayzzeeee man, but at the same time he commands a definite presence and you listen when he speaks. Over supper cooked on an open fire under a moonlit sky, he explained the proceedings for the next few days and then left us to our own devices for the evening. Gin, prayer and more gin in my case.

Waking early from a Gordons-soaked nightmare, I staggered out of the cabin and was met by a brilliant sunrise that dazzled the purple amphitheatre of the Cedarberg Mountain range around me. At 8.30am, we were to meet in the team room to begin our one-day training. We had booked the Static Line Progression course (S/L) rather than the Tandem Jump.

For those who don’t know the difference, a tandem jump means that you jump strapped to an instructor, while a S/L jump means that you’re on your own. Your parachute, however, is attached to a line in the aircraft that deploys your canopy as you jump out so that you don’t freeze up in a complete panic, forget to pull the ripcord yourself, plummet to earth and... well, you get the picture.

The S/L jump course takes almost an entire day of intensive training to complete. In that time we learned how to exit the plane in a perfect arch, so as to minimalise the chances of going out upside-down or in any way that would inhibit the opening of the chute. We were also taught what to do if we acquired dreaded 'line-twists' (the snagging/knotting of the lines in the canopy).

We learned how to breathe in the heart-stopping few seconds it takes when you fall from the aeroplane, how to release your chute if something goes wrong (God forbid) and then how to release the emergency chute. Lastly, we learned how to steer ourselves towards the X-spot (avoiding trees and telephone wires) and most importantly, how to land.

Once all of that was deeply ingrained in our psyches, we were taken to the hanger where we chose our packs and put on our overalls. From there we headed to the canteen for a final briefing (last rites) and coffee. It was through the steam of my Café Americano that I saw the Uno, like a toy car, head down the runway to the waiting aeroplane. Fade to black...

Drop zone

When I snapped to, we were off the ground. I was sitting with four other jumpers who were all exiting before me. Once in place over the drop zone, the pilot cut the engine and one-by-one they were away. Then it was my turn. By that stage, my knuckles had turned blue and I had forgotten my own name. I could see beautiful Table Mountain in the far distance. I was 4500ft up in the air and sitting directly over a cloudbank. I couldn’t see the ground.

I won’t say it was a leap of faith and I certainly won’t call it bravery that saw me out of the aeroplane that day. I would say it was something poised between utter stupidity and some other ludicrous human failing that sees us risking death over being outdone by our mates! But there I was... suddenly flying yet falling, laughing yet screaming. I was Mistress of the Universe... I was Wonder Woman... I was all-powerful... I was God.

It took me six awe-inspiring minutes to get down whereupon my concern that I had forgotten how to land was momentarily overridden by the fact that the X-spot was being grazed by a rather sizeable herd of cows. I flared my chute hard, stopped in mid-air and dropped delicately to earth, missing a mother and her calf by the narrowest of margins. No guesses as to who was more surprised.

Every nerve in my body was on fire... every blood vessel pumped and raced. I wanted more and I wanted more now. The electricity that connected my body to my brain shorted and instead of running for the hills, I headed straight back to the drop zone where I could hear that little Uno accelerating once more.