Chapter 3: Newton's Second Law of Motion

Since today was a Saturday, I had elected to treat myself and sleep in. While to some, a seven-thirty wake-up might not sound much like "sleeping in," the combination of the extra ninety minutes of rest and rising with the sun instead of waking in a shroud of darkness has both profound psychological and physical effects. Besides, I had something to look forward to; yesterday afternoon, after I had returned home from my first full day of classes at the Foothills, I had surfed the internet and found a drop zone in Marana, only forty or so minutes to the west of Tucson. Not having thrown myself out of a perfectly good airplane since the move from Boston, I was beginning to get twitchy.

Eagerly, I got out of bed, nabbed a towel from my linen closet, and then jumped into the shower to perform my daily ablutions. I languorously stretched under the piping hot stream of water, letting out a healthy groan that comes with any satisfying stretch. Then, I lathered up with my scented Irish Springs soap, scrubbing off the night's sweat as well as any remaining vestiges of fatigue. The pine-like scent of the soap, I think, did as much to wake me up as the vigorous act of scrubbing, which was one of the reasons why I continued to buy it.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, I jumped out of the shower, making it one of the longest I had taken in recent memory. Usually Mom, Dad, or Ange would give me shit for taking up so much hot water, but I didn't hear a single peep from any of them.

"Maybe," I mused aloud to no one in particular, "they finally realised that having millions and millions of dollars means that I can shower for as long as I like." I quickly dried off, brushed my teeth, and with my towel around my waist, went back to my bedroom to get dressed. I put on a pair of basketball shorts and my favourite skydiving t-shirt, an olive green short-sleeved with a human chalk outline on the chest with the phrase "Don't forget to pull!" underneath it. I then fastened my closing pin necklace, the pin pointing to my left as always, grabbed a pair of socks and my "Go fast!" baseball cap, and went down to the kitchen.

When I got there, the house suddenly seemed unusually quiet. At this time of day, Ange, Mom, and Dad are typically hustling and bustling about, either doing household chores, getting ready to run errands, or cooking breakfast. But, no one was around. I shrugged my shoulders and opened the fridge, grabbed a half-empty quart-sized bottle of chocolate milk, and drank it straight from the bottle. I chuckled somewhat to myself as I finished it off, knowing that if my mother had seen me do that in her kitchen, I would have caught hell for it.

Throwing the bottle in the trash can, I then moved from the kitchen to the garage, which was where I had stored my two Wings parachute containers, skydiving helmet, goggles, altimeter, and most importantly my logbook, the official record of all of my skydives. When I got to the house door leading to the garage, I noticed the piece of paper taped to it. It read:

Your father, Angela and I have gone to play a round of golf. I hope you didn't spend too much time in the shower. And for goodness' sake, don't drink straight from the bottles in the fridge! —Love Mom

I sighed and rolled my eyes in exasperation as I opened the door and made my way towards the Honda CR-V my parents had bought me for my eighteenth birthday and began loading my gear.

The drive out to the Avra Valley Airport was relatively uneventful. Traffic on the roads was light, as the malls in Tucson hadn't opened yet, and so I didn't have to fight any hormonally charged, newly licensed sixteen-year old girls on the road determined to get that perfect pair of shoes at half price. Marana Skydiving, situated at the west side of the airport, was fairly easy to get to once through the airport's gates. Signs decorated with jumpers under their canopies pointed the way, and in no time I was parking my Honda, shutting off my skydiving mixed CD, and stepping out onto a new drop zone for the first time.

"Morning," I half-shouted to the other jumpers, congregating under the parachute packing zone, and a few smiled, waving in return. A little information for those of you who have never been skydiving before: At every drop zone, regardless of where you go, there will be an area sheltered from the sun in which skydivers pack their parachutes. The reason for this is because the canopies, made of a particular nylon composition, tend to degrade if exposed to ultraviolet rays for extended periods of time. And, frankly, having a parachute tear apart at three thousand feet is never a good thing.

Out of the trunk of my CR-V, I grabbed my two Wings containers and jumping bag. I shut the door, and then walked over to the packing area. I set my parachute containers on a pair of free wall pegs, dropped my bag under it, and then fished out my logbook. With that under hand, I opened the door to the DZ's manifest building / store combination, and took a look around.

Behind the counter was a fairly nice-looking blonde woman in what I guesstimated to be her late thirties. I smiled, being the friendly-at-drop-zones person that I am, and presented myself.

"Good morning. I'm James Gordon," I said, introducing myself. "I'd like to do some jumping today, please."

"Sign this waiver, and I'll have the DZM see you in a moment," she replied. I nodded as she handed me a pen and a clipboard with what appeared to be a standard death-and-injury liability waiver. I read it over quickly, recognising that if I either got hurt or killed jumping here, I wouldn't be able to sue Marana Skydiving.

Fair enough, I said as I signed the piece of paper. If I'm dead, I won't really give a shit, will I? Given the litigious nature of the United States and the perceived inherent dangers in the sport, it was universal practise for drop zones to protect themselves against litigation. The DZ just outside of Boston, where I had learned how to skydive, had required me to sign one just like it when I took my Accelerated Freefall course.

After I had signed it, I placed the waiver on the glass counter and then decided to have a look around before the drop zone manager (DZM) came in to see me. Also fairly common practise in the skydiving industry was for the DZM to clear any new faces before they were allowed to manifest onto an aircraft — that being the reason, apart from recording my skydives, why I had brought my logbook.

The shop at the DZ was fairly impressive. They offered a wide variety of second-hand parachute rigs, which was the best place to start for newly minted skydivers if they didn't have the scratch to buy new gear. Fortunately for me, I didn't allow my pride to interfere with spending some of my father's money in purchasing my gear brand new. Marana also offered a small selection of t-shirts, jumpsuits, helmets, and other related skydiving paraphernalia.

I heard the door open, and reacted naturally by looking over my shoulder to see who came in. A bearded man, aged in his mid-forties, waved at me and said, "Welcome to Marana Skydiving, I'm Chris Kelley." He then walked over and extended his hand, which I took and shook firmly.

"Wraith," I said. It was my nickname within skydiving circles, known only to skydivers. One September weekend, after a week in which I had gotten so little sleep, I looked so unbelievably haggard and physically exhausted that the instructor who had taught me to jump took one look at me and said, "Sweet Mary of Merciful Crap, you look like a fucking wraith." The name stuck. Not that it bothered me much, the truth be told — it was a pretty cool nickname.

"So, what's going on?" I asked.

"Not too much," Chris answered. "It's a clear day, winds are light and variable at altitude, although it is a little nippy. You got your logbook?"

I nodded and handed it to him. He flipped it open, noted I had completed my thirty-eighth jump at Skydive Pepperell in Pepperell, Massachusetts, and was A-licensed. Skydiving, much like driving, has several licensing grades. In order to achieve each level, a student has to succeed in completing a minimum number of skydives, a sheet of learning objectives, oral quizzes, a written final exam, and a "check dive," which essentially amounts to a practical exam. Twenty-five jumps clears you for your A-license check dive, fifty for a B-license, two hundred for a C-license, and five hundred for a D-license. After I nailed my D-license, which would be a couple of years down the road to be certain, I would be able to begin working towards instructoral ratings... but all told, that was still quite a ways away.

"Pepperell, hunh?" Chris mused. "I know the owner, I think. A guy by the name of Stone?"

I shook my head. "Stone ended up selling the place while I was going through AFF. Thumper, my instructor, ended up buying him out."

"Fair enough. Kath, he's good to manifest whenever," he said over his shoulder to the blonde behind the counter. "It was nice to meet you," Chris said to me, "and hopefully we'll be able to get a couple jumps in together today. In about a half hour, the crowd will really start to come out — the Caravan is a massive draw."

"Nice! You have that regularly, or is it a once-in-a-blue-moon thing?" I asked. Compared to the Cessna 182s from which I was accustomed to jumping, a Caravan was a treat. It comfortably manifests sixteen skydivers and has a sizeable side-door exit, perfect for multi-way jumps. Since I had gotten into the sport and witnessed a competition or two, I had wanted to jump in a four-man team.

"As long as we can fill it, we fly it," Chris said. "So far, we haven't had any troubles, and we typically do three jump run loads per hour. During our bi-monthly Caravan special, we'll hot-run maybe seven loads over two hours, and if we really expect a huge crowd, we sometimes rent a second one."

I was impressed. Compared to Skydive Pepperell, which was stationed at a single-runway, Podunk airfield, Marana was a skydiver's wet dream. I paused, and imagined a sky filled with multicoloured canopies skittering to and fro, turning into dives and swooping for flawless landings. I grinned at the image.

Chris must have noticed. "Just wait," he said, grinning as well. "You ain't seen nothing yet."

After adding myself to the Caravan's passenger for the first load of the day, I went back to the packing area, tossed on my black jumpsuit to ward off the weather, and sat down at one of the picnic tables set up for the skydivers. Having fished out a book from my kit bag to pass the time, I began reading quietly. This week, it was Tom Clancy's Patriot Games. The movie, starring Harrison Ford, was one of my personal favourites, but I found the book to be far superior.

I wasn't too far along in the book. I had just gotten to the scene in which Jack Ryan gets shot while protecting a convoy of British royals when the back of my neck began to tickle. I figured if I ignored it, the sensation would go away, but that simply wasn't the case. Instead of dissipating, the sensation in my brain began to increase like water pressure against a cracking dam. Then, finally, the dam broke.

"Hi."

I looked up from my book at the voice and beheld its owner. A blonde teenager, a girl obviously several years my younger, stood before me. She was about five feet tall, neither thin nor fat, and twirling her hair while looking at me in a manner which made me feel like a television superstar. My hackles rose slightly, and I immediately felt uneasy.

"Morning," I replied. I smiled in a friendly manner, but one which was designed to halt further conversation instead of inviting further discussion. I returned to my book.

After a few seconds of silence which I'm certain were uncomfortable for the both of us, she pressed further. "So, like, are you new here?" she gushed in a tone of voice I've found only girls from the ages of twelve to fifteen have command of.

"Brand spanking," I answered, looking up again. I took half a moment to look at her again, hoping my eyes would convey a message of disinterest if she caught them directly. It's difficult to temper a nonverbal delivery such as this. Too soft, and it suggests at minimum a desire to continue a conversation and can possibly imply some sort of interest. Too hard, and it suggests at least dislike and can possibly transmit anger or annoyance. I tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible, matching my mood. I was feeling neither interest nor dislike; I simply wasn't feeling anything towards her. I took a moment, and then returned to my book.

Either I blew it, or she was simply being persistent. She sat next to me on the picnic bench, her thigh almost touching mine, and then turned to face me, folding her other leg and sitting on it. "I'm Tina," she said. When I looked up at her for the third time, I could see she was conflicted. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something further, then paused, and closed it. She repeated this process once or twice, and she started to get flustered, blushing slightly. Mentally sighing, feeling as if I had to rescue her from her own embarrassment, I put down my book and extended my hand to her.

"Pleased to meet you, Tina. I'm Wraith." She took my hand and shook it. The skin of her hand was soft, as if it had been recently moisturised, and the instant she touched me the tingling started again. The more I thought on it, the more I thought that maybe Sketchy was on to something with his cockamamie "spidey-sense" theory.

"Wraith?" she asked, giggling a little and letting go of my hand. "That's a funny name."

I rolled my eyes jokingly, humouring her. "It's not my real name," I explained, "just something which stuck a couple of months ago at Pepperell, Mass. Come to think of it, I'm kind of fond of the name... but it's not the one I use outside a DZ. I'm Jay everywhere else."

"Oh, I figured it was something like that," she said, laughing nervously, trying to cover up her gaffe. "So how come I haven't seen you at school? Usually new faces pop right out at me, and you're new."

"Depends on where you go to school," I answered.

"Marana High," she said proudly, smiling widely. "I just started..." As soon as the words left her mouth, she realised she had just betrayed her age.

"Just started?" I asked.

"I... uh..." she stammered. "I mean... what I meant to say is that I just started varsity soccer this year." She blushed, fully embarrassed, and I was fairly certain she knew she was busted. "I... uh... I gotta go."

I chuckled softly as she quickly got up and moved away, entirely flummoxed. As I picked up my Tom Clancy novel, I remembered how just a mere four years ago, when I began high school myself, I was equally unsure of myself. I empathised with her situation, and hoped the issue would blow over and resolve itself. I turned another page, and continued reading my book.

At around nine o'clock, a decent-sized crowd had gathered at the drop zone, and people began manifesting to jump as if skydiving was going out of style. I took a glance at the blonde behind the manifest counter, who visibly seemed to become more and more stressed as increased numbers of skydivers went to her window, asking to be manifested. From maybe a dozen feet away, I could see her face begin to flush, and I could have sworn I saw a vein bulge out of her forehead.