I’ve always wanted to skydive and Gran Canaria seemed
the place to do it. Two days into the holiday my sunburn is raw but I’m
determined to jump while conditions are good and head for the airfield. A tired
looking instructor with shark teeth around his neck emerges from a makeshift
office and shows me around.

I spend the rest of the afternoon watching people fall
into the drop zone on the sand dunes. My sense of anticipation builds to almost
unbearable levels. When it’s finally my turn Shark Tooth discovers he doesn’t
have the right jump suit or goggles big enough to fit over my glasses. The
Irishman I was to be strapped to, Vince, comes up with the neat solution that I
go without the former and put up with the latter.

‘You can jump without a suit can’t you John?’ he
urged.

‘You tell me Vince!’ came my panicked reply.

‘Can’t see it being a problem at all…’

After this settling exchange I’m running barefoot
across tarmac towards an idling Cessna 206, trying not to think about the
‘chute swapping scene in Point Break. The single engine bird trundles awkwardly
down a bumpy runway then we’re up and away for a 20 minute ride to 11,000 feet.
To my right a Spanish girl is strapped to a diminutive veteran with a fixed
stare. A nervous looking pilot is hunched at the controls. Tenerife
appears to the west. Trepidation grips me as I realise Vince is shuffling me
towards the open side of the plane. Recalling his brief words of hurried
instruction I lean back, cross my arms and legs (fingers, hair), tuck my ankles
under the fuselage and sink into 20 seconds of electrifying freefall.

Plummeting towards the south Atlantic
at 120mph the wind tears ferociously into every dip and curve of my body,
cheeks flap about my ears, expletives pour from my mouth and my brain makes the
jump to light speed as it labours frantically to figure out what’s wrong with
this picture. At 6,000 feet Vince pops the ‘chute and for a moment it feels
we’re being towed the wrong way by an overhead rocket but I soon realise we’re
just slowing down rather quickly. There follows 5 minutes of glorious coasting
with spins and circles, startling silence and views you can appreciate for the
first time. In theory this should be plain sailing except in my case I briefly
feared for my life again when Vince starts loosening things at 4,000 feet
without telling me. ‘WHAT THE LORD ARE YOU DOING?!’ I scream. ‘Relax’ says
Vince. ‘Just getting comfortable.’

When we hit the sand I head straight for the nearest
bar and a few minutes later I remember I’m in pain. I inhale sharply as I pull
a flap of skin from my shoulder.

Worth it? Bet your life it is.