The Parachute Day in the Finger Lakes That Reset My Nervous System

We were in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York almost by accident. Amanda and I had been following a slow route along the lakes, stopping for simple things like bread from a small town bakery, coffee that tasted better because we drank it outside, and long stretches of road where the water kept appearing through trees like a quiet surprise.

Somewhere between Seneca Lake and Cayuga Lake, we parked at a small overlook to stretch our legs, and I noticed a speck moving in the sky. Then another. 

At first I thought they were birds riding the wind, but the movement was too controlled, too deliberate, and when the sun hit the fabric just right I could see color, a canopy, a curve. Parachutes.

Amanda shaded her eyes and watched for a long time, smiling without realizing it. I could tell the thought had already landed in her head, because she had that look she gets right before she convinces me to do something that makes my stomach drop in advance.

By the time we drove down into a nearby town and saw a small sign for a local skydiving field, we weren’t even debating anymore.

The Briefing, the Gear, and the Part Where My Confidence Quietly Left

The place felt local, practical, not polished, which oddly made me trust it more. A modest hangar, a simple office, a few picnic tables, and people walking around with that calm focus you only see in folks who do this kind of thing regularly.

They weighed us, fitted us, and checked everything with a kind of routine seriousness that made it clear this wasn’t an amusement ride. It was a system, and every step mattered.

The harness felt heavier than I expected, not uncomfortable, just real, like a seatbelt multiplied into straps that wrapped around your legs, hips, shoulders, and chest until you had no question you were attached to something stronger than your own courage.

I watched Amanda get fitted first, and she looked excited in a steady way, not loud, not nervous, just energized. Me, I was smiling too, but in that specific way people smile when they’re trying to convince their body to cooperate.

They walked us through the sequence without rushing. Plane ride up. Final checks. Exit. Freefall. Parachute deployment. Canopy flight. Landing. Simple words, clear steps, no grand speeches. 

The instructor emphasized body position and breathing, and I remember thinking that breathing always sounds easy until your brain decides it is being hunted.

The Plane Ride Over the Lakes

Once we were on the plane, the Finger Lakes stopped feeling like a region and started feeling like a map laid out under glass.

As we climbed, the lakes stretched into long, narrow ribbons, dark blue against green forest and patchwork farmland. The sunlight made parts of the water sparkle, and the shorelines looked impossibly clean from that height, like someone had drawn them carefully with a pencil.

I could see why people come here for the view alone. The landscape is gentle but vast, and from above it has a quiet symmetry that makes you feel both small and lucky to be present. 

You start noticing details you’d never catch from the road, thin roads connecting tiny towns, boat wakes like white stitches across the surface, clusters of trees hugging the edges of fields.

Amanda looked over at me and laughed softly, not mocking, just delighted, as if she couldn’t believe we were actually doing this. I tried to laugh back, but my throat was dry, and my brain kept repeating one thought in the most unhelpful way: this is very high.

The Jump, the Snap of the Parachute, and the Sudden Silence

The door opened and the wind changed everything. It wasn’t just air. It was force, cold and loud, filling the plane with a roar that made conversation impossible. The world outside looked too bright, too open, like the sky had no walls.

I watched Amanda go first. One moment she was there at the door, and the next she was gone, swallowed by the blue in a way that made my stomach flip hard. 

I didn’t have time to process it properly, because then it was my turn, and the instructor’s hand signals came fast, practiced, and final.

The exit wasn’t a leap like in movies. It was a surrender. One second the plane was under my feet, and the next there was nothing solid in the universe.

The freefall felt like being pinned by wind, not falling like a rock, but floating violently, pressed and pulled at the same time. My cheeks fluttered, my eyes watered instantly, and my brain went completely blank except for sensation. 

There was no room for thoughts about work, money, schedules, or the past. There was only sky, wind, and the raw fact of being alive. 

Then the parachute deployed with a sharp, unmistakable snap, and the world shifted in a way I will never forget. The noise dropped. The chaos became structure. The air stopped attacking and started carrying.

Suddenly it was quiet enough to hear myself breathing again.

Under the canopy, the Finger Lakes looked unreal. The water lay still and dark, reflecting light in soft patches, and the towns along the shore looked miniature and peaceful, like they didn’t know we were up here having a full existential event above them.

We glided in wide arcs, slow enough that my body finally believed we were safe, and I realized my hands were shaking, not from fear exactly, but from adrenaline trying to find somewhere to go.

Landing, Laughing, and the Strange Calm After

The landing was gentler than I expected. A short run, a quick stumble, then feet planted on grass and the sudden weight of gravity returning like an old friend. 

My legs felt wobbly, and not in a weak way, more like they were confused that the world was solid again.

Amanda reached me a moment later, flushed and smiling, hair wild, eyes bright, looking exactly like someone who had just met a new version of herself. She didn’t say much at first. She just hugged me hard, and I could feel her laughing against my shoulder.

We sat on a bench near the field afterward, still wearing half the gear while the staff folded parachutes with practiced hands. I watched the canopy fabric get gathered and packed, and I was surprised by how ordinary the process looked now, because minutes earlier that fabric had been the difference between terror and peace.

On the drive back to the van, the lakes looked the same as they had before, but I didn’t. My body felt quiet in a new way, like the volume inside me had been turned down. 

I kept thinking about how the parachute moment wasn’t only about thrill, it was about trust, not blind trust, but trust earned by checks, systems, experience, and the courage to step into the air anyway.