There's nothing sane about jumping 14,000ft from a plane, but hey, life is what you make of it, and there ain't no life but this one baby.

After filling in the necessary forms ('we accept no responsibility if your parachute doesn't open'), putting on our gear (with warnings like 'parachuting is dangerous and may cause injury or even death'), and being assigned an instructor to tandem with, we board a bus that takes us to the airstrip where our plane is waiting. The 15-minute bus journey to get there is eerily quiet as the insanity of what we are about to do starts sinking in.

Upon arrival we’re immediately bundled into the plane - a little toy-looking thing - and the engine brought to life. We sit on the floor of the plane, front to back, huddled together like deportees. As the plane roars its way into the sky and the trees and buildings shrink beneath us, a small flame of apprehension lights up inside of me and grows as we ascend. I watch the needle of the altimeter rising steadily - 2000 feet, 3000, 4000, coinciding with my increasing heartbeat. ‘Soooo…you like stuff?’ Nick jokes. He has to shout to combat the noise of the wind and engine. We both laugh. Nervously. I look outside again. The sea is now a homogeneous satin sheet, the land traced by thin yellow lines of beaches. Strange thoughts start going through my head, explicably linked to parachutes not opening. I picture myself falling; the instructor pulls the parachute cord, and nothing happens. Or I look behind me, and he's no longer attached to me. Would I survive landing in the water at full speed?

Upon landing please assume this position

'Look, you happy now, we're above the clouds,' says Nick, pointing. While we were on the ground I complained that 14,000ft (4kms) wasn't very high, and that I wanted to fall through clouds. I smile back sheepishly. Another glance at the altimeter - ten thousand, 11, 12 - we're almost there. 'Okay, we're ready guys,' one of the instructors shouts out, and moves over to lift open the plane door. Wind sweeps through the cabin like a mini-tornado. A chill runs through my body, and there's a sickening feeling in my stomach. The first pair sidle up to the plane door, and, without a moment's notice, drop out of the plane like dead weights. Nick and I look at each other. 'Fuck,' I mouth. One by one we all move towards the door and, just as surely, jump out. 'Okay our turn,' says my instructor. We slide over to the open door and sit on the edge. My legs are dangling over, my heart pounding. I look down and see the enormous distance between the ground and us...and then we push off. Nothing can quite describe the first ten seconds of freefall, where I am tumbling head over feet, over and over. My mind is a pallet of confusion, thrill and terror. I have no idea what's going on, except I think I'm going to die, and I no longer care. I wonder if this is what the end feels like. After what feels like an eternity the instructor gains control and we stop tumbling but continue hurtling down, arms outstretched like starfish. Air rushes past my ear like demons, and the skin on my face flaps like a set of wings. During all this I think I'm still screaming expletives. I hear the instructor say something about doing some spins. Before I can answer no he has us spinning around and around, and all I see are flashes of sky and sea. It's like being in some giant tumble dryer that's been thrown off a cliff.

We're still miles from the ground when he pulls the parachute cord and we get violently jerked upwards. From then on we glide down, occasionally making adjustments. We're still going down somewhat fast, and we do a few more spins before the instructor allows me to have a go at steering the parachute. The view is amazing. The sun glimmering off the ocean, the blue sea, the green land; everything looks perfect, clean and unspoilt. It's a whole new world. We're coming ever closer to the ground now, and we start to make out cars and houses and people like ants milling about. Before long the instructor readies us for the final descent, and we circle around and land softly in the grass. My instructor unclips himself from me, but I lie there, staring up into the sky. I'm exhausted but glad. My feet have touched the ground, and I am home.

It's three weeks into my new job now. I'm learning but it's slow, and sometimes I feel dumb and wonder if it's because of my age. It's weird when your manager is someone you used to go to uni with, someone you played cards with, copied assignments with and skipped classes with to play Street Fighter. Now you have to sit there like an obedient puppy, waiting for the next bit of work, occasionally hiding chat windows when he walks past your desk. I'm slowly getting used to waking up before 7am, not wearing casual and not having Tim Tams in the fridge.
Actually the early starts are killing me. I've been late on more than one occasion. The last instance my alarm went off and I stopped it, thinking I'd doze for another few minutes. I didn't wake up till half an hour later because I dreamed that I was already awake, reading about the latest stock market crash while eating toast for breakfast.

My dad's left for his six-month working contract overseas, so I'm kind of the man around the house now. I'm doing all the things that my dad used to do - putting recyclables into the recycle bin, picking up Panzer's biscuits that he routinely scatters around the kitchen, making sure there's sufficient amounts of soy milk and bread for the family, walking outside in the cold morning to fetch the newspaper. I think the newspaper boy delights in throwing the newspapers into the bushes, resulting in me having to gingerly retrieve the papers with utmost care so as not to brush up against any cobwebs.

I was at Bean's place the other night for a birthday party. At one stage the girls put on music from an iPod and started dancing. I sat and watched with casual indifference, but inside I secretly wanted nothing more than to jump up and join them. I feel like there's always something holding me back, afraid of the judgement and ridicule of others. Even as a kid I was cautious; now I never seem to be able to let myself go. It's hard to stop pretending to be the person you have to be.