Skydiving at Eighty

And at 120 m.p.h.

By Max Jenkins

Last year on the afternoon of Sunday, June 24, my wife Jean and I drove to the Star Airport to skydive. It was a beautiful sunny day with no wind. People from our church already had arrived to cheer us on and soon a bus from our retirement village pulled into the parking lot, full of our fellow residents. As Jean and I stepped into the airport office, I noticed a cameraman from one of the TV stations setting up his equipment. We were met by a cheery young lady.

“You must be the couple celebrating your sixtieth anniversary,” she rightly assumed.

We paid for the skydiving, and Jean started reading the release-of-liability form.

“Honey, you don’t need to read it, just sign it,” I said. “Their attorneys have ensured that our kids will get nothing if something goes wrong, and they won’t let us on the plane unless we sign it.”

We were introduced to our tandem partners. Jean chose the younger one, who was wearing a helmet and told her he had promised his mother he would wear it on each jump.

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