On the ground, we were guided though a series of training exercises. We were briefed on the correct sequence of drills and checks to carry out during various stages of the jump.

Upon leaving the plane, we would immediately arch forward, counting slowly for four seconds; “one thousand… two thousand… three thousand… four thousand… check canopy!”. After enduring what seemed like an infinite number of practice repetitions, I was confident I had mastered the skill of counting.

The atmosphere was electrifying as the plane soared above the drop zone. We were in the remnant of a once complete Cessna 182, the door having long fallen off was replaced with duct tape to mask the edges.

The engine was cut. I climbed out onto the ledge, grasping the support bar in the 60mph wind. I turned to Ross for the signal. The signal came. As Ross roared the word “GO!”, I released my grip of the supports. The sound of the aircraft faded as I started tumbling through the sky. Little remained but me, gravity, and three thousand feet of air. The rush was incredible; I live for moments like this.

I flew through the air absorbing the awesomeness of the experience. I looked ahead – sky… ground… sky.. ground.. sky. ground. I began to spin faster and faster. Shit – I had forgotten to arch. Shit – I had forgotten to count. As the parachute opened, I entered a stable descent. I completed some final checks, and began to look around.

After plotting a planned landing circuit in my minds eye, I was drawn to the sight of Dmitri. My laughter must have resonated throughout the entirety of County Durham as I watched him landing in a distant field of horses, having overshot the DZ. At least he managed to land between the horses and not on a horse.

Later that evening, Ross proclaimed that he got me hooked on a rush that was more dangerous, more expensive, and more addictive than crack cocaine. I hereby thank Ross for this.