Spent most of my free time during the weekends hangin’. If hangin’ meant flying on a small plane above Escazu, then jumping 1500 meters down with a parachute on my back (of course). As I hurtle at roughly 150mph, I imagine myself an eagle in mid-flight. Though there’s hardly any sense of peace, I am drunk with exhilaration. Adrenaline is kicking in, tuning my senses further into sharpness. The raging sensation in my belly is adding to the anxiety. But that’s part of the experience. Most people can’t handle it. A few can. Panic soon sets in as the fear of falling to your death becomes palpable and as real as you imagining yourself as a quivering bloody mess on the concrete down below. It’s a feeling like no other. And boy do I love it. Minutes later, I open my parachute and I glide down effortlessly into a patch of grass. I stand up in a daze, thinking I should do it again. Today, and then tomorrow again. Yup that’s how I roll.
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