I Fell 14,000 Feet In A Skydiving Accident (And Didn't Die)

"Fuck," said Bill.

Bill was my instructor, and he was strapped to my back. That's how tandem skydiving works: The customer, who has no training in skydiving, is harnessed to the instructor, who's done this a million times before. It's the safest way to skydive. When I met Bill that morning, strutting toward me with spiked black hair and slick sunners, he seemed supremely confident. But now he was panicking, and that was all the confirmation I needed that this jump had gone horribly wrong.

We began spiraling out of control. We spun so rapidly that one of my shoes flew off and was lost forever, even though the staff had gone to some trouble to make sure all my clothing was tight and secure before I boarded the plane.

Parachutes can fail. There are no official stats on how often this happens -- the community throws around the ballpark figure of once every thousand times -- and that's because failure isn't such a big deal, since there's always a backup. When the main chute fails, you release the reserve chute, which is packed very carefully and so fails very rarely. Only one in every 150,000 jumps ends in a fatality, thanks to the reserve chute.

"Keep your knees up," said Bill, aiming to steady us as much as possible while he let the reserve chute loose. He pulled a cord, and the chute popped out. And above me, I saw it hopelessly tangled with the chute that was already out there. Neither chute had inflated.

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"Probably," he said.

Death was right there in front of me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I knew I was going to hit the Earth and simply stop existing. No more me. And my family was going to watch it happen.

Yes, I'd invited my whole family to watch me die. I had gotten a skydiving voucher for my 21st birthday, and it wasn't until after my 22nd birthday that I finally used it. I was living with my boyfriend, and the two of us had driven to the airport that morning to meet the family, who were making a day of it. Mum and Dad. My three sisters, plus their husbands and kids. Being surrounded by my large, loving family helped me deal with the nerves.

"Aren't you nervous?" they'd asked.

"It will be a piece of cake," I lied. Of course I was nervous. But I played my role well. That's what I do. I'm Brad! I'm wacky and fun! Skydiving isn't scary for me! Woo!

My family watched me fall from the ground below. One of my sisters vomited, I later learned.

The Earth rose up, and I smashed into it.

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My first thought was "I'm alive!" My second was "I'm a paraplegic." I couldn't feel my legs or move my neck. I could feel the rest of my body, and it was all unbearable, searing pain. I moved my fingers and felt the parachute on top of me. I threw it off, and my fingers met water. We had bounced half into a lake. My legs were submerged. If we'd fallen directly into the lake, we probably would have died -- water's actually the worst surface to hit, because liquids can't compress at all in that scenario.

Bill was blue and unconscious. We were on top of each other but slightly perpendicular, so I could see his face. I thought he was dead. And I had killed him. It turned out he wasn't, but he was in a world of pain, even moreso than me, and he couldn't speak. He tried to move himself away, but our harness was still tightened together. We were strapped to each other and too injured to unhook ourselves.

Then I heard shouting and running. Three strangers had driven over in a golf cart. We had very much enlivened this trio's game. Two of them waded into the water and unstrapped the harness, while another used his hands to keep my neck in one place. One of the men kept reassuring me that I'd be all right, but I knew things weren't "all right." People only tell you that you'll be fine when things are very bad.

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The hospital was a montage: flashlights in the face, needles in the arm, pressure tests all over my body, straps to keep me down, a flurry of medical staff relaying messages, attending to my damaged body. They drugs helped ease my pain but added to my confusion. What just happened? Would I be OK? Was I truly dead?

That first night in hospital was the worst night of my life, lying in a shared room in pitch-black darkness, with nothing but beeping and snoring. I stared at the roof and cried from the pain. My eyes ached from all the crying. I truly wanted to die. My entire body was on fire, and my back was the worst. I'd broken my upper spine, fractured my lower spine, tore the ligaments in my neck, and received some cracked/bruised ribs. For four months I was in a neck and back brace and on a whole bunch of gnarly pain medication, like morphine and OxyContin. After that, I started an intense physiotherapy regimen, and it helped me learn to hold my posture so I could do simple tasks like driving and sleeping without damaging myself further.

Bill recovered fully, from what I hear. He was hurt even worse than me, but the guy went back to jumping as soon as he was able.

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I never did return to that job I'd started. My boss and the HR manager informed me that I had been made redundant. But I took refuge in my bedroom and sought some YouTube therapy. I spent all the redundancy cash on camera equipment, and I got filming straight away. It's not a job, but I haven't looked back.

I'm finally in a place where I can talk about my past. If you're struggling, it's not permanent. When you've fallen as far as you can go, you can still rise back up. At least a little bit.

Ryan Menezes is an editor and interviewer here at Cracked. Follow him on Twitter for stuff cut from this article and other things no one should see.

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