This story was published in The Weekly, a supplement to The Daily Northwestern.

First, 9,000 feet. Then, 10,000 feet. Finally, 11,000 feet. I was starting to get that panicked feeling where your stomach wants to bail out of your body and save itself. When the other people started to fall out of the plane, my brain shut off.

A couple of weeks before, my boyfriend, Mike, had asked me to go skydiving with him. Saying ‘no’ to skydiving didn’t seem like an option, so I agreed wholeheartedly. The plan was to go on a Sunday. Up until the Friday before, I was fairly convinced this would be one of those wacky plans we made and never actually carried out. Wrong. Sunday morning rolled around, and we were off to Ottawa, Ill.

Watching the last of the free jumpers tumble out of the plane, I realized my tandem guide, Chad, was doing a last run-through of the things I was supposed to remember. I should probably be listening, I thought, but I continued to mindlessly watch the madness.

As Mike and I filled out our paperwork in the lobby of Skydive Chicago, we joked about the ways the adventure could go horribly wrong. It was Mother’s Day, I remembered, as I signed to indicate I would not sue in the event of injury or death. My mother would really not appreciate it if I messed up Mother’s Day by dying.

Despite the tiny voice in my head shrieking that I might never get to tweet about how cool skydiving was, I remained startlingly calm until we began inching toward the airplane’s open door. I looked over at Mike to see him grinning at his cameraman and listening to his tandem guide over the roar of the wind. It comforted me that he didn’t seem the least bit worried. Then I remembered he never seems worried.

After we signed away our lives and paid for it, our ironically-named parachute safety instructor introduced himself as Lucky, then took us to our briefing. Waited in the hangar for our turn, we made jokes about getting to wear Onesiesfor the dive. I guess technically they’re called “jumpsuits.” “Onesie” was just more suitable for comic relief.

Up in the air, Mike was set to jump before me and gave my hand a quick squeeze before heading toward the door. At the edge, I saw his tandem guide count to three, but I was still shocked when I saw them disappear into the blue. My turn.

Inwardly I was feeling all the physical signs of panic. Outwardly I was laughing as Chad yelled that if I made it, I’d be only the fifth person that had survived a tandem jump with him.

Despite these thoughts, I didn’t hesitate and just let myself be led forward. I heard Chad.

“Ready, Sushma?! ONE … TWO … “

And all I could do was scream. I was flying.

It felt nothing like falling. The moment we jumped out, all panic ceased. Everything was wild-the frigid wind rushing past at 120 mph, the photographer grabbing my hand and spinning me in circles as we plummeted downward, the clouds that enveloped us periodically.

At 5,500 feet I checked my altimeter, surprised I was even able to remember to do it, and pulled my parachute.

If freefall was chaos, parachute descent was breathtaking. For the first time in several minutes, it was very quiet.

I spent the next seven minutes alternating between laughing (a little hysterically), spewing expletives and telling Chad I couldn’t believe this was happening. Below me, I could see Mike’s parachute, and I imagined he was as astounded as I was.

Even after we landed, I couldn’t believe it happened. The cameraman pulled me off the ground and asked me what I thought. Immediately eloquent, I told him “It was the coolest thing ever.”

Understatement.