I was in the back of a pick-up, in shorts, T-shirt and goggles, when the fear hit me

MATTHEW PARRIS

You, like me, may have seen those video pictures of people free-fall jumping with parachutes. It looks like heaven. The idea is that you jump from the plane from so high that you can fall for ages before opening your parachute.

I've always wanted to do it. I've tried ordinary parachuting three times: fun, but the professionals said that free-falling was the real thing. It was like flying, they said: unbelievably exhilarating. There was this sense of freedom, abandon, weightlessness. The final minutes before you forced yourself through the aeroplane door, they said, were scary; but once you were airborne fear departed. You experienced a kind of bliss. On landing you smiled for the rest of the day.

I enquired about trying this in Britain, but never got around to it. Then came an email from someone I was soon to visit on a trip to the island of Oahu in Hawaii over the New Year. For $130, he explained, one could free-fall parachute jump there. The novice is attached to an experienced parachutist. All you do is jump when he says 'jump', and leave the rest to him.

I signed up without a second's hesitation. I've never had much trouble making myself do daunting things. I knew there would be butterflies in my stomach as I approached the jump, but !would cope with these. Like a thousand others, I would walk away from the experience saying, 'Fantastic! Nothing to it.'

In Honolulu the night before I slept at peace. 'Aren't you nervous?' companions asked. 'Not in the least,' I said; and meant it. Next morning we rang the jump centre. 'Just turn up,' they said. 'It's overcast, but we've got a plane up at the moment trying to find a hole in the clouds.' We drove over the island to a beautiful, surf-washed shore. By a quiet runway a little building advertised the skydiving. Beefy-looking men were jumping up and down demonstrating body-arching. 'Fill in these forms,' said cheerful Patty, the laidback receptionist.

There were six pages of waivers to sign. I waived my right to sue in every conceivable circumstance, and initialled dozens of boxes detailing dozens of horrors which I thereby promised I understood. None of this bothered me. My credit card was processed. We looked up at thickening clouds. 'Come back tomorrow,' said Patty. 'Maybe it will be clear.'

It was. 'Hi, I'm Zac,' said my coparachutist from Arizona. I was to be strapped to an Arizonan. The lucky man

told me how to arch; told me he'd ask me to swing my legs out of the side of the plane, then tip; told me that just before landing he would tap my shoulders and ask me to clasp my shoulder straps and bring up my knees; and told me that we would land gently on our asses. He knew what he was doing, and still I felt no fear.

I'd paid for a photographer too. He, Zac and I climbed on to the back of the pick-up truck that would take us over to the waiting single-engined Cessna. I was wearing sandals, shorts, T-shirt and goggles. All at once I felt afraid.

Who can say why it hit me then, so hard and so sudden? I had been having fun; now I felt wretched. We climbed through a hole in the side of the Cessna, Zac rolled down canvas to close it, the plane began to move, Zac asked me to sit on the floor with my back to him, between his knees . . . and we were up and away. Misery filled my stomach.

To climb 10,000 feet in a small plane takes about 20 minutes. Up we spiralled as the Pacific fell away below. Through Perspex in the canvas I could see half the island, the steep, green-clad mountains dropping like curtains to a shore ringed with surf. The pilot aerially surveyed the carpark near a favourite beach to determine his chances of parking when he went surfing that afternoon. I tried to join in their casual conversation. It will take my mind off things, I thought. But nothing could. I dreaded the moment we would be high enough, yet longed for it to come fast and end the misery. This was not the heartthumping adrenalin-pumping that accompanies some kinds of fear; it was depression. I felt utterly dejected.

I tried reasoning — about how safe this was, safer than the drive from Honolulu. But it was no good. I knew that it was safe, but my whole being was crying out against doing it. Wild, stupid thoughts flashed into my brain: maybe this was a plot to kill me? Why was Zac chatting to the pilot while strapping me to his torso? Shouldn't he be concentrating, dammit? What if he left something unbuckled?

'Sit on my knee,' he said as the photographer rolled up the canvas and the wind rushed past a howling, gaping hole, 'as we edge over. Legs over, and swing.' I did. The photographer had climbed out and was clinging to the undercarriage, activating the camera from a wire into his mouth. 'Three, two, one. . '

I don't remember Zac saying 'jump'. I don't remember whether I tipped or he pushed. What leaps next into recollection is facing down over an island far, far beneath; the plane gone, the wind rushing up at my face, battering me, roaring. It felt like . . . falling. Helpless, hopeless velocity, no control, eyes wide with terror, just as in the dreams. Suddenly I began to feel sick, Then I began to feel faint. 'No,' I said to myself, 'you mustn't.'

For 45 seconds I tumbled, and, no, it wasn't liberating and it wasn't fun.

Crack!. The canopy opened, It seemed to be yanking me back up like a yo-yo. The photographer, still in free fall, dropped away beneath me like a man over a cliff. I floated. I could feel the sun on my back. Silence. The ground had stopped approaching — and now I wished it would because I felt so sick, and was afraid that I was going to faint. Zac started some acrobatics, wheeling us round. 'Great,' I said weakly, wishing he'd stop. Quick, I thought, get us down there before I faint. I gritted my teeth, tensed and untensed my muscles, concentrated hard to stay conscious.

I doubt it was a model landing, but I managed to stand up. Then I sat down. I think I may have passed out for a couple of seconds — I know! closed my eyes. Opening them, I struggled to my feet. 'Thanks, Zac,' I said. 'Fantastic!' Trying not to break into an undignified sprint, I reached the lavatory just in time.

I'd like to say I enjoyed it. I'd like to say it was the change in altitude that made me sick and faint, or the straps being too tight, or flu, or something. But it was just fear, animal fear. It was horrible. I must do it again.

Matthew Parris is a political columnist of the Times.