It was back in 2008 when I was approached by a charity and asked to consider being musical director for a potential “Choir of Hard Knocks”. In (Old) Jersey, there were many people who lived on the park, or had alcohol, drugs or mental problems, and I was asked to form a choir for them. What??
I said “Yes”, though with severe foreboding. The first rehearsal saw 10 or 11 people turn up with their tins of lager, and cigarettes, and when I asked if any of them could sing, they all shook their heads, and took another swig from their cans. Four years later, we had a choir to be proud of, who managed to keep their addictions and problems at bay while they were singing. However, problems were brewing, and not from the expected quarters.
It was their musical director whose life took a turn for the worse. In May 2012, I was diagnosed with severe emotional exhaustion. I had a major mental breakdown. The stress of my work both in radio and on stage (and maybe dealing for four years with folk with horrendous problems of their own) finally took its toll. I was finished. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t even face my friends and family, and I certainly couldn’t run the choir any more, which was, for me, particularly heartbreaking.
With the help of my amazing doctor, and an equally remarkable mental therapist, I gradually began to improve during that summer. That’s when I had a germ of an idea. I was due to leave the island with Mrs B in the October to retire to Cyprus. What about a farewell gig to say goodbye to my brilliant choir?
It was not a good idea. I was still in depression, even though the tablets were keeping me, I thought, relatively sane. The choir thought it was a great idea. So, we began rehearsals again, with just one goal in mind. October 3rd 2012, the date of the concert, at the famous Jersey Opera House.
The seats sold out within three days. More pressure. Rehearsals were going well, but how were my choir going to cope with the biggest gig of their entire existence? The day arrived, and we had a rehearsal in the theatre. I felt sick. What on earth was I trying to do? Getting my beloved choir, all 35 of them, to produce a performance worthy of a wonderful theatre that was over one hundred years old. A half an hour before the show, I simply wanted to die. I cannot do this. I just want to walk away and say: “I tried”.
But I did the dare thing. I gave it a go, despite it going against everything I felt at that moment.
We got a three-minute standing ovation at the end. I still can’t explain it. It was one of the most emotional highs I have ever felt. Two of the choir admitted afterwards that the “water” they were drinking during the performance were three quarters full of vodka………
The most daring thing I’ve done
PART 1
August 1999, a warm but very rainy day after a sleepless night. I am 24, and I drive to the Volosovo airfield outside Moscow. It is an hour drive from the apartment that I rent in Moscow.
I am getting ready to make a commercial free fall jump, from 4,500 meters, in a tandem with an instructor. I am thrilled, excited, and frightened at the same time. The previous night was sleepless as I was counting my chances of staying alive in case something goes not according to the jump plan.
Alas, that day the jumps were cancelled because of heavy rain. Mission aborted.
PART 2
A week later, I am making my second try to implement what I wanted to do, the free fall jump. This time the weather is fine. I sign the paper claiming that I take full responsibility if I’m dead or injured. I spend around 30 minutes for the training on the ground, having put on the jumpsuits already. My instructor, Andrey, 26, briefed me on the process. Step by step. We practice some parts of the process on the ground, in the training room. He tells me what to do and when. And what NOT to do anytime.
A guy, a friend of mine, also plans to jump today with me; I convinced him to do it together.
Finally, we get onboard the shabby MI-8 helicopter. It is crowded inside: we jump together with a sky-boarding team who have their routine jump. The ‘copter is very noisy. Inside, it feels a bit like riding a bus, plenty of people. But they look weird, not like typical passengers. They’ve got their skyboards and wear jumpsuits with helmets and glasses. They’re having fun. I’m not.
While the ‘copter is ascending, we’re repeating our training. Finally, Andrey fixes me tight to himself with the three-way belt system. He has two parachutes on the back, plus me hanging on him on the front. I am horrified but trying not to show it. Desperado… this is what I feel. What will be, will be. Too late for sharp moves. Too late… and shameful (?) to abort the mission.
One by one, the skyboarders leave our MI-8 from the rear ramp. They do it in couples: one performs the sky tricks, and the other is near, taking a video from the helmet cam.
Now, it is our turn. It is empty inside. We slowly come to the ramp, moving back forward. We have the third guy; he will jump with us, taking a video and pictures as this is a commercial jump.
Then the instructor jumps out with our back forward – and we leave the helicopter. I only remember what it looks like from below: its tail, its landing gear, its tail rotor, and then it disappeared.
Noise! The air streams are deafening! We’re free falling from 4,500 meters: I am below, and Andrey is above. I breathe using only my nose as instructed as we fall at 50 meters per second vertical speed. I couldn’t breathe normally as the air streams would literally seal my mouth. The green fields are below. Somewhere near us, the video guy is falling, too, doing his job.
Moments later, Andrey claps on my right shoulder, and I grab my chest belts on the suit. Sharp stop! We’ve done around 2,500 meters vertically in a matter of 50 seconds. The parachute is opening; suddenly, everything stops. It is absolute silence after the wild noise just seconds ago. We have no visible reference points, clouds, or other jumpers, so it feels like we hang in the air without moving. Now it is possible to talk. Andrey is making fun of me: he says that spit is the best way to check if everything is fine. If your saliva goes down the usual way, then you’re fine. If you can see it falling in front of you, or, worse, it is somewhere above, you’re in trouble.
I ask him if I can actually spit. He says, with laughter: sure. I do it. Everything is fine. We slowly make our way to the landing spot. We land in style, just like a plane, as we fly the wing parachute. Andrey had done around 900 jumps of different types before. The video guy is filming our landing; he opened his parachute seconds after us to hit the ground just before us to do his job.
…seconds after, on the video, I have a silly and, I suspect, funny face. It is all mixed with delight. I’ve done it! All the trouble is in the past. I just did it. I had been planning to do it for months and was thrilled and frightened to death at the thought of doing it. Nice!
P.S. After this jump, I figured out: no more jumps. You either do it as a pro, going deep into the jumping business. Or have it as a sweet memory. I once had a paragliding experience afterwards. I also had three heli flights in the Himalayas, including one from 4,700 meters above sea level. It was all cool but different. But I never tried a parachute jump since that day.
The most daring thing I’ve done.
Of all the words I would use to describe myself, daring isn’t one. I don’t think of myself as a risk-taker and if anything, I’m a bit of an introvert. I’m alright with that. I’m not a big party person but I’ll go, and I can make inane small talk with the best. I would rather be at home, reading, with a glass of brandy and coke.
There are drawbacks, you know. Like that time I had to write this blog about how I did something daring. So, I sat down to type it and had no idea how the article would end, even in the second paragraph. I don’t think of myself as boring, I’ve seen more than most people. I live on a sub-tropical island in the Mediterranean Sea and I’ve spent time along the Bering Sea in Alaska.
No, I’m not daring… I don’t even like attention. Some people believe you must take chances in life before you can say you’ve lived. I’ve never spent a night in jail, I’ve never been in a bar fight, put a needle in me or anything up my nose. So, have I lived? I suppose that would depend on your definition of the word lived. What’s important is not what others think of you but what you think about yourself. I’m not daring; I’m striving to be fulfilled.