There's no limit to the mischief a middle-aged retireee can get into once his children are educated and grown and his life insurance premiums are paid up.  Having had a secret desire to skydive for decades, I finally decided to take the plunge when my daughter gave me a skydive as a gift for Father's Day.

On a scorching afternoon in the dusty, dry California desert, she and a friend from dental school and her Mom and cousin gathered to witness the event.

After the obligatory weigh-in, video-watching, and seemingly endless execution of legal waivers, I waited.  And waited.  Everything, including the mentation of the office personnel, seemed to slow in the desert heat.

An affable, compact, sandy-haired fellow named Vinny oriented a small group of us first-time jumpers in a thankfully air-conditioned trailer.  We donned blue jumpsuits and trudged into a noisy, rear-entry cargo-type prop plane.  Strapped to the bare metal floor, we ascended slowly to around 12,500 feet, a couple staff holding the rear hatch open with their legs for ventilation.  The brown valley floor shrank below us.

Behind me LeVon, my tandem instructor, taller and considerably bulkier than I, strapped and buckled himself tightly behind me.  My only gear besides the jumpsuit and straps were an all-important altimeter on my left wrist, and goggles.

The moment of truth arrived when the rear hatch opened fully and we stood and walked toward the opening.  The sensation was akin to stepping off the tallest building in the world - without knowing if the safety net below was really going to be there.

The wind struck with gale force, like a vertical hurricane.  We spun, gyrated, twisted, turned, twirled - seemingly out of control, at a velocity close to 120 mph.  I was totally disoriented relative to the horizon and LeVon.  When we finally achieved optimal position - prone, spread-eagled, LeVon above me - he pulled a drag line which slowed us slightly.

I looked straight ahead and saw the cameraman, lens pointed at me, 35 mm Nikon mounted on his helmet.  Though I wished otherwise, I felt no merriment.   Nausea engulfed me.  My mouth was parched, the air thin.

At 5000 feet altitude, the main parachute was deployed, slowing us abruptly and significantly.  Having taken a paragliding lesson some years before, I was familiar with how to steer the 'chute, but didn't feel much like doing so.  I couldn't determine whether the nausea sprang from motion sickness or something else.

LeVon brought us down expertly to a soft landing on a grassy strip.  I sat a while and felt  better once on terra firma.  I was asked if I'd skydive again.  Here's my current thinking: fate is fickle.  It should be tempted only on rare occasion.