On the ground in front of me, I stretched out the straps of a large black pack that contained two parachutes: a main and a reserve. I looked over each strap and buckle to ensure that everything appeared to be in good working order. I checked the risers of the main canopy, as well as the cutaway mechanism that might need to be utilized if the main parachute got tangled up during its deployment.
Content that the chute looked to be in good shape, I slipped the leg straps over my thighs and pulled them tight. I repeated the process with the shoulder straps, then stood and stretched into an arched position to check the tightness of the straps. I strapped an altitude meter to my left hand, and then clipped on a lightweight skateboarding helmet with goggles attached. After getting a “thumbs up” and a pat on the behind from my instructors, I sat down on a long bench with a row of others, who were dressed just as I was.
After a moment or two, a small, twin-prop plane landed on a narrow airstrip and taxied to our end of the runway. Instructors wearing parachutes nearly half the size of ours came to meet us, and escorted us to the side door of the aircraft. As the smallest guy in the group, I climbed aboard first, followed by about a half dozen classmates in ascending size order. Our San Diego-based parachute jumping class was comprised of US Special Operators from all branches of service. There were Navy EOD technicians, Navy SEALs, Air Force parachute jumpers, and even an Air Force weatherman.
Once the students and instructors had jammed inside the aircraft, its propellers came to life. The instructors signaled for us to put on our seat belts, which struck me as odd since our intent was to jump out of the plane.
The aircraft’s nose tilted upward as we leapt off the ground to fourteen thousand five hundred feet. An instructor then slid the door open, and after a safety check, signaled that the first group of jumpers could stand and approach the door. As the shaking plane began to empty, my stomach was in my throat, much like my first helicopter ride in Iraq.
When it was my turn to jump, my instructor and I were the only ones left on the plane, except for the pilot, of course. I stood, approached the door, and grabbed hold of a bar that ran vertically along the side of the door. I put my toes to the edge and looked down at what appeared to be an intricately drawn map below me. The ocean and the earth looked surreal, as it was littered with mountains that looked like anthills, as well as buildings that looked like LEGOs instead of Southern California landmarks. Fear and trepidation mounted as I considered what I was about to do. I closed my eyes.
My father’s words of encouragement echoed through my head as I leapt out of the plane. I extended my arms and arched my back as the air caught my body. As my downward velocity increased, the gravity gave me the sensation of sliding down a hill. After a few seconds, my body settled into a free fall toward the rapidly approaching ground. Strangely, though, it actually didn’t feel like I was going anywhere. It truly felt as though I was flying.
I had a huge smile on my face when my instructor thankfully gave me a reminder signal to look at my altimeter. At five thousand five hundred feet, I waved my hands behind my head, grasped the pull cord on my chest, and pulled. For a second, nothing seemed to happen, but just as more fear crept into the back of my head, the parachute’s outstretched canopy jerked me upward before I landed safely. I had done it.
AFTER A MONTH OF taking off on planes that I didn’t land with, I boarded a jet that took me from San Diego back to the East Coast. I dumped my gear in my Virginia Beach condo’s living room, and promptly set out to see if I could catch a few waves. It was nice to take a break and relax at the beach before having to repack for yet another training trip. I would be heading to a place I used to live, Reno, for mobility training, which was essentially comprised of driving Humvees up and down mountains. After Nevada, I would head to Mississippi to learn more about advanced combat shooting techniques and how to handle close-quarter combat situations with enemy insurgents.
During these exciting training stints, I noticed a major difference between myself and most of the SEALs. The frogmen (as SEALs are often called) I worked with were much larger in stature than I was. They could lift heavy loads and carry them for incredibly long distances. My collegiate swimming career, while very enjoyable, had definitely not prepared me to wear heavy helmets, chest and back plates, and a “ruck” (or backpack) with twenty to forty pounds of gear, all while also carrying a rifle and pistol. While I would become quickly exhausted by lugging around so much stuff, the powerful frogmen often made me feel like I was the weakest link.
While immensely respectful of the SEALs, I still didn’t enjoy being outperformed. I asked around and did some research, and found that a lot of SEALs were doing Crossfit-style workout programs. Driven by my competitive nature, I began a weight training regimen at a local gym. Before long, I had gained about fifteen pounds of mostly muscle, and noticed that the burden of my gear wasn’t as challenging as before.
I HAD JUST RETURNED home from a tough workout when I received a phone call from a Navy swimming teammate, Ed, who was also a mutual friend of my ex-girlfriend, Tara. It was a little out of the ordinary for him to be calling, but I welcomed the chance to catch up, and answered the phone with excitement.
Without giving Ed a chance to talk, I began enthusiastically filling him in on my last few months of combat training. He didn’t say much in response, which led me to suspect that something was wrong. My stomach turned as my mind flashed back to that terrible phone call I received to inform me that Tyler had been killed in Iraq. Was another friend of mine killed in action, perhaps from the Naval Academy this time?
“Brad, I know this will be upsetting,” Ed solemnly said. “But I wanted you to hear this from me.
“Tara took her own life last night,” he continued, to my utter disbelief. “We don’t know much except that she was found this morning.”
I don’t recall what I said to Ed before hanging up. My world was already spinning. After pouring a large glass of wine, I stumbled through my condo before collapsing in the same rocking chair I was sitting in when I learned of Tyler’s death. Once again, the foundations around me seemed to crumble, and my grip on the outside world temporarily slipped away.
I drowned myself in that wine glass and didn’t come up for about a week.
I didn’t understand what had happened or why. As my chair rocked, I thought of Tara and me swaying to sleep on that Chesapeake Bay hammock, shortly after I returned from Iraq. While we resumed leading separate lives after that special evening by the fire, my feelings for Tara never changed. I just couldn’t comprehend that she was gone.
I didn’t attend Tara’s funeral. I couldn’t. It hurt too much.
It devastated me to know that whatever was going through Tara’s head that final night was so painful that she decided to leave her family and friends. Even after Tyler’s death, I still couldn’t imagine that level of despair.
Tara had kept a few mementos that I had given her over the years. Eventually, I mustered the courage to go face her parents and collect them. As I eased my truck up the long driveway to the same house on the Chesapeake Bay, I was nearly overcome with emotion. Not wanting to add to the pain of Tara’s mother, I clenched my jaw and vowed to be strong as she greeted me at the door. She was sobbing.
I spent the next few hours telling stories, going through Tara’s things, and commiserating in grief with her parents. Those hours were among the most emotional and difficult of my life. As the sun went down, I loaded up my truck and drove back to Virginia Beach in silence.
Tara and I weren’t a couple when she died, but I had still dreamed of once again being her boyfriend—or perhaps even more—someday. That dream was now over, and Tara’s tragic death would stay with me forever.