Skydiving, Basingstoke style

What I learned at the plastic tube of dreams

#19. Indoor Skydiving

There it was. Assembled between the Hollywood Bowl and a Costa on an industrial estate in Basingstoke – iFly, one of the UK’s premiere indoor skydiving destinations. It had been recommended to me for my one-new-thing-a-week project by a friend who likes Michael McIntyre.

Nevertheless I’d made the pilgrimage with my wife, son and mother-in-law. Entering the plastic foyer, a small child pushed past us in a superman costume and brandishing a birthday balloon.

There were surprisingly few adults. This was skydiving; it deserves a certain level of respect. It involved expert instructors, state of the art-technology, and important pre-flight briefings that required arrival 45 minutes before the ticketed departure time, the website said. Hardly an activity for children. I tutted and glared at their feckless parents.

It took about three minutes of the seven-minute safety video before I started to get resentful with the organisers too. I’m not doing any of that, I decided. I didn’t come here to learn hand signals. My safety is their job, especially at £152.37 for the three of us (for what was, in the cold light of day, a big plastic tube with a fan underneath it).

As we queued around the big plastic tube with a fan underneath it, the instructor explained some more vital safety regulations, I think.

‘WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMP,’ droned the fan, at instructor-smothering decibels.

With each skydiver, the bored teen at the control panel adjusted the strength of the fan to match their body weight. A gentle hum for a child; a titanic rumble for the obese man sluicing out of his XXXL jumpsuit. The fan groaned at maximum power; the rivets trembled in the metal floor.

Judge not lest ye be judged, I remembered, as I stepped up to the entrance of the tube and its reassuringly quiet thrum. The other attendees-cum-spectators – mother-in-law included – gathered around the tube, watching, like a viewing gallery at a zoo where the animals are blown about by a giant fan. I had seen each of them humbled by their cheeks flapping like windsocks, and I knew a similar fate awaited me. The instructors wore face visors to protect themselves from the indignity, but I assessed that the £3 was too much to bear.

I stepped onto the mesh. The door was sealed, the fan amped up, the instructor flipped me horizontally. It blew me around like a ping-pong ball. I laughed with glee and tried not to bounce into the walls or the floor. The instructor made urgent hand signals at me all the while but, of course, I had no idea what they meant and cheerfully ignored them. Yes, the drool was being sucked out of my cheeks but who cares? This is fun!

Then, it was over. Like an attendee at one of Lily Phillips’ parties, the whole experience was about two hours of prep and waiting around with just fifty seconds of horizontal fun.

Our group session was followed by a post-flight debrief, where the instructor meticulously detailed how each of us could improve next time. I reflected internally on my experience.

‘I am literally never going to do this again.’