Just a few years ago, when I first went skydiving, my wife literally wouldn't hear of it. "Don't say anything," Naomi said. "Just go, have a good time and come back." When friends asked if she was jumping, too, she shook her head.

"Oh, no," Naomi replied. "I have kids."

Ouch.

Early this year, though, when I had another skydiving opportunity, her reaction was completely different. "I'm going, too," she announced, and the next thing I knew we'd left our daughters with a friend and were driving north of Orlando to the picture-postcard city of DeLand. This is where Skydive DeLand has been introducing people to the sport since 1984. The Volusia County business helped develop and popularize tandem skydiving, which allows first-timers to jump with instructors after just half an hour of training.
We were the only tandem jumpers, which meant we exited last, after watching everyone else tumble out of the plane at 13,500 feet. Gulp.

On a Saturday morning we showed up, signed up and sat down to watch a videotape with a heavy emphasis on Skydive DeLand being excused from any and all liabilities. Narrating all this was Bill Booth, a skydiving guru complete with a flowing ZZ Top beard. It turned out that he's designed a lot of important skydiving equipment, but we couldn't decide if this was cause for relief or alarm. After that we waited outside, surrounded by skydiving enthusiasts choreographing midair routines in matching jumpsuits. There were several Europeans, along with young adrenaline junkies from all over the United States. Lots of dyed hair and tattoos, quite the alternative scene. Or maybe we're just getting old.

And then, all of sudden, it was time.

We went into a ready room where we met our dive partners and put on jumpsuits. Naomi was given this sleek purple outfit, but I got stuck with a bright green getup. She looked cool, like a cartoon superhero, while I was zipped up like some Jolly Green Giant doofus. No matter. Minutes later we climbed into a twin-engine plane with a dozen other skydivers. We were the only tandem jumpers, which meant we exited last, after watching everyone else tumble out of the plane at 13,500 feet. Gulp.

The great comfort of tandem skydiving is that you're tightly yoked to an experienced skydiver, so whatever happens to you happens to him. And, when you reach the back of the plane, he's the one who actually takes that big step into the wild blue yonder.

When he does "whoosh" you somersault into a 110-mph free-fall. This must be where they came up with the word "rush." You're not weightless, like on a rollercoaster, but you can feel the great speed and the wide-open sky. It's cold, but not that cold and not that long. One guy in our group jumped barefoot, wearing a toe ring.

Once your chute opens, like a sigh of relief, you're floating back to earth. We glided to a stop on the grass and Naomi landed seconds later, still grinning ear-to-ear. I reached out to her just as she turned to hug the dive instructor.

This magic moment was captured on videotape, so she'll never live it down.

We left the airfield in a post-euphoric daze and made our way into DeLand, home of Stetson University, the oldest private college in the state. The town's Main Street, named best in the state by Florida Monthly Magazine, features several blocks of turn-of-the-century brick buildings, along with decorative planters and a Mural Walk project.

That afternoon we rented a pontoon boat and cruised down the river to Blue Spring, where manatees seek out warm water each winter. We were taking it easy, gearing down, and sometimes we'd just look at each other and laugh.

"We jumped out of an airplane this morning," Naomi said, shaking her head. "Can you believe that?"