I’ve always wanted to go skydiving. It’s just one of those "things on my list of things I want to do before I die." A couple of weeks ago, I finally pulled the trigger on this goal and scheduled a jump. I signed up for a static line jump. That’s the kind where a tether straps to the plane to deploy your chute when you jump out. I chose this instead of a tandem because it allowed me to be alone under canopy.

Truth be told, my jump this weekend was a week late. I was originally supposed to jump on May 2 and you would have been reading this column last week. But the weather was lousy and they generally don’t recommend jumping through a rain shower. I tried again on Sunday. The weather was clear, but just a tad too windy for a newbie like me.

All was not lost, however. We spent a beautiful day at the drop zone watching person after person float to the ground. There was something reassuring about watching dozens of people successfully land with no broken bones. On this particular day there was a group of young Navy sailors there for their first jumps. One of them must have lost a bet because he did a tandem jump sans clothing. One doesn’t see that every day - nor should one.

Finally my schedule and the weather cleared on this Saturday. My family and I headed to the drop zone to await my turn. After waiting around and hanging out with some hippies, my name was called. I strapped on my container (that’s the thing that holds the main and reserve chutes) and headed for the plane. Before I knew it, I was 4,200 feet in the air with my feet outside of the open door of the plane.

My jump master said, "whenever you’re ready," and I jumped. Within 5 seconds or so, my chute was deployed. I checked it to make sure it was okay and tested the steering. After that, I began looking around.

For several minutes, I was suspended over Wisconsin with nothing between me and an unpleasant landing except a layer of fabric. I know that it might sound odd to say that strapping on a harness that cinches one’s limbs is a liberating experience, but it was.

Looking down at my feet and the thousand of feet that separated them from solid earth, I was struck by the fragility of life. A couple of straps, some rope, and a few yards of nylon was all that stood between me and death.

Thoughts of mortality quickly faded as I looked in the distance to see Lake Michigan looming on the horizon. Far below me I could make out my son in his bright yellow jacket running around the observation area. The fields of Wisconsin spread out like a watercolor before my eyes. Best of all the silence. Nothing but the wind and my own heartbeat vibrated my eardrums.

For those few brief minutes, I was free. I was both literally and figuratively above the petty squabbles that plague mankind. I was free of politics. Free of worry. Free of doubt. Free of obligation. Free of regret.

Free.

I thought about my kids, my life, my wife, my family, and all of the things that make my life wonderful. Seeing them from several thousand feet overhead, I realized how marvelous they are. I also realized how small they are - like me. We are but children of God, and children we remain.

Eventually, the world came rapidly back upon me. I maneuvered my chute for final approach and gracefully touched down. Did I say "gracefully?" By that I meant that I tumbled into a heap. I rolled over on my back and just laughed at myself. I’ve always been a proponent of laughing at myself. It’s high comedy.

Perspective is always a difficult thing to obtain. At any given point when I think that I have a clear view of the world around me, something intervenes to obliterate my paradigm. Some might think this is a bad thing. I don’t. Whenever anyone professes to have all of the answers, I take them for a liar or a fool. I strive to be neither.

(Owen B. Robinson, a West Bend resident, is a blogger who publishes at www.bootsandsabers.com. His column usually runs Tuesdays in the Daily News.)