"It wasn’t the roar of the Twin Otter engines, or the sharp bite of wind at 13,000 feet, or even the familiar rush of adrenaline curled in my gut before a jump. It was the light.
We were on a jump run at sunset—the last load of the day. All of us experienced jumpers, floating somewhere between ritual and reverence. Then came that moment.
The cabin door slid open. Outside, the sky was on fire: yellows, oranges, deep purples, and molten gold streaked across the heavens like brushstrokes from something divine. Below, the little town of Hinkley darkened, its streetlights flickering on like quiet stars in reverse.
And then—a burst of sunlight pierced the clouds. Not warm, not gentle—brilliant. It hit my face, and something cracked open inside me. A stillness settled, a knowing whispered: this wasn’t just another jump. This was a threshold. The moment everything changed."*