I became interested in skydiving my senior year in high school after watching a night demo jump into the school’s stadium. I approached the jumper and asked how I could participate.

My adventures in skydiving began in 1968 while visiting my aunt and uncle, Pat and Ches Judy. On the mantel was a photo of Uncle Ches, D-1281, skydiving. Unknown to me at that time, that photo would dictate my life.

It’s an age-old story: Boy is out having a blast; a young lady (many years younger) tickles his fancy and—wouldn’t you know it—they’re married.

Growing up, I would constantly tell my parents that one day I’d skydive, too. They’d always tell me how expensive and dangerous it was, I think because a part of them did not want to see pictures of their daughter hanging off the strut of a Cessna.

I would jump from the low parts of our roof with a shaky umbrella or quartered-up bedsheet, neither of which worked. I always crashed with a thud. But the seed was planted, and it wouldn’t be long before I’d try it for real.