I was assigned a jockey, although BOSS (in capital letters) would be a more appropriate term. He was a big, strong South African guy with a stern look and a moustache who, I was told, would be harnessed to me with connectors that could withstand 10 tonnes of pressure. To qualify, I was weighed (I passed so I guess I'm less than 10 tonnes) and had to do a physical exam - sit on a bench and, with the support of my hands, prop my legs up as close to 90º from my body as I could for about 20 or 30 seconds. It wasn't easy, but (again) I passed, and Boss, to reinforce my enthusiasm, said, "If you don't hold your legs up when we are landing, you'll break them."
"But -" I started.
"I'll tell you when," he said and strode off towards the plane.
Just before I clambered on, Boss, big, unsmiling, twitching his moustache, told me - I am jammed into a tight orange jumpsuit now - "When I open the door up at 10,000 feet, you put your arms across your chest on your shoulders, like so." I nodded, with a slightly glazed look coming into my eyes. "Then, when I move my legs out, you use your hands to move your legs out together on the other side of this bar." Again, I nodded, getting a bit more glassy-eyed. "As soon as we're out of the plane, you push your head back to the left and fold your legs under you, taking a banana shape." One banana, alone, I thought. "And, enjoy yourself," he finally barked.
I started to smile.
"But, don't touch this arm," pointing to his left arm. "If you do, I won't be able to open the parachute and we'll both die."
I was smiling even more widely.
The plane took off and everything I said before - about Mauritius being so beautiful - became a lie. Looking at Mauritius from the sky at 2,000, 3,000, 5,000 feet was like seeing God.
Hypnotised but still chit-chatting with my son, who was the other crazy passenger, I felt a tap on my shoulder and Boss gave me a pair of goggles, "Put these over your glasses."
I did.
Then, suddenly, the door was open and, without knowing how it happened, I was flying.
My brain turned off completely. I could see clouds drifting below me and below that the earth. I felt like God. It was beyond anything I can describe.
I was told later that the free fall was only about 20 seconds but it felt like a long, long time - and then, a sudden, almost painful tug, and the parachute opened. Boss was smiling at me and we did a high five. He spun the chute - and me - around and around and down till we landed. And I did keep my legs up.
It took me several minutes to get out of my harness and jumpsuit and the jump. Even the beckoning beer looked far away.
As I settled back on earth, I was amazed to realise that I hadn't felt nervous or scared at any point. It was as if jumping out of a plane carried no risk at all.
The truth, of course, is that skydiving companies are double masters at managing risk.
First of all, I had to qualify - pass the tests and pay my fees. If I hadn't passed the test - say, I was too heavy - I wouldn't have been permitted. Translation: if an exposure is not confirmed or estimated under some predetermined process, it doesn't get on the plane.
Secondly - although this may be the most important - the risk manager is the BOSS and he can and should tell the boss (chairman or CEO) how to behave. "If you don't keep your legs up, you'll break your feet." "If you touch this button, we'll both die."
Thirdly - and this is also the most important - all the equipment has to be in perfect shape. Your information flow, particularly of your exposure data, must be perfect; your knowledge and understanding of financial markets and instruments must be top-class; and your bank interface must be smooth.
And, finally - and this is the most important of all - your take profit (or stop loss) should be triggered with so little fuss that you don't even notice it - "…suddenly, the door was open and, without knowing how it happened, I was flying …"