By Maggie Downs
Enquirer staff writer

There's a quote from Hunter S. Thompson I've always loved.

"The edge - there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."

Last weekend I went over.

It happened at one of the world's largest skydiving extravaganzas - held just 60 miles from here at Skydive Wayne County in Richmond, Ind.

Long story short, my parachute didn't open.

Some background: My parachute is deployed using a throw-out method, which means I toss out a pilot chute, which looks like a little parachute. This is what catches wind, pulls out a little pin that opens the container and releases the bag that contains the parachute.

On Saturday I was skydiving with some friends, taking turns flying through a Hula Hoop. When it came time to deploy, I threw out my pilot chute and ... nothing.

I looked behind me and my pilot chute was just dangling there. No parachute at all. I was still flying on my belly at terminal speed, plummeting to the ground.

It was a marriage of complete vulnerability and sheer terror.

My brain locked. My body froze. The ground rushed up.

Somehow my brain snapped into survival mode. Pull cutaway handle to disconnect the main parachute. Pull reserve handle to deploy the back-up canopy. Breathe.

I didn't have any complete thoughts. I watched my main parachute float away into a cornfield.

I thought, "My stuff." Then I looked down at the airport and thought, "Home."

I landed softly and successfully. There were many hugs and congratulations for handling a sticky malfunction.

My legs shook and my body trembled. I was high and energetic from adrenaline, but inside I kept reliving the sickly, sinking feeling of plunging to the ground without my safety net, almost like bungee jumping without a rope.

After an incident, it's important for skydivers to get back in the air as soon as possible, just like when I was 17 and my dad urged me to get back behind the wheel of my Chevette following a head-on collision. So I made several jumps the next day.

I found myself in the same situation again Monday. I tried to deploy my parachute at 4,000 feet as I was soaring through an amazing orange sunset. And soaring. And soaring. And again, nothing.

The initial moment was much like when Wily Coyote falls off a cliff while chasing Road Runner. I wanted to pause and hold up a sign that said, "Uh-oh."

Then I spent the next couple thousand feet thinking, "No! No! No!" and frantically swinging my arms behind me to punch the rig on my back. Just as I was reaching for my cutaway handles again, the main parachute magically popped out like a rabbit from a hat. But it was close. I was really, really low.

Ten seconds from impact.

Now people think I'm crazy for continuing to skydive. They think this is simply some stupid sport for thrill-seeking adrenaline junkies.

It's not.

For me, it's spiritual. It's a way of actively living. It's life-affirming.

Because I skydive, the world is more vibrant. I consciously live with no regrets. I don't leave loose ends. I tell people I love them more often. I don't take life for granted.

Look at the world around you. Highways are littered with crashes, collisions and fatalities. Almost 400 people are savagely killed at a Russian school. Hurricane weather tramples homes along the coast. Cancer, disease and sickness strike mercilessly. A serious threat of terrorism lingers.

Every day people teeter precariously on the edge.

It's just the skydivers who realize how close we all are.

E-mail mdowns@enquirer.com