These are, in my opinion, pretty good reasons to do crazy things. They’re not, however, my reasons.

I choose to fly because I get to feel the freedom of letting go of conventional stability — the plane — and having a very personal, nearly spiritual connection to my world. When I am in the air alone, I owe nothing to anybody but myself, and I owe very little even there. All I have to do is pull, and I have satisfied every obligation.

Today, and I write this reluctantly, I jumped for the last time.

The skies were blue, patched with clouds at 7,000’.

The air was fresh, the wind calm.

The temperature was high, but for Brazil, not too bad.

I jumped from a Caravan at 12,000’, making a smooth exit and a laughing, joyous flight through a cloud in the aforementioned cloud layer.

I pulled.

The chute opened.

And I felt something in my shoulder give.

It wasn’t a complete dislocation, but even now when I put on a T-shirt, I feel it nearly slip out when I slide my arm into the sleeve.

I cannot jump if I cannot comfortably and fearlessly carry out the single most important task in the skydive, and I cannot safely pull anymore.

So, jump #38, at 25 minutes and 15 seconds of freefall, my first jump in a country other than Canada, my first jump from a Caravan, and also my last.

Security theatre is no new thing to any of us; we all see instances of it in the invasive checks while boarding planes (shoe bombs? Did anyone actually think that’d work?) and the preemtive measures taken to prevent hollywood threats that are neither plausible, nor likely (I’m thinking laptop bombs, et al).

It’s not like I have anything approaching a solution here, of course — it’s just bloody frustrating that this keeps happening.