It had been at least three minutes since he'd jumped from the plane. He felt the fierce wind tugging at his feet, whipping his trousers, flapping his The screaming wind continued his body rushed sickeningly downward. He dimly remembered that people had died that way, when they interfered with the opening of their parachute. Then he pulled his hands away: he didn't want to interfere with its opening. He clutched it, a small tight bundle near his churning stomach. His life now depended on the parachute attached to his chest.
Obviously the parafoil (whatever the hell that was) was not going to open. But with his eyes shut he was more aware of the screaming wind. He felt no appreciation for the beauty before him, and in fact he closed his eyes, for he was plummeting at hideous speed toward the ground. Below him the Barawana Forest lay spread across rolling hills. His stomach jumped into his throat, and he tasted bile the wind screamed around his ears and tugged at his hair and the air was so cold - he was instantly chilled and shivering.
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