These things always start innocently enough. You go for a long ruck with people you just met, and before you know it, you’re living out that infamous patch: That's a horrible idea. What time?
Only this time, the horrible idea wasn't more miles. It was jumping out of a plane.
I’d recently connected with Fox Force 55, an incredible group of trailblazing women reinvesting their service from military, law enforcement, and first responder backgrounds into the next generation of women. Drawing on decades of operational experience in high-stakes environments, they translate hard-won lessons in leadership, resilience, and situational awareness into practical training for everyday life.
When Toni Lavery of FF55 emailed me last November asking if I’d like to join them in jumping into Normandy for the 82nd anniversary of D-Day, I gave a reflexive, "Oh, hell yeah."
I didn't exactly read the fine print.
I’d wrongly assumed it would be like my tandem jump with the Golden Knights where a professional with thousands of jumps does all the work while you just banana your body (I wore a yellow suit!) and try not to vomit. But as the date neared, the reality set in: This was a SOLO jump. To get to Normandy, I first had to survive a Basic Parachute Course to earn my wings.
So, I signed my life away and did what I do best: I compartmentalized. I avoided the creeping fear that I was about to do something that could break me wide open, physically or otherwise.
I kept things need-to-know, meaning I didn’t do too much research to avoid over-thinking and talking myself out of this commitment. I called the Round Canopy Parachute Team for a packing list and to confirm what time I needed to show up. There was a familiar "no details forthcoming" mystery to the whole thing that reminded me of my time in the Agency. Don’t ask too many questions, play it cool, and let the answers come.
I packed my GORUCK Heritage Jump boots (bought years ago on a tip from a friend - thanks Tiffany!), my camo pants from a Vegas event that never happened (insert Irish wink), and headed to Palatka, Florida. Walking into the hangar felt like a flashback to my paramilitary courses: the smell of coffee and bug spray, folding chairs, and a sea of camouflage. I connected with other Fox Force 55 members: Callie, Clara, Jen, Lydia, Shekia, Shirley; the latter two who had prior military experience and were getting a refresher. The rest of us were total newbs to this solo jumping thing. During roll call, I stated I was a former CIA Case Officer and got a few "ooohs" and one Jumpmaster shouting, "She’ll kill us all!" to a roar of laughter.
Then the training from the firehose began. What takes the Army three weeks, we ended up cramming into a few days. We started with PLFs (Parachute Landing Falls). Ironically, falling from a standing position into a sandpit is the hardest way to do it. We moved to elevated platforms, donned our rigs, and memorized the 5 Points of Performance. We were grilled on everything that could go wrong. The safety brief was a funny-not-funny list of hazards: power lines, an alligator-infested lake, a live firing range, and student pilots who might accidentally fly through our airspace.
We spent two days grounded by fog, roasting our squad leader for sending an accidental shirtless pic meant for his wife to our squad text group, getting familiarized with the parachute rigging by hanging from the rafters in harnesses, and, of course, more PLFs. By Day 3, it was go-time. Five static-line jumps from 1,200 feet, as a caravan and standing from a C-47 named “Tico Belle”.
The Logbook:
- Jump 1: No radio comms. I spent my descent waiting for a "wind talker" to guide me. Realizing the ground was rushing up, I DIY’ed it. I stayed in one piece, but my PLF was more of a panicked squat.
- Jump 2: Had a radio this time (luxury!) and a much better landing. I walked away with a "parahickey"—a nice neck burn from the chute risers.
- Jump 3: High winds. I drifted toward the runway and got dragged across the asphalt like a ragdoll. It took me a few stunned seconds to remember how to activate the canopy releases. Luckily my GORUCK merino shirt took the brunt of the drag and I walked away without a scratch.
- Jump 4: My first jump out of a C-47. Everything clicked—best exit, best landing.
- Jump 5: A partial malfunction. My toggles were crossed, sending me hurtling toward a runway sign. I missed it by a hair, stuck the landing, and closed the book on my fifth jump.
I walked away with no injuries, five solo jumps, and my blood wings, as did my Fox Force sisters, one of whom was awarded Honor Grad of our course - congrats, Clara! The best part: I didn’t break anything, even if my stomach was not right the following week due to the adrenaline rushes and nerves. Next stop: the skies over Normandy.
AIRBORNE!
