It took some doing. Plenty of deception, outright lies and remaining tight-lipped on an hour and a half drive south toward Shelton Sept. 26, but I finally got my wife Caroline something I know she’ll always treasure.

A broken foot for her 30th birthday.

While it was in no way part of the plan when I reserved her a spot at Skydive Kapowsin — and for the record, neither was my joining her on the jump — she’ll always look back on photos with her foot in a walking cast with a certain fondness.

I will, too. It’s not very often we throw caution to the wind — much less ourselves.

Editor’s note: I’m no fan of heights.

That said. Looking out the window of a tiny plane at about 3,500 feet kind of churned my stomach.

Having it announced to me that we had “just 10,000 more to go” didn’t help much, either. At all. As the plane spiraled up into the clear blue sky at a sharp incline, I began to have fourth thoughts — second thoughts came while I was literally signing my life away in case of a mishap, and third thoughts came when I set foot on the aircraft minutes before.

Up we went. Up. Up. Up. “There’s Mount Rainier,” my tandem partner shouted over the blare of the engines.

“Yeah, nice view,” I mustered, trying not to ruin said view by losing my lunch everywhere after noticing that we starting to level out about 1,000 feet shy of its summit height of 14,410 feet. As soon as we did, things began to move quickly.

Very quickly.

Caroline and I were hooked onto our tandem partners, and began moving toward the back of the plane. Toward an open square of blue.

I watched in horror as a half dozen people jumped out of the plane into oblivion, falling like rocks to their apparent dooms. I felt the blood drain from my face as my tandem team eased into the doorway — a defining moment Caroline would later tell me “was the most scared I’d ever seen you.”

We began to rock from side to side and despite my last-second effort to tip us back into the plane, we began our 120 mph descent toward the Earth. I watched the plane for a few milliseconds as we fell. It looked like a toy on a string that had been yanked out of my reach by an invisible hand.

Then we turned away from what was now a speck in the sky and began falling.

And falling.

And falling.

Sixty seconds in an average day is nothing. You can put on your socks and lace up your shoes. Maybe get a piece of toast started or pour a cup of coffee, add cream and sugar and stir.

When you’re dropping about 8,500 feet, and the only thing you hear is the rush of air you are creating by doing so — it seems like longer. Much longer.

I was swung around this way and that to get views of Rainier, Hood Canal, the Olympics, my life, as they blinked past me in a flash.

A tap on my shoulder, a quick jolt and whoosh. We were floating like a feather, in control.

“Your girlfriend’s up there,” my tandem partner said, indicating my wife’s tandem as it, too, glided safely.

The earth came at us quickly now, we slid in on our butts — a perfect two-point landing. Caroline had a change of heart at the last second and tried to get her legs under her, but ended up stretching her right foot past its breaking point. The bruises, which we both admired for days afterward, were glorious shades of blue, purple and black.

She hobbled around for five days and finally saw the doctor.

“I broke my foot,” she explained over the phone last Sunday.

“Congratulations,” I replied. I meant it, too. I mean, if you’re going to break a bone and have a story to tell, starting with “I fell out of an airplane at 13,500 feet” is about as good an intro as you hope for. We should all be so lucky.

Joe Irwin is the editor of the North Kitsap Herald and has every intention of attempting skydiving again … just as soon as he grows a pair of wings.