I have a theory: a holiday is only good if it’s mildly traumatic. I mean just enough trauma for an amusing dinner-party anecdote. This is precisely why people go to family-holiday camps in the forest, like Centre Parcs. There are no war crimes involved, but there’s just enough minor suffering to qualify: obligatory cycling around a post-apocalyptic woodland village, overpriced activities that spike your heart rate, and relentlessly positive staff who communicate exclusively in the language of forced enthusiasm.

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For a holiday to be truly great, however, the trauma must be organic. You can’t schedule it—it has to emerge naturally. I’m not talking about real trauma—the kind that leaves you under psychiatric care and ends up in a true-crime documentary. I doubt the woman who somehow survived after being kidnapped and having her head half-decapitated fondly reminisces about that trip while scrolling through old photos.

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One holiday stands out in my memory, though it strayed dangerously from “fun trauma” into “need professional help trauma”. I was in Australia, where my biggest fear—obviously—was being kidnapped and decapitated. But I experienced something far worse.

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A skydive.

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When people imagine skydiving, they picture those promotional videos: wide grins, wind-swept hair, effortless joy—like free-falling is like spending time in a flotation tank in the air. What these videos don’t show is the sheer, unfiltered horror of the actual experience. Skydiving companies have masterfully orchestrated a sophisticated propaganda campaign, and like an absolute moron, I fell for it.

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Armed with this delusional optimism, I climbed into the minibus that took us to the airfield. No fear. Why would I have any? I’m about to glide through the clouds like a majestic bird. Even when we were driven to the airfield and boarded a tiny aircraft, I felt calm—almost bored. The plane took off, and everyone looked at each other in nervous anticipation. Except me, that is; it was early, and I was almost falling asleep. Our tandems delivered a quick briefing, which barely registered.

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“When we are about to jump, keep your head back,” they said. “Everyone always looks down, but try not to. I’ll count down from three, and then we’ll jump.”

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At this point, we weren’t very high. I could still see people on the ground, so I nodded along nonchalantly, thinking, Keep your head back? No problem. These terrified sheeple might need reminding, but not me. I’m different—I’m cool as ice.

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Then we kept ascending.

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And ascending.

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And ascending.

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I started to worry. Are we supposed to be this high? Then we entered the clouds. Surely, we stop here? We did not stop there. We continued to ascend above the clouds, far higher than I ever imagined. That’s when it finally dawned on me: I had made a terrible mistake.

The door opened. People began hurling themselves out of the plane. I wanted to throw up. This does not look fun.

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My tandem instructor, unfortunately, was a strong man. He lifted me up and deposited me at the door like a bouncer ejecting a drunk. I instinctively looked straight down and tried to retreat back inside the plane. My instructor wrenched my head back—because apparently, I was one of those people who “always looks down.”

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He started the countdown.

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“Three.”

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I was frozen.

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“Two.”

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I began frantically trying to scramble back inside, my limbs flailing like a daddy longlegs being dangled by its wings.

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And then—before he even said “one”—the bastard threw me out.

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This is where the true horror begins.

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It’s not like a floatation tank in the air. It’s like being punched by a hurricane-force wind directly to the face, while your skin attempts to abandon the body and re-enter the aircraft to save itself. There was no joyful shrieking. No joyful “whaahoo!” Just the raw, guttural wail of someone screaming for their life.

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And that feeling of freedom from the pictures? It’s more of a falling-to-your-death feeling.

They claim freefall lasts 30 seconds, but don’t believe a word that comes out of their lying mouths. It was an eternity.

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When the parachute finally deployed, I felt the kind of relief normally reserved for plane crash survivors. I had successfully acquired a brand new fear: heights.

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When the holiday ended, I discovered the trauma hadn’t. Where there was once no fear of getting on an aeroplane, there was now terror. And when the airline ascended above the clouds, where there was once relaxation, there was now a full-blown panic attack.

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So, yes, according to my theory, it was a good holiday.