The first time I watched my boyfriend, Josh, BASE jump, I was a mess of nerves. We were at the Tombstone in Moab, Utah, a towering, 405-foot cliff in Kane Creek Canyon. I lingered in the parking lot, taking one too many trips to the bathroom. I could barely take in my surroundings; I was too busy trying to keep my breathing steady, warding off the sense of panic that grew with each step as we hiked up.
When we arrived at the summit, two other BASE jumpers were already there, checking their gear. Josh walked straight to the edge and assessed the windsock below. I wanted to grab his arm to warn him not to get too close, but it felt silly. He was there to jump off of this cliff; he wasn’t afraid of the airy abyss like I was. I remained quiet, watching him suit up—two leg loops and a compact backpack with his single precious parachute packed neatly inside. He asked the other jumpers for a final check on his rig, his calm contrasting with my barely contained dread. I knew if I spoke one word I would start to cry. I didn’t want my fear to influence his decisions. As I watched him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was losing him to something he loved more than I could ever understand.
One jumper counted down—“3, 2, 1, see ya!”—and leaped, his voice echoing as his parachute burst open below. The second went soon after, whooping into the canyon. Then, it was just Josh and me up there.
When we first met last winter, Josh was broken. After leaping off a cliff in Spain, he got caught in a crosswind on his landing approach. Turning his canopy too low to the ground, he smashed into the road breaking both wrists and his cheekbone.
The , an international database that tracks deaths and accidents related to BASE jumping, reports 29 fatalities in 2024 so far. That’s the highest number in the last five years. It’s not a forgiving sport. There is little room for error. Surviving an accident is a stroke of luck.
While healing, Josh experienced many slow moments—a pace that was good for both of us. Recovering from injury is never easy. Having undergone ACL surgery just a year earlier myself, I understood the pain of being forced to step away from what you love. For me, that was a multitude of outdoor sports: rock climbing, trail running, skiing, biking, and soloing the Flatirons in Boulder, Colorado. Climbing, free of ropes, the series of monolithic slabs that frame the town, is my way of feeling connected to nature and myself. Though the routes are easy, mostly graded 5.6 or lower, the awareness of risk is always there. One slip could be fatal.
When I had to stop during my recovery, even looking at the Flatirons made my heart ache. But I learned to find joy in the simpler things: going on walks, grabbing coffee with friends, playing board games (something I used to abhor), and, most importantly, spending time reflecting—thinking about what I really wanted out of life. I got to share those things with Josh all over again.
Early on, I asked if he’d ever start BASE jumping again. His response: “I don’t know.” After that I let it go. He was still recovering, and I was happy to let the possibility fade into the background.
He broke both scaphoid bones–small wrist bones notorious for slow healing due to their poor blood supply. As a result, seven months passed before he was out of his casts. His itch to return to the sport began to creep back into our conversations once his wrists were free. After a week-long trip out of service, he confessed that the thought of jumping had crossed his mind while I was gone. That’s when it hit me: accepting BASE jumping wouldn’t come easily for me.
There’s a part of me that understands the pull. Two years ago, I took up paragliding, and although it’s very different from BASE jumping, the allure is the same: free flight. I craved the purity of being alone in the sky, where your canopy and choices are the only things keeping you afloat. Although I don’t paraglide as much now, I can still recall the feeling—the thrill of carving through the air, flying with the birds, and witnessing the world from above…there’s freedom in flight.
Standing on the rocky outcrop of the Tombstone, I watched him, clutching my phone, ready to capture his jump on video. But as he prepared to leap, I couldn’t bring myself to lift it. What if I recorded his death? I’d rather not have the image burned into my memory. He slowed his breathing, looked into my eyes, said, “I love you,” and jumped. And then it was just me—all alone. I stepped forward and peered down into the canyon, watching as Josh’s canopy opened with a loud thwap. He grabbed his risers, guiding himself to the landing zone below. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, turned around, and cried.
I cried out of relief, out of what this success meant for our future, and, in a way, out of jealousy. Why couldn’t I have that freedom—that total confidence to jump into the unknown and trust myself to do everything right?
When I got back to the parking lot, Josh had already packed up his rig and was chatting with another BASE jumper who’d been watching from below. She sat in a chair with crutches by her side and a boot on her leg. I knew without asking that her injury was from BASE jumping. It was a painful reminder that Josh was like her not so long ago. And yet here she was, still wanting to be a part of it all.
She commented on how rare it was to see someone in a relationship who BASE jumps. Was I the anomaly or Josh? Maybe we’ve made things work because BASE jumping isn’t his everything; he still loves adventuring in other ways. Maybe my anxiety doesn’t have to be my everything, either.
Dating Josh forces me to reckon with the unknown in a way I never expected. I’m guilty of looking ahead—I want to know that things will be OK because I’m terrified that as I fall more and more in love with him, the potential for loss will be too much for me to handle.
But being with him has taught me how to be more present, too. We can try to avoid danger by sheltering ourselves, but that’s not really living.
Trust allows us to move forward. I trust Josh will make the safest decisions for himself. I would never want to take away something that brings him so much joy, and through our relationship we have learned to share our concerns and discuss the risks together. BASE jumping enhances our communication. The little things seem to matter less. After all, loss is always a possibility, but love is a risk in and of itself—and it’s one I’m willing to take.
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