Holy Diver

At an age when most rockers had burned out, OD’d, or on permanent residency in rehab, the King of Heavy Metal came in screaming his first solo mega-hit "Holy Diver," well in his mid-40s. After decades of yelling along without a clue, I finally used the internet to figure out what Ronnie James Dio was actually singing about—apparently some transdimensional batman masked messianic figure taking a dive to save an ungrateful humanity.

Sounds familiar - flood relief Bamboo Boats anyone ??

On a personal level, though, Holy Diver lately started meaning something else altogether.

Call her a metaphor of my Jungian Anima, the female archetype lurking in a man’s psyche, or a temptress - a Sky Dakini in the flesh, luring me to take the plunge. For the Lord knows how pathetically susceptible we men are to female cajoling—far more than to nagging. And its certainly more effective a method of allure than by ghosting, in life or in chats.

Well, this Holy Diver—or should I say Sky Diver—is not a fantasy figure, but a person in a series of YouTube Shorts. A striking, brown-haired, but decidedly unglamorous young woman sitting on a chair, in a white top and cargos, listening to someone intently, who turns to the camera, smiles shyly, and flashes a V-sign. Next she’s in a hangar, zipping up a black-and-white skydiving suit (usually the mark of an instructor or someone advanced), offering the faintest smile before gazing into the etheric distance, tying her fiery long hair into a bun, walks towards a North Carolina–registered plane, turns her head flashing another smile, and boards. Next moment—out she goes, slicing through the air, sketching figures against the sky. And that’s where I sigh deeply…

For if her appearance and demeanour weren’t enough to have me smitten, ready to play the fool a dozen times over, she also breaks the final barrier—jumping out of a plane.
For, alas, I am petrified of heights.

Incidentally, I knew at least four women who’ve done the leap. Three went tandem, thrill-seeking, and urged me to try, assuring me they too had been afraid of heights. The fourth, an army reservist, did three jumps, admitted they were basically booted out of the plane, parachutes popping automatically with half the recruits bawling or wetting themselves until a dull thud and ache of landing brought them back to earth. Only on her third jump did she dare open her eyes midair and glimpse a surreal serenity, and felt her own insignificance against the vast earth below. But no, thank you, she won’t be doing that again.

This leaves me in a peculiar jam. With Concorde's retired, the Russians no longer hawking MiG-29 joyrides, the edge of space still locked behind billionaire gates, and aeroplane bathrooms far too cramped to join the "club," my one remaining option to experience the sky in all its glory is… to take a dive. But really?

I just pray I don't meet the brown haired “Holy Skydiver” from North Carolina—I mean not anytime soon...