My jeans smell of skydive. I can't quite define the smell - mud and sweat cleaned by rushing air, clothing worn many times over because more important things get in the way. Aviation fuel and weather-bleached boards. Dog.
It's the smell of laughter and cider and showing off, hugs and the grin of someone balancing a tightwire of nervous excitement. Worried newcomers caught off guard by our jargon and battered equipment. Inconvenience.
I think of wide, slightly faded blue skies cooling into huddled evenings perched outside the clubhouse with laughter and cider, chilly mornings with the mist across the dropzone broken only by the dark shapes of the trees. Aviation fuel always present. Mud, mist, sun and sky, fried egg and cider and unwashed jumpsuits.
I love this place.