Creative writing 101

Take this sentance: Angela's first skydive was more of a thrill than she'd expected.

And change it to this:

"Breathe," was the recurrent thought. "Breathe in and out." Slowly, that is what the instructor had said. Relax your shoulders... pretend you are watching the white clouds scud across the azure sky from your hammock. And whatever you do, don't look out that open door where the wind screams, its fingers reaching, searching for something to drag off into the roiled atmosphere behind the tail of the speeding plane. Don’t look yet, anyway. And try not to think of what will happen once the correct altitude is achieved.

Angela couldn't believe she'd allowed her brother to talk her into this insanity. Three days, that's how long it'd taken him to beat through her protests. She now wished she'd been stronger... stronger than how her knees felt now. Wobbly. She kept them locked to keep herself upright and grasped the straps dangling from the ceiling of the plane as though her life depended on the strength of her strangle hold.

It was a good thing too, for with a suddenness that took her breath away again, the plane hit an extreme down draft and wildly lost altitude. The greedy wind screamed with anticipation, but Angela somehow held her position, though her head had hit the metal brace above. As the plane fell, now out of control, its right wing was knocked skyward with violence by a rouge updraft. Angela's world spun and she felt herself take wing, slam against the sharp edge of the cargo door, and tumble head over heels into the great outdoors.

"That's going to be a whopper of a bruise," was the abstract thought that flitted through her stupefied brain as she did cartwheels across the sky. Frankly, Angela wasn't quite herself. But, nature kicked in and reminded her that it was probably in her best interest to heed the warning, "Earth to Angela, earth to Angela." Literally. The terror of imminent doom burst her bubble of apathy, making way for memories of the instructor's wisdom to flood in. "When you arrive at the altitude of 3,500 feet, pull the ripcord." She glanced at her altimeter and gasped. It read 2,574 feet. Angela fumbled around, finally found the handle and pulled.

With a mule-kicking jerk, her parachute blossomed overhead. Its colorful canopy struck a sharp contrast against the blue sky. Angela's life stopped flashing before her eyes, and she lazily rode the cushioned air downward towards the grassy green field, where she made, for a beginner, a remarkably soft landing. After her feet touched the textured grass, she lay back weakly, pillowed her head on her shaking arms and attempted to slow her hyperventilation. As she wished mightily for a paper bag she glanced upward at the apparently innocent sky and vowed, "Never again."