A couple of years ago, I fell from 400 feet up a cliff in Yosemite.
As expected, I did not take the big ride all the way to the ground. My climbing partner caught me on the rope before I'd gone very far and I swung, ignominiously but safely, as I had done many times before.
But something was different this time. Though the fall was "clean" - that is, in climber lingo, there were no ledges or projections of rock for me to hit on the way - I somehow swung hard enough into the wall to break my ankle in several places. We eventually got down with the help of Yosemite's amazing mountain rescue team. (I wrote a more detailed account of the adventure
here.)
What made the difference? I'd taken falls before, some just as long, without damaging anything except my pride. Probably luck had a lot to do with it: but, when I think about the experience, I remember something else as well. This was the first significant fall I had taken when
aid climbing.