A fantasy becomes reality

„Hey, did you hear what Terry did this weekend?” „No,” I said that Monday morning, more interested in getting to the coffee pot. „He jumped out of an airplane,” my co-worker went on. Forget the coffee! – this was something I wanted to hear more about.

Back in my Army days, I had come very close to making a sport parachute jump. Only my receipt of orders appointing me to Officer Candidate School, had interrupted the scheme. In those days, skydivers used military surplus round parachutes that land where the wind blows them. And the landings were more often than not, hard. Those skydives frequently resulted in leg and ankle injuries, and I rationalized that it would not be good to begin the OCS adventure with a broken ankle or the like. So, I had not jumped; but as the years passed, I thought from time to time what it must be like to intentionally leave a plane at altitude, free-fall for however long, and then float to landing. I also wondered if I had shown uncharacteristically good sense, or if my rationalization was just fear getting the better of me. That is why I passed by the coffee pot to get to Terry’s desk.

Terry was still experiencing some of the adrenaline rush when I got to him, and was more than willing to share the story of his weekend thrill with me. He told me enough and with such enthusiasm that I committed to myself that no more years would pass without my making at least one skydive. That evening at the family dinner table, I told Terry’s story and of my need to jump too. My family, especially the kids, were not amazed. They know me maybe better than I do myself. So it was decided then and there that it would be my fiftieth birthday present from the family. Since that event was only a few weeks off, I was now committed. What Terry told me together with my fantasies over the years was about to become a reality.

My friend, Bud, a speed addict in about whatever venue you chose to name, said that he wanted to join me, insisted that I could not jump without him. It would be the two of us, then who visited the drop zone only about twenty minutes drive from home as it turned out, to watch other first-timers jump; and assure ourselves that this pursuit was something two reasonably responsible adults could do without exposing those who depend upon them for food and shelter to a life without daddy. We signed up that Saturday for the next day’s class.

Sunday turned out to be a beautiful early August day as only Wisconsin can produce. We were at the drop zone at 7:30 to sign waivers and be manifested on a load for later in the day. A drop zone is air space designated by the Federal Aviation Administration for skydiving. It is so indicated on air maps so that casual general aviation traffic does not fly through the area. It is also the term used by skydivers for their home away from home. And it is where Bud and I were to take the First Jump class.

The class turned out to be comprehensive enough for me to have to concentrate on the material and put aside the butterflies that were partying in my stomach. We were introduced to sport parachuting through a series of videos and lecture from Bill, the owner of the skydiving school, who had been at it for thirty years. We learned that the modern ram air „square” parachute deploys dependably and very maneuverable, but that malfunctions while rare, can and do occur. So we learned how to fly and land the parachute, and to identify various kinds of malfunctions and what to do should one present itself on this first jump. We learned the technique for leaving the airplane, and we practiced it and our emergency procedures over and over again in the hanger that afternoon.

The static line progression is the classic introduction to skydiving, and is what was being taught to Bud and me. Most first time jumpers use the static line, although other disciplines are replacing it at many skydiving schools. The static line is a bridle that is attached securely inside the airplane on its one end, and to the deployment bag containing the parachute on the other. As the student falls away from the airplane, he comes to the end of the static line quickly. The deployment bag is pulled from the container harnessed to the jumper’s back and sequentially, off the packed parachute. When the parachute begins to catch the air, it „inflates” and begins to fly. All this happens two to four seconds after the student drops from the wing strut. As the parachute deploys, the student feels a reassuring tug of the inflating parachute.

Since the Cessna’s that are the back-bone of skydiving aircraft can carry only three student jumpers along with the jumpmaster and the pilot, we were divided into „lifts” of three students each. Bud and I found ourselves on the same lift; but it really wouldn’t have mattered because by then we realized that this is an individual challenge. For weight distribution purposes, each lift has a heavier student, one of medium weight, and a smaller person. The heaviest student is the first out. In our case, I would be first out.

Finally the time for our lift has come. We have climbed into well worn jump suits, found helmets that fit reasonably well, and been rigged – fitted to a parachute container and harness which has been tightened securely at the legs, shoulders and chest. A radio receiver has been secured to the shoulder strap so that the instructor can provide guidance in basic flight techniques, and an altimeter is attached to the chest strap. We’re as ready as we will ever be. Several lifts of our classmates have already jumped, successfully. But now those partying butterflies are taking control, and I’m ignoring all those before me who have done just as they were taught, had the thrill of their life, are whooping and high-fiving all of the observers and other flatlanders who have not yet met the challenge. We approach the plane with our jumpmaster, he checks our rigs once more, hooks the static line to a „D” ring on the floor of the plane and suggests that we give our respective static lines a good pull against the „D” ring as a confidence builder and as another check.

We board the plane sitting on the floor in our assigned places according to exit order. As the first out, I am between the pilot and the door facing the rear. The door is designed to be opened in flight, and is hinged at the top rather than along the leading edge. We are all seat-belted snugly, and it does give me a feeling of security. The engine revs, and we are rolling down the runway. Our pilot, an Air Force veteran about my age named Marty, lifts that Cessna off the deck so smoothly that I don’t realize we’re off for the first hundred feet or so. Now the butterflies are having a combined Marti Gras and Woodstock.

It doesn’t take long to get to 3500 feet, our exit altitude; but on the way I check my altimeter every ten feet or so. Our jumpmaster asks the pilot for permission to open the door to take a „peek”. This is to assure that our jump run is taking us over the landing area and to the correct exit „spot”. After a couple of minor directional corrections from the jumpmaster to the pilot, the jumpmaster looks me in the eye and asks if I am ready to skydive. What am I going to say? We’re at exit altitude, we’ve been trained, I’ve been „considering” this for thirty years, off and on. „Yes,” I say louder than was necessary. The door opens all the way, there is more wind and noise than I had expected – maybe from the beating of all those butterfly wings – and I get the initial command, „Stand-By!”. For whatever reason the butterflies end their party abruptly, and my brain kicks into gear. This is what the training was for, this is what I am here for.

„Go!”, the command to climb out of the plane into an eighty mile per hour wind. My feet are on the step, retrofitted for skydiving under the door, and my hands are on the wing strut. I swing out with my chest over the strut, legs bent, and work my hands outboard on the strut. When my hands are out between the tape marks, my feet leave the step, and I am hanging from the strut. That eighty mile per hour wind is providing lift to my body, and I could probably hang there for quite a while. But, I look up at the bottom of the wing, arch my body as we have been drilled, and let go.

What have I just done. I’ve let go of an airplane and am now falling through the air toward the corn fields 3500 feet below. Oh yeah, I’m supposed to count off six seconds. Tug, look up, good parachute. It worked. Wow, I did it. The radio comes alive, and tells me what I already know, I have a good canopy. This is what flying is all about, what men have dreamed about since the beginning of dreams. I’ m flying alone, 3000 feet above the ground. It is peaceful beauty from a perspective that I’ve never known before.

All too soon the instructor’s voice is on the radio is telling me which direction to turn and when, in preparation for the final approach to land. My landing is not a stand-up that is very possible even for first timers, but an undignified skid along the ground on my posterior. Now it’s my turn to whoop and high five-the others. Then Bud is out, and through the adrenaline I watch as he follows my path down. We have realized our fantasy.

Since that first jump I have continued in the sport. I have found that experienced skydivers are more than willing to mentor a beginner, share stories factual and otherwise, and provide the tid-bits of information necessary for beginners to progress. Skydiving, although much safer than the uninformed might think, is a risk management endeavor that depends upon individual responsibility. As more potential skydivers have the opportunity to make that first jump, the sport which was once a daredevils’ pastime is becoming more mainstream. Former President George Bush made a sport parachute jump, one of more than three million made in the U. S. this year.

While skydiving has become my weekend avocation, and I now free-fall in formation with others practicing to improve my body flying skills, the memory of my first jump is as fresh as it was during the drive home on that August Sunday evening. I hope to be certified as a jumpmaster soon so that I may be part of the first jump experience as others make theirs.

Hey, if you have ever wondered just why the birds sing, jump in behind George, Bud, and me.