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 parachute jump

I'm still not entirely sure why I agreed to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Partially, I think, it was because a pretty young editor suggested it. Partially because I was scared of it. Partially because I don't know what's good for me. 

    Sitting in the narrow door of an airplane at 13,000 feet, the roar of the wind and the engines makes a solid wall of sound, and the cold pierces three layers of clothing. Clouds drift by underfoot.   

    The hands are crossed on the chest in the mortuary position. The brain, which reached this sorry state through an abundance of ego and an absence of reason, has gone off-line, leaving just one message: Good luck and don't forget to arch your back.

    This is the stuff of nightmares. This is the last place I ever wanted to be. And in a second or two, the big, jolly fellow attached to my back is going to push us both out of the airplane. I met him half an hour ago, I don't know his last name, but he's my dearest friend.

    He's got the parachute.

    Jumping out of an airplane always has been the scariest thing I could imagine. Whenever the subject of skydiving arose, I swore it would be the last thing I would ever do. So, of course, I agreed to do it. There's no fool like an old fool.

    On the Friday after Thanksgiving, the Peach State Skydiving Center at the Covington Airport had the chaotic air of festival day in a rustic Bohemian village. The doors to the small hangar were open. Trim, athletic young men and women stood around in form-fitting jump suits, chatting or studiously packing parachutes.

    Outside, a woman and her small son played catch with a football. An incredibly energetic little dog dashed about, seeking someone to play with. Hot dogs and hamburgers sizzled on a large grill.

    Off to the side, in a little utility building, sat Stewart Spencer, who runs this show. He was trying to get up the manifest for the first jump out of a twin-engine Beech Queen Air, which holds 12 jumpers and needs to be full as often as possible to make ends meet. "No, this isn't very busy," he said. "You ought to see this place on a good Saturday. There'll be 500 people out here."

    Skydiving would appear to be a virtual addiction to those who succumb to it. Spencer, who complains that as jump coordinator he gets to go up only 200 to 300 times a year, agrees. "We have people who'll jump 12 or 14 times in a weekend," he said.

    Mine was to be a tandem jump, which is to say an experienced instructor would be attached to me to be sure everything was done correctly. Otherwise, a minimum of four hours of classroom instruction would be necessary before a solo jump. A young, military-looking fellow bounded out of the control shack, grabbed my hand, introduced himself as Lon and said he'd be my instructor. He had a competent air about him.

    As half a dozen skydivers gathered in front of the hangar to catch the day's first plane, Lon went inside to pack his ---our ---parachute. Not wanting to distract him, I looked around at the others.

  If that day was a fair example, it would seem that homely people either do not wish, or are not allowed, to skydive. All were young, very fit, very attractive and very confident. I was a warthog at a gazelle convention.

    There were three of us left to do tandem jumps with Lon, including another young man and an even younger woman. Lon gave us a few minutes of intense instruction. The main thing, he said, was to arch the back as sharply as possible upon leaving the airplane. Cross the arms on the chest, count to six and then spread the arms to a surrender position. But maintain the arched back throughout the free fall.

    He was very serious about this; it was obviously critical. He said something about tumbling if the back wasn't arched. He even made each of us get up on a table face down and demonstrate that we understood what was expected.

    Then he looked at my lumpy figure and began rummaging around in the available jumpsuits. I got a beige number with the knees and elbows torn out of it. It would barely zip over my belly. He cinched a harness between my thighs and around my shoulders, then marched me out into the common room and handed me my hat. Because of the possibility of bashing him in the face with it, I couldn't have one of those slick helmets like all the beautiful people. I got a pointy leather cap that looked like a hairless version of the scalp of a yeti, or abominable snowman, allegedly kept for years in a Tibetan monastery.

    The young people in the racy blue and red and green jumpsuits looked at me strangely. Perhaps they had never seen a homeless skydiver before.

    Six of us boarded the plane when it arrived ---three enthusiastic veterans, the photographer assigned to record the free fall, Lon and me. The prop wash nearly blew me off the ladder; somebody had to grab me to keep me from falling. Things were getting worse by the minute.

    Lon sat on the floor of the plane with his back to the pilot, and I sat in front of him, my legs straight out in front of me. As we took off and began climbing, my eyes fixed on a young woman in a blue jumpsuit. She was tiny, with elegantly coiffed hair, high cheekbones, the trimness of her figure emphasized by the suit. In short, she could have stepped out of a James Bond movie, and she was ecstatic. Even the plane ride seemed to thrill her. She didn't talk a lot, but she obviously had an internal dialogue running full tilt.

    All I had was a growing knot in my gut, but watching her seemed to make it better. As we neared the proper altitude, she closed her eyes and began moving her hands in and out, back and forth, practicing something, with a beatific smile. I was beyond shame, or she would have shamed me, anticipating so eagerly the same experience that had me in a state of curdled terror. I found out later that she, too, had a fear of falling, but not out of airplanes.

    The final few minutes on the plane are a bit muddled. Lon told me to get to my knees, which was difficult, since my normally creaky body was stiff with fear. When I finally got there, he attached and snugged up the four links that held us back to belly. Then, without me being aware of it, the clear plastic door slid open. The first jumper uttered a gleeful shriek and was gone. I didn't see the others go, because Lon told me it was time to get to my feet and duck-walk toward the abyss. Next thing I recall, I was sitting in the door of the plane, my feet hanging out, looking down at the clouds.

    Many people have asked me about my thoughts at this point. I cannot remember any thoughts; I don't believe I was capable of thinking. There was a sense of nightmare, of unreality. We jumped.

    Face down, I arched my back as well as I could and stared into the void. It was like facing a hurricane. Everyone said "Oh, you'll love the free fall. There's no sense of falling at all; it's just like you're floating."   

    Balderdash. I was dropping like the Acme safe on Wile E. Coyote and I knew it. As we fell through the first layer of clouds, I felt a sharp tap-tap on my shoulder. I had forgotten to spread my arms and promptly complied. I couldn't see that this materially aided matters.

    The free fall seemed to go on forever, although Lon said later that it lasted almost exactly 60 seconds, during which we fell 9,000 feet. The first indication that he had deployed our big rainbow sail 'chute came when I suddenly began to tilt upright and the noise and battering of the air abruptly ceased, leaving an amazing feeling of peace and tranquility. This was snapped by a painful jolt to the harness around my thighs when the parachute caught the air.

    Nonetheless, I felt great relief. Not that there was ever any fear the chute wouldn't open, because there was no capacity for conceiving of such well-defined events; there was only reaction to the surroundings, and the free fall, which is what most skydivers live for, was not a pleasant experience. Rocking gently under the chute was much nicer. Nothing left to worry about but getting my quivering carcass on the ground without breaking anything.

    Lon's hand appeared over my left shoulder, offering me a grip on one of the control lines. The loop didn't want to open, and I was surprised to find I had the fine motor control necessary to use my right hand to open it so my left hand could fit in. Then he brought the right control line around, and I got hold of it. With his coaching, I turned us in this direction and that. The chute responded instantly.

    Eventually, Lon told me to take my hands out of the control lines and grab my chest harness to prepare for landing. He took the controls and began turning us briskly toward the landing zone. As he expected, there was not enough wind to effect a nice, upright landing, so he told me to lift my legs straight out and up. The idea was that he would lift his legs under mine and we would land on his rump.

    However, as we came down at an angle of around 30 degrees. I found I couldn't get my legs up high enough. As far as I could see, I was heading in feet first and could expect to break both legs. Having broken one of them a couple of years ago, I wasn't having any of that. Either Lon did something, or I made some involuntary move, because the next thing I knew I was skidding along the ground on my chest.

    It was ignominious but it didn't hurt, and the plowed earth and grass under my nose smelled very good. I was home.

    I must have hyperventilated; my breathing didn't really return to normal for almost an hour. My legs ached a little where the harness had grabbed them. However, as far as I know it was a flawless jump; if anything went wrong Lon spared me the news. By the way, his full name is Lon Baillargeon.

    So, would I do it again? In a New York minute ---if the airplane is on fire. Am I glad I did it? I don't know, really. I could have lived out my life quite contentedly without this experience, but at least I didn't roll up in a fetal ball on the floor of the plane at the last minute. For that, I can thank a lady named Kami Blackburn.

    Blackburn, 34, said she's been skydiving only a couple of years and that "if I could, I'd be doing it every day."

    "It makes me feel like I can do anything," she said. "It makes me feel more alive than I've ever felt in my whole life, and it makes me appreciate life in a completely different way."

So is there anything Blackburn is afraid of? After a long, thoughtful silence, she said:

    "The only thing that scares me is falling in love."  -- Atlanta Journal-Constitution, November, 1997

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