Plummeting
This is a story about the single most frightening experience I have ever had.
It takes place in the summer of 1995-96 when I was working in a lab at University. One of my lab-mates, Doug, came up with the idea of trying a parachute jump. Doug had managed to organize a “great deal” on the jump ($140). Looking back, doing this on the cheap doesn’t seem so smart. But I’m always game for a challenge so I said “sure, why not”.
Because we were doing solo jumps, the parachute would open automatically as we jumped from the plane, and there would be no freefall. That’s the difference between a static line parachute jump and a skydive. In New Zealand, they won’t let you skydive solo ’til you’ve done five jumps. Nonetheless, there is a fair amount to learn before you jump, even for static line. You have to be able to determine whether your ‘chute has opened correctly, and what you should do if it hasn’t. That’s not as straightforward as it sounds — you have to know the difference between a serious tangle in the lines and the sort that will take care of itself in a few seconds. You also have to know how to come in for a landing heading into the wind but avoid stalling. So we took lessons on that, and how to harness ourselves up, and how to open the reserve ‘chute in the event of a problem. That all went well, and I managed to pass their test. But the first weekend we were scheduled to jump it was too windy. The next weekend was fine however so we drove out to the airfield. It was a really small grass strip maybe 100 kms outside the city.
As we parked we noticed that there was only one aeroplane on the apron. It was a tiny little Cessna-type airplane. It wasn’t quite what I had imagined, but it didn’t really seem to matter. All I had to do was jump out of it, right?
We checked in at the office where they issued us with really cool orange jumpsuits and white helmets. The helmets had a one way radio in them, so that a ground controller could issue us instructions while we were descending (though we could not communicate in the other direction). Because all the helmets were on the same frequency all the ground controllers instructions would be preceded by our names — “Ali, turn left; Doug, brake” etc.
They then showed us to the aeroplane. There were five of us: the jumpmaster, another guy from the skydiving company, me, Doug, and a woman called Michelle who we didn’t know. Michelle was short and not very athletic-looking. (I only mention that because it will be important later on.) All the seats had been removed from the back of the plane so that all of us could fit on the floor in the back. They explained that we wouldn’t just be jumping out of the plane. We would have to climb out the door and hold onto the strut running between the bottom of the fuselage and the wing. Take a look at this photo to see what I mean. Then, when the jumpmaster gave us the signal, we would let go and begin the jump.
I was really starting to wonder how good an idea this was.
But I, along with everyone else, piled into the back of the airplane. As we climbed to 5000 ft, I started to feel sicker and sicker. Fortunately, I would not be the first to jump. Michelle had that honour.
Once we got to 5000 ft the jumpmaster opened the door and ushered Michelle to the opening. It was obvious that she was very frightened. She was holding onto the sides of the doorway very firmly. She had to be encouraged to let go and reach out for the strut. But either she couldn’t reach the strut, or she wouldn’t reach all the way out to it. We circled the airfield for maybe fifteen minutes but she was never able to get a hold of that strut. Eventually the jumpmaster but his boot against her back and kicked her from the plane.
Doug was next, and his exit was uneventful.
Then it was my turn. All I can tell you is that, at this point, I was very afraid. That’s all there was to it. Just afraid. Pure unadulterated unmitigated fear. But I managed to haul myself to the door. I sat with my feet on the little step just outside the door. It was very windy and the ground was a long way down. But I reached out and grabbed ahold of the strut. And then I was completely outside of the aeroplane, hanging from the strut, being buffeted by the propwash. I looked to my left at the jumpmaster. He was grinning maniacally and giving me a thumbs-up sign. So I let go.
Then there was noise. And tumbling. And more noise. Then a thwock. I looked up and saw that my chute was open. It was a good canopy. I was very relieved. Not quite euphoric, but close. Within a few seconds the lines had disentangled themselves and I was able to grab the control lines. You can manoevre yourself around pretty well and it’s an amazing feeling. It’s uncannily quiet and the view is completely unimpeded — you can see for miles. It’s very beautiful. Basically you’re flying for a few minutes. I landed a little heavily, popping a small vein in my leg in the process, but the descent was uneventful.
Not so for Michelle. As I descended I could hear the ground controller giving her commands. “Michelle, turn left. Michelle, turn left. Michelle you’re heading away from the airfield.” And it was true, I could see her heading further and further away, towards the hills and forest. It turned out that once her ‘chute had opened she had been unable to reach either of the control lines for quite some time. So she just went where the wind took her. It was only about halfway down that she got ahold of one of them and managed to return to the airfield via a series of right-hand turns.
She was pretty shaken, but she managed a crooked little laugh. On the way back to our cars we agreed that it was a once in a lifetime experience.