“I went looking through some old stories this week and found one I’d almost forgotten. Fifty years later, I still can’t adequately explain why three supposedly intelligent young men thought this was a good idea.”
“The only dumb question is the one you didn’t ask!”
That’s what one of my riders said last week. Where had I heard that before? At least, where had I heard it for the first time?
My friends Michael Wettermark, Ben Hill, and I were driving around town on a Wednesday afternoon. There it was, a small handwritten sign on a telephone pole.
“Learn how to skydive!” It also listed a phone number you could call. We called the number and got the information we needed. We were to show up in St. Elmo, which is about 1/100th the size of Mayberry. The lessons were $50.00, and the first jump was $8.00. (Side note: I’ve just realized our instructor reminds me a lot of Barney Fife).
We drove to the St. Elmo Airport that Saturday morning. This was not to be confused with Roy E. Ray Airport, which actually had a paved runway and was just a few miles from our venue. We arrived at this “field” in the middle of a pecan orchard. We saw a couple of small planes on the ground, some old pickup trucks, and several vehicles primed for a salvage yard.
I wish I could remember our instructor’s name, but let’s call him “Bodean” to get into the spirit of things. Bodean took our money and then began explaining the “process” we were about to experience. (Another side note: The difference between Barney Fife and Bodean is that Barney has about fifteen more teeth than Bodean).
Frankly, we were a little surprised that our training would take place for about an hour and a half in the morning, and we would jump in the early afternoon. I guess we thought there would be more “training.”
Bodean introduced us to his girlfriend right after we met him. We enjoyed her company several times during our tutelage as they discussed the highlights and lowlights of their current romantic relationship. I was pretty sure his previous students got more of his attention than we did.
Bodean led us to the classroom, a tiny house trailer. Bodean and I sat on one side of the table, with Ben and Michael on the other. Our lessons came from a ragged three-ring binder with laminated pages, showing pictures of how to avoid death from premature plummeting.
I soon discovered that the glare from the lamination would impede my understanding of the “steering” capabilities. (More about that later.)
Now, we moved from the classroom to the scrimmage field. First, we had to don the proper attire. Bodean led us to a rack of mechanic’s coveralls. I asked, “Why do we have to wear these things? It’s already 108 degrees outside!”
Bodean answered, “Why don’t you just go back home and let me do my job?!?” (Apparently, this was his answer to the girlfriend. Then, he returned to our instruction.)
“If, for some reason, your parachute doesn’t open, we don’t want to have to run all over the place to pick up body parts!”
Now, it was time for the “muscle memory” exercises. We moved to a real-life Cessna airplane to begin the physical part. First, he had us sit in the plane’s open doorway. Then we put our left foot on a six-inch piece of metal shaped like a motorcycle peg. Next, we reached out and grabbed the strut with both hands. Luckily, I knew what a strut was from the laminated pictures in the training binder.
Next, we pivoted on our left foot and hung in the air, holding the strut with both hands. From about two feet off the ground, this still felt awkward. Michael was the first to practice this procedure. Once he mastered the “grip,” he released, then jumped out and ran backward while counting to 5 Mississippi. Then he was to look up to make sure his parachute was open.
Here’s what actually happened. Michael jumped out, ran backward with his arms up in touchdown formation, and smashed into the Cessna’s tail structure. After the required explosion of laughter and hilarity, the idea that we could smash into the tailfin began to freak us out.
“Don’t worry,” says Bodean, “You couldn’t reach the tail section when we’re in the air, no matter how hard you tried.” Well, that certainly settled our nerves. After several dry runs, including what would have made a whole collection of YouTube viral videos nowadays, we were ready(?) for the real thing.
You might remember earlier, when I compared small airfields, this one lacked the obvious amenity of a paved runway. But it was even worse than that. Ours was a dirt road with a ditch bisecting the length of the runway. The pilot (not Bodean) told us that he had to get up enough speed to jump the ditch and then build up more velocity to avoid the quickly approaching stand of pecan trees.
“It is important that all of you lean forward as we approach takeoff. Also, we will not be able to land with the weight of all of you still on board, so you have to jump. No backing out!”
Then he was to look up to make sure his parachute was open.
There was only one seat—the pilot’s. Someone had removed all of the other seats. Another jumper also joined us for his first try. He must have trained elsewhere.
So, here’s the configuration. The pilot is in his seat—the new guy up front with his back to the control panel. The “jump-master” Bodean straddled over the new guy’s legs. I was the 2nd jumper, so I crouched behind the pilot. Michael and Ben were leaning against the rear, where the seats had been removed.
Here we go. It’s too late to back out now. I immediately noticed that I had no feeling whatsoever in my legs. Because of my position, the weight of my parachute pack, and the tightness of the pants part of my “service-station” uniform, there was no blood in my lower legs.
The propeller sound increased, and we started rolling down the runway. We were not going fast enough to take off, but we negotiated the hop over the ditch. Now, we were approaching the trees. Lean forward! Very forward!!
In what I still believe was the last possible second, the plane lifted into an almost vertical climb, missed the trees, and began a gradual climb. My legs were missing at this point, and I just wanted to get out of this plane so I could feel them again!!
Now, some of you may be familiar with skydiving experiences today. My daughter, Ashley, has enjoyed the thrill of “tandem” jumping twice. We were not going to be purposefully free-falling. The closest comparison is WWII movies over Europe, where you saw paratroopers attach their “static” line to a wire, jump out, and watch the line pull out the parachute, then disconnect, allowing the jumper to float down to the ground.
Here’s another fun fact. Our packs had two chutes: one regular and one emergency. At the top of our pack, the static line was attached so that when we let go of the struts and flung ourselves backward, the line would pull out our chute. Here’s where it gets weird to me. The chute had to disconnect from the line so we wouldn’t get dragged through the air underneath and behind the plane. This is the technical explanation of that procedure.
Once the line had fully deployed the parachute, a semi-rotten shoestring (literally), the connecting device, would hopefully break, releasing the jumper into free air space. Bodean had shown us pictures of the damage caused when that sophisticated procedure failed. Thank God, all of our shoestrings broke adequately.
Here we go! The door flew open, substantially more startling than we had anticipated. Now, our gung-ho new guy swings his left foot out, grabs the struts, throws his right foot out into the air, and prepares to jump. The jump-master is to slap the jumper’s leg and yell, “Go!” Which he did. Mr. Gung-Ho freezes. This was not allowed, so Bodean pushed the new guy loose after another leg-slap. We couldn’t see him after that.
Now it’s my turn. I crawled to the jump-seat position, aware I was doing this with absolutely no help from my legs. I got into position, realizing that my right leg was blowing around in space. He slapped my leg, and I did my best to imitate our practice procedures, sure I was about to smack my head on the tail structure. I cleared it.
One sensation I remember most is the quiet. I could see the plane moving away from me, and the only sound I heard was similar to the sails on a sailboat in a mild wind. It’s so peaceful, which is just what I was hoping for.
“Something’s wrong,” I thought. “MY PARACHUTE…..5 MISSISSIPPI….I forgot to check.” I looked up…it was open. Wow, that was close. Now, what am I supposed to do? Oh, yeah. It was time to steer towards my target. I knew I was supposed to look for an advanced piece of equipment on the ground. The technicians below had acquired an old one-way street sign, drilled a hole in one end, and tied a string through the hole. I was supposed to find the sign and point myself in the direction the person with the string indicated. I couldn’t find the sign.
Halfway to the ground, I realized—I don’t know how to steer this thing. With the wind blowing, I was already over the target. I remember looking through those laminated pages. I’m supposed to pull the left strap to go left and the right strap to go right. I wasn’t just pulling. I was climbing the straps. I noticed a string on each strap with toggle pieces attached, but I assumed that pulling those would release the chute. I didn’t want that! (Later, I realized that the glare on those pages blocked out the strings. Pull them, not the strap).
As I approached the landing, I saw a little pond, some woods, and two crop-dusters. I had long ago passed over the target. There was something in the training about landing in water, nothing I paid attention to. I remembered there were some procedures for landing in a tree. There were precisely zero depictions of how to navigate landing on crop-dusters. Nothing!
I passed over the pond and the crop dusters but still seemed to have a reasonable chance at the tree landing. My training kicked in. Fold your arms, cup your hands, place them under your armpits, and look through the triangle inside your elbows. I went through the leaves and branches, expecting to be suspended above the ground when I stopped—no such luck. The tree was not as tall as the parachute.
This led to another miscalculation. You are supposed to bend your knees and prepare to roll when you hit the ground. When my legs met the earth, they were straight, transferring the sudden stop energy through my lower body and into my cranium, where my helmet trapped it. I’m pretty sure my head would have exploded if not held in place by that helmet.
Michael and Ben landed soon after I did, but they were reasonably close to the target. Michael had to lift his legs to miss a barbed wire fence, but Ben was virtually on target. After I pulled my chute from the tree branches, with limbs scattered throughout the parachute fabric, I started the long trek back to the landing area.
Bodean congratulated us and handed us our logbook, which recorded our jump. In the “distance from target” section, Ben had something like 5 meters, Michael had 40 meters, and I had TFTM. I should have known—“too far to measure!”
Quite an eventful day. To add to the feeling of achievement, we had to repack our own parachutes. It occurred to me that someone with my level of expertise may have packed my chute. Not a good feeling!
I did see the “gung-ho” fellow a little after our jump. He was about to go again, using the parachute I had just packed. We found out later that he landed in the pecan orchard and broke his arm. Surely, he can’t blame my parachute?!?
We came back two weeks later, hoping to work our way to free-falling status, which comes after five successful jumps.
Michael, Ben, and I showed up with our favorite malted beverage in our hands. Bodean said, “You either have to throw those beers away or not jump.” Ben and I tossed ours. Michael gleefully finished his and decided that, after twisting his ankle two weeks ago in this endeavor, he would forgo the privilege. He would later graduate from Notre Dame with an engineering degree. Neither Ben nor I did.
Ben and I jumped twice more and decided we had experienced enough of the St. Elmo experiment and would move on to a more grounded future! By the way, in the picture above, Ben is kneeling. I’m the guy with the helmet hair.
The stupid question we didn’t ask? Have we totally lost our minds?”