Before Saturday morning arrived I had done a lot of research on the web. I wanted to know how things go wrong up there, how often, and what I could expect. Ironically, I wanted to make myself more comfortable by being fully informed of the realities, instead of relying on blind trust and assurances.
For example, one of the commonly used skydiving platitudes is that you have a greater chance of getting killed driving to or from the drop zone than skydiving once you're there. This actually isn't quite right. There are nearly 2 million jumps a year in the US, resulting in about 23 deaths a year, or one fatality for every 86,000 jumps. By comparison, there are 0.47 driving fatalities for every million driving hours, equating to one chance in a million of a driving fatality for a typical two-hour journey. Since the Byron drop zone was an hour away, that means the chances of a fatal accident on the trip there or back were roughly one-twelfth that of during the 7 minutes I'd be in freefall or under canopy.
Another way of looking at it is that a single jump is about as dangerous as 24 hours of driving time (not continuous, of course). That way doesn't sound so bad.
Driving to pick up Karen, who had graciously volunteered to come along to keep me company, provide support, and be my cameraman, I reminded myself that tandem instructors are among the most experienced, professional, and risk-avoiding bunch of the lot, and that though there are roughly 140,000 tandem jumps a year, a tandem crash only happens every 2 or 3 years, pushing the stats for my particular jump farther to the safer side.
But enough with the statistics.
I went out there Saturday to watch people skydive. I was willing to pay the $160 jump-fee to learn about the process, gather all the information I could, and back out in favor of a rain-check coupon before I got on the plane. I wanted to see people get in a plane. From the ground, I wanted to see them pull their chutes, navigate, and land. 'Normal, everyday skydiving' doesn't get much press. The average joe only experiences the media of skydiving when there's an accident, or when people are performing extreme maneuvers for the camera. Stories like "last Saturday, 18,230 jumps were made with no serious injuries, one broken leg, and 14 sprained ankles" never make it into the paper. It's just not news.
So Karen and I followed the directions, through the Altamont Pass, past the windmills, by the abandoned train tracks and the cows, and arrived at Bay Area Skydiving just before 9 am.
Jumping right into things, I was given a clipboard with two waivers, one absolving the skydiving company, and the other for the equipment manufacturer. These waivers were the most complete I'd ever read, not only saying I promise not to sue, but that they were not to blame even in the case of gross negligence, that I had provided financially for my dependents in the event of my death, that if I or my dependents should attempt to sue, they are simultaneously agreeing to a $25,000 fine for doing so, and that, in the event that I or they did sue and won, I or my beneficiaries would be entirely responsible for paying the settlement to ourselves, as well as the legal fees for all parties. They weren't kidding around.
Also, I and my friends from work were set down to watch an instructional video, explaining the risks of skydiving, and reiterating the finer points of the waiver. The man behind the desk in the video looked like a ZZ-top understudy, and his words were so wooden and eerie that I half expected his translator to cut out and he would start saying "Ack! AckACKack. AckACK!" in true 'Mars Attacks!' fashion.
Reading each clause and initialing them, I told myself it didn't really matter because I wasn't jumping out of a plane today anyhow. They checked that I initialled and signed everywhere I was supposed to, took my money, and put my name on the tandem list. It would be another couple hours before I was called up.
The first load of the day was just getting underway, so Karen and I went outside to watch the landings. I figured this would make me more comfortable. I wasn't actually scared at this point, because I wasn't actually going to jump. This acceptance of backing out freed me from anxiety the whole morning. I wasn't scared because if I got scared I could back out, so there was no point being scared yet. I don't know if that makes sense on paper, but it's clear in my head.
Watching landings is great. You get a real respect for the control these people have, and how far parachuting has come from the days of circular canopies and landings equivalent to jumps from ten-foot walls.
Two things that Byron had in abundance on Saturday were sunshine and pollen. I'd been fighting an allergy attack for the past several days, and this new assault was easily too much for my own defenses. From the time I arrived my nose was runny, but walking out of the hangar and into the sunlight, staring up at the sky, sneeze followed sneeze, sometimes as many as 12 sneezes in a minute. There was no kleenex to be had, so I made frequent trips to the port-a-potty to get toilet paper for my nose (port-a-potty toilet paper is closer to sandpaper than a kleenex, an unfortunate reality that led to my nose still being sore and dry two days later).
Soon enough they gathered up all the tandem jumpers to go over exit procedures, including how to waddle to the door of the plane with an instructor strapped to your back, how to tilt your head back once at the door, to prevent knocking heads with the instructor upon exiting the plane, how to cross your hands on your chest, specifically to not hold on to the door. That's the instructor's job.
We were told how to position our hands and arms out once we were in free fall, how to 'kick the instructors butt' upon exiting the plane, to get our legs in the proper position for a controlled dive position. We were shown the signals that the instructor might give, tapping our shoulder to remind us to keep our arms out, tapping our thigh to get us to kick back farther. Between the exit door and the canopy deployment there would be no words, because 125mph doesn't lend itself to conversation.
All these instructions would be given to us again by our individual tandem instructors, we were told, but it was good to go through it once first, so we'd remember.
Then there was more waiting. My allergies were really killing me now. an endlessly running nose has been joined by itchy, watery eyes that just wouldn't quit. I'd stand inside the hangar to watch landings now, because a little less sunlight helped to stop the sneezefest my sinuses had become.
Liz, one of my co-workers, and the person whose bravery I was hoping to latch on to (we're both in it together. We'll make each other do this), was called up. Her instructor, Richard, ran her through the procedure again, as she was suiting up. Richard clearly knew what he was doing, and Liz didn't seem too worried about the adventure to come (or so I thought, until Richard told me later how worried she was once they got in the plane ;-) ).
We watched Liz's plane take off, and about ten minutes later, watched her and Richard's descent and landing. Coming back from the landing field, Liz was relaxed and happy. Now I'd not only seen people jumping and landing, I'd seen a friend go through what I was still on the edge of doing, with similar fears, and coming out of it happy (and, of course, alive).
More sneezing, trips for tissues, and watching landings, and my name was called up, along with a few others. I went into the hangar, met up with my assigned instructor, who turned out to be Richard! Sniffling and blowing my nose, I suited up and Richard and I went through the procedure again. I'd paid for video and stills as well, so from this point I also had a camera guy (I never did catch his name!) who added a second reel of clips to the one Karen and I were compiling with my camera.
The jumpsuit (hah, a real 'jump'-suit! Hence the name) had a small pocket on the left bicep with an elastic opening. It was just perfect for me to stuff in a small spool of toilet paper, and I could pull it through the opening, tearing off as much as needed, for blowing my nose. I thought to myself 'if god is the one who makes the next tissue come up, then I guess god is with me in this jumpsuit.' wiping an already raw nose, I wondered if the pollen-free air far above the ground would give me a respite from the allergies.
Strapped into the four-point harness that would hold me to Richard (and, by extension, the parachute) I was shown how to adjust the leg straps once we were under canopy, lifting my legs and pulling the straps down to make a seat instead of a groin swing.
Then it was time to walk to the plane. The plane's door is in the back, and so the first out the door climb in last. Tandems are the last to jump, presumably because they need more time (or because if they chicken out, singles don't have to get past them), and as the biggest tandem, we went into the plane first. Richard and I, facing backwards, were right next to the pilot.
The rest, two tandem pairs and a handful of singles, pile into the plane, making a tight squeeze in two rows straddling long padded benches. They slide closed the plexiglass door, fire up the engines, taxi down the runway and take off.
I've been in a lot of small planes before, so I wasn't too worried about this one, though I was idly amused that, after hearing so many quips about 'jumping out of a perfectly good airplane' I couldn't help but notice that the plane's pilot, along with everyone else, was wearing a parachute of her own. Perfectly good plane, my ass.
I could see the large-faced wrist-altimeter of the jumper in front of me, and I watched as its needle rose above 3,000 feet, 4,000 feet, and higher. Richard attached the four harness points to his harness, and we spent a few minutes tightening the leg straps securely, working together to pull them to their tightest. Richard told me I ought to put my goggles on now. Then it was back to looking out the window or altimeter-watching. I was a little impatient to leave the crowded plane and get this show on the road. I was ready.
Soon we were at 14,000 feet and were in position. The first jumper slid up the plexiglass screen and quickly, without fanfare or pause, was out the door. Richard joked that 'oh my god he fell out!' but I was already calm, and a little detached. I had a thing to do and it was just about time to do it. Looking back on it, I suppose the right word for my state of mind was 'detached' (not that I'd want to use that word anywhere near a drop zone..).
It was only a few more seconds before we were scootching down the bar, stooping up and waddling to the back of the plane and the door. I looked down and I could see the airstrip. I noticed how close the windmill farm, which looked so far away from the ground, seemed to the strip from this height. I couldn't see my car. The parking lot was a speck. Then I was outside the plane, with Richard still inside. I crossed my arms, tilted my head back, and waited. For the briefest of moments, a part of me mentioned that this is the point when I should be jibbering in fear. "Um, lets' not do that" I said to myself, and wondered why we weren't falling yet, and then we were.
Falling, I kicked back and put my arms out. My mouth and nose inflated under 125mph of force. We were falling, it was a blast. It didn't feel like falling, or flying, and certainly not floating. When you're that far off the ground, you don't see it getting bigger unless you watch carefully. Instead, it seems like you're in this stationary place, with wind just blowing really, really hard.
Breathing is weird up there. Taking a breath is like taking a drink from a firehose. Instead of sucking air in to take a breath, it's like not pushing air out quite as hard, letting it push its way in. I macked for the camera a bit, giving thumbs up, and when the camera-guy mocked picking his nose at me I was suddenly worried that I had a stream of snot or something just as glamorous going on, so I mock-picked back at him, not realizing 'till later just how silly this would look, seeing only my side of it, on the eventual tape.
Too soon it was canopy time, and I was almost worried that there wasn't a sudden jerk. There was a pull which brought us into a vertical orientation, from the horizontal, and a pul that kept on pulling, more than a single gravity, but not the force that seemed necessary to bring us from 125mph down to 10mph vertical descent.
Ow, that harness is pretty tight around the areas I'd really rather not have so tight. I waited for Richard to tell me it was okay to adjust my straps. After a few seconds he gave the okay and I brought my leg up to my chest to reach under and try to bring the strap forward. My hands and fingers were numb. I hadn't realized just how cold it was up there, but when I couldn't feel my fingertips I clued in. Still, I needed to move the straps and I could tell when my hands were in the right place so I gave my fingers and hands their marching orders, and though I couldn't feel my hands they did their work. First one leg, then the other. Ahh.
Richard let me take the toggles (handles) while he held them higher up, so we could try a few gentle turns, and a couple tighter ones. It wasn't the roller-coaster ride I'd have expected, because while a roller coaster gives most of its thrill from pushing your body where Newton's laws wouldn't have it go, when you're under canopy making a tight turn, down always feels like the opposite of the canopy, even when it's 45 degrees off of vertical. Lots of fun. We practiced landing, with me lifting the toggles as high as I could, then bringing them all the way down to my legs, creating a momentary stall that, at ground level, would bring our vertical velocity to nearly nothing.
"Don't try to stay standing" was one of the thing they pushed in the ground school. Especially guys. We feel the need to be macho, and forget that, in addition to falling out of the sky, our harness means that we'll be carrying both our weight and our instructor's weight, as the instructor is about 8 inches higher up in the harness. "Lift your legs forward" is the instruction we were given, and that's what I did. As we got closer to the ground, we leveled off, pulled the toggles down as far as possible, and slid easily into home. Seconds later I was unhooked and on my own two feet.
Karen and I stuck around for a couple hours as they dubbed the tape and, at my request, made me a DV copy of the digital master for my own iMovie fun. That digital source, along with footage Karen and I shot with my camera, is where all this video came from.
...
So you might be wondering: "What happened? You were going to bail out, you were worried, and then, what? You're in the air and out the door?" Well, It might seem like a cop-out answer, but simply, yes. I think it was the allergies. I was so distracted with the nose that wouldn't quit. I had so much to occupy my mind that the paranoia and fear of the door, falling, all of it, never came into play.
I'll get shakes sometimes, before and after bungie jumping being a good example. I could put my hand out and see the shaking. Public speaking can do that to me too. Heck, even when I call in on a radio show and I'm on the air, I'm a little shaky. But here, in the plane, in the air, back on the ground, nothing. I didn't have that searing squinch of a squeezed adrenal gland, pumping fear and energy into my body. I enjoyed every second of the experience, and I'll probably do it again if the opportunity arises and the time is right, though I'm considering an AFF program (solo, and a full day of ground training).
Karen said she'd consider jumping next time, as long as she doesn't have a trip planned shortly afterwards (she's going to Thailand, and doesn't want to hobble on a sprained ankle).
Me, I'm just amazed at the power of a little pollen...
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