Having a Ball Breaking the Chain

Falling to earth

I was blog surfing today, which is about as athletic as I get any more, and was reminded of a pastime I used to enjoy, at least most of the time. Karl of Secondhand Tryptophan went skydiving as a celebration of his birthday. Watching his video of the occasion reminded me of how I spent just about every Saturday and many Sundays for about a year and a half when I was in my early 20s.

A woman I worked with asked me to go with her when she went for her first jump. She had become interested in giving it a try from a guy she "liked", but she wanted some moral support and someone to ride along with her and keep her from turning around and heading home halfway to Elsinore. Lake Elsinore and Perris, California, were both great places to go back then. Out in the proverbial middle of nowhere, there was lots of space to drift around in and still find room to land that wasn't already occupied by houses and cars and, well, other people who didn't appreciate 'divers dropping out of the sky on their heads.

I went to watch and was immediately hooked. The very next Saturday, I was back, with the fee in my hand and courage in my heart.

They didn't do tandem jumps back then. Instead, you signed up for a daylong course during which you learned a few safety tips and how to hit the ground without breaking anything vital. This training consisted of jumping off a set of portable stairs a few dozen times, trying to get the drop and roll technique down because everyone knows it's the same thing to jump off of stairs as it is to jump out of an airplane.

By the end of the day (a few hours, tops) you were ready to make your first jump. I think the theory was, if they let you leave, you might actually come to you senses, so better get you in the plane ASAP. Fortunately, you were attached, or rather, the pull ring of your parachute was attached, to the plane by what was called a "static line." That way, once you fell away from the plane far enough to run out of line, your chute would automatically open and you would then float harmlessly to the ground where you would hit and roll just like you did when you jumped off the rolling stairs.

If you survived your first experience and actually wanted to do it again, you continued your training, progressing little by little each jump. The first several jumps were all static line, then what were called "clear and pulls." As the name implies, you just cleared the plane and immediately pulled your chute. Each subsequent time, you waited a little longer, learning how to control your body a bit better each jump.

The planes they used were older propeller planes, small and empty in the back. Everyone crowded in and inched their way toward the door-less exit to take their turn stepping out onto a tiny step while clutching the wing strut. The pilot would briefly kill the engine so you could get out and away before he started it up again, cutting down on what was called "prop blast." The idea was to step backward into the sky while still holding on and then let go with your hands, thus falling in a flat, tummy down position. A "hands first" was a very bad exit. About my third or fourth jump, I found out why.

When you let go of the wing strut with your hands and your feet are still on the step and the air from the propeller and the plane's forward motion hits you, you tumble head over heels backwards, not all lovely-floaty like you're supposed to. Your chute is attached to the plane and it's going to open when the line plays out, regardless of which part of the tumble you're in at the time. I was hurtling headfirst toward the earth. When a huge bubble of silk attached to your upper body fills with air and you're head-down, you become feet-down very quickly. Of course, I'm not complaining that it happened, in fact, I was quite relieved. And, even though I felt the force of the jerk from my head to my booted tootsies, it didn't really hurt. The wind was kind of knocked out of me, but, all in all, I was grateful it hadn't been worse. My gratitude was a bit premature.

It was late afternoon by the time we were all in and had stowed out gear. A bunch of us went to dinner and decided to catch a movie. All was fine until I sat in the movie for a couple of hours. The lights came up and I started to get out of my seat. Wow. That was a mistake. EVERY INCH OF MY BODY HURT! It felt as if every bone in my body was rubbing on the one next to it. Of course, my companions were less than compassionate. The more they laughed at me, the more I laughed at myself, and the more it hurt. Someone had to literally pull me out of my seat and I walked like the Tin Man without his oilcan for the rest of the night and much of the next day.

So lesson learned. I never did that again. I had a great time being a skydiver and met some wonderful people. Somewhere down the line, I started doing other things on my weekends and gradually went less and less until I finally stopped. But if I ever have to jump off the stairs, I still know how to hit and roll.

posted by Sheryl @ 10:48 PM