11,200 Feet and Falling Fast

By Alexander Wilson | Wednesday, October 7, 1998

Only after I was about to jump out of an airplane at 11,200 feet did it hit me that a fraternity party isn't the best place to make a life or death decision.

But I had already waived all of my legal rights and been seperated from $165 of my money, so I thought, to hell with it, and lept out.

We got to the two trailers right outside Middlebury that house Vermont Skydiving Adventures all ready to go: not so fast, Vermont Skydiving needed to teach us how to properly hurl ourselves out of a plane.

Barrett Thornhill, who had already been trained, went up while Chris Hummel and I took our little trip over to the briefing area; our instructor was blasting Pink Floyd and jamming along on his air guitar.

He looked the part of a skydiving vet ('4218 jumps'). He even had the XXX-rated name: Rick Hustler. For real. Rick had been through Vietnam, had been a philosophy major in college, and now trains us yokels for skydiving in between shifts as a house painter ('Interior and exterior both'). 'If I had known I would've lived 'til fifty, I would've had a little less fun in the sixties, ya know...'

Chain-smoking Marlboro Reds, he led us through the standard introduction to skydiving. He started by describing the harness we would be wearing. We would be doing a 'tandem jump,' in which the diver is attached to an instructor who wears the parachute.

We would be flying up to around 11,000 feet to jump; we'd be in free fall for 45 seconds to 6,000 feet. We would then pull the cord. If we didn't the instructor would. If 'Ming gets into both our heads this little doodad here [points] will open the chute automatically at 2,000 feet.' (I'm still not sure who Ming is or what he would be doing in our heads, but it didn't sound good.)

That section of our training ended with instructions on how to loosen the leg straps of the harness 'to keep Mr. Happy happy,' and we moved on to the airplane simulator. The 'simulator' was a white box on stilts, though it was decorated with a control panel and window view including a small figure labeled 'mountain goat.' Rick showed us how we'd be leaving the airplane and the correct free fall position: arms spread, legs bent at a right angle, and chest pushed out 'like you're taking a big hit.'

We had to wait for the winds to change before going, so we got a chance to see a bit of the local color.

The prospect of jumping out of an airplane brings all sorts of nutty people out of the woodwork. There was this ill-tempered businessman who drove a black Porsche 911.

My man Slick said he had a half-hour break between meetings at 3 p.m. and wanted to 'take a jump.' They told him he needed to train first, and off drove Slick in a cloud of huff.

A few minutes later we were loaded into the plane, a Cessna 182. That tiny model holds two divers and two instructors and one pilot who also wore a 'chute, 'just in case.' 'Holds' is a term open to a wide range of interpretations; ten minutes into the twenty minute climb to jumping altitude Chris' right leg was entirely numb.

All pain was tolerable as we soared far above the ground, cars and buildings shrinking into insignificance below. At 2,000 feet the view was incredible; at 10,000 I'd never imagined anything like it. The day was divine: infinite miles of blue above, infinite autumn hues below. Our instructors helped pass the time by pointing out New York state, Lake Champlain, Burlington, and other local points of note, but looking out the window was all I needed to occupy me.

We hit 11,000 feet and our altimeters were off the scale. Rick opened the door and a blast of cold air rushed into the cabin. Our harnesses had already been attached to our instructors', Chris' to Rick's, mine to Ole's (pronounced like the bull-fighting shout). Chris and Rick shifted into jumping position, Chris sitting with his legs dangling out of the plane, Rick crouched just above him. Ole and I moved over so we could see them from the door. 'One-two-whoooeeee!' and they were gone.

Five seconds later I heard the count again, crossed my arms across my chest, fell forward. I was flying.

Soaring towards the earth at 120 mph with Ole barrel-rolling and flipping us was an experience that I can hardly describe.

There is no feeling of resistance, just a cushioning effect, so it feels like you are riding on the air, not falling through it.

The land is laid out below you like a map or a model. I've never felt so free and alive as I did during those 45 seconds diving through the skies. Cliches, yeah, but also true.

Then I pulled the rip cord and the parachute jerked me up short. I floated slowly to the earth, grinning like the village idiot. I couldn't speak. Better than your favorite drug.

The fun just kept going: as we were landing, a huge gust blew into our chutes and pulled us to the ground.

Ole got control of the chute after we were dragged a few feet and I emerged unscathed. Chris apparently avoided injury as well, although I was a little too focused on myself at the time to take note of how he did so.

They gave us certificates of achievement 'to impress the babes' and we headed back to Hanover in my Mazda roaring 'Radar Love.' The exhiliration lasted all the way home.

11,200 Feet and Falling Fast

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