This is a repost from May 31, 2010, that I chose to reshare today, on my birthday, August 30, 2026,
Mom was born on my birthday (long story, but funny). She passed in 2017. Love you mom.
I also have a pretty fascinating post out yesterday on my Substack about a very weird birthday I had, in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, some decades ago with my girlfriend at the time.
On a roll here--here's another birthday I had in 2014 in Bellingham, where one of my kids was living at the time, in my old university town from where I graduated in 1984 (what a year to graduate in, huh?).
So...
Hi! How has your weekend been? Your week? Your year? Not too stressful, I hope.
[Boy! Does THIS have a different meaning now than it did in 2010 when I first wrote this article!]
Also, an old 2011 blog I did on when I was a USAF Parachute Rigger.
Thun Field, Pierce County Airport,
(FAA identifier PLU)
1960. 16915 103rd Ave Ct E, Puyallup, WA
Mine has been quite over the top.
Some of my "customers" are very high stress and they find it easiest to put some of that stress directly upon my head. My costumers are IT related, vendor related, sometimes other departments or other states of our four-state plan. I've long been on a high-level front-line IT team for a "Cadillac" type BlueShield health insurance company (yeah, I know). Some place that stress rightfully so, some I've been told, not so much. Or more precisely, not at all.
Just how stressful HAS this week been? Or last week for that matter, with this one giving it a good run for the money? How so? How can I explain? How can I draw this out and yet keep talking to you till you realize this was just another attempt to talk about strange and unusual times from the past? How can I even keep your attention for that long? Let's see.
I'll just say, this week has been slightly more stressful than I remember feeling one day years ago (harp music), while plummeting to the ground from about 3,000 feet up, having just foolishly let go of a perfectly good airplane, on one fine summer day. It was about just then that I had noticed my parachute was kind of open above me but had not quite really opened as I had been lead to expect it would. It was just flapping in the wind like a streamer held out a car window.
First, I really should mention, this experience I'm about to relate, took place the day after my High School friend Rod's birthday at his house. He had just turned eighteen. I was still seventeen. I woke after a night of very strange things, my ex-girlfriend I had JUST broken up with and my soon to be new girlfriend both being there, doing a variety of inebriates I had done and had yet to do, drinking at a kegger and the next morning waking on the couch in the living room, to a hangover and the murderous sounds--of all things--of someone dumping and counting, jar after jar of coins there on the living room floor. It was Jimmy, Rod's older brother.
I said, "HEY, knock it OFF!" Jimmy said, "Sorry, but I have to."
I said, "Why?" and he said, "Because, I'm going sky diving."
Then he said, "I'm done. Later." and he ran out the door.
Shortly after the door slammed shut, Rod came down the stairs from his bedroom, rather quickly, and asked, "Where'd Jimmy go?" I told him and he kind of lost it.
Shortly after the door slammed shut, Rod came down the stairs from his bedroom, rather quickly, and asked, "Where'd Jimmy go?" I told him and he kind of lost it.
"WHAT! Oh Hell, he told me he'd take me! I'm going!" I asked him, "What? Hey! Then I'm going."
On the way there, Jimmy realized he didn't have enough money. So, Rod and I gave him what we had to cover him. Then when we got there, I said I wanted to jump too but I had given Jimmy all my money.
On the way there, Jimmy realized he didn't have enough money. So, Rod and I gave him what we had to cover him. Then when we got there, I said I wanted to jump too but I had given Jimmy all my money.
But I was now broke or at least didn't have enough.
Jimmy felt bad and between him and Rod, we got the $30 together for me and we now all hand enough. We could start our five and a half hours of training, still miserably hung over and at times, jumping from a platform five feet up from the dirt out front of the dive loft where they stored and packed the parachutes.
We were learning "PLFs", Parachute Landing Form, which didn't feel none too good while doing them. PLFs are what they teach you, so you don't do, FKHF form (Feet, Knees, Hands, Face). Doing them hungover and dehydrated, only made it much, much worse. But were were also trying to hide being hung over.
Once I found I didn't need parent's permission, as I wasn't eighteen (I thought I did it and my mother previously made it quite clear she wouldn't give her permission), I really had to do it.
Finally, we were ready to go, our hours of training complete, we suited up, packed up and climbed into the plane with two others, the three of us and Jesse our Jumpmaster. And the pilot, of course.
I remember someone asking, "Do you know what position you are in?" As we were all scrunched up together in the cramped cargo space, on our knees, in order to get the most jumpers on a dive as possible.
I remember someone asking, "Do you know what position you are in?" As we were all scrunched up together in the cramped cargo space, on our knees, in order to get the most jumpers on a dive as possible.
I said, "No" and they replied, "The preying position." Ha ha. Everyone laughed, Jesse grimaced at the newbie abuse. Very funny. Dive humor. First timer/veteran dive humor.
After our training was done, still on the ground, the three of us noticed Jesse walking by and we all noted how attractive she was. It was hard not to be attracted to her, even though she was a bit older than us. One of the jumpers walked by, noting our interest (the guy who made the "praying position" joke later in the plane as we took off). He joked a long with us about how attractive Jesse was. Then dropped the bomb.
"You know (he smiled), her husband packs your chutes."
We all looked at each other and swallowed (being dehydrated, with some difficulty). No more looking at Jesse with anything but respect and uh, respect, from then onward. Not that we didn't have respect from the beginning. She knew her stuff.
Skipping forward...I drove out to go jump one day without Rod and Jimmy. Not sure why, maybe they were busy.
The cloud ceiling was low, too low. Newbies like me couldn't jump, you had to be certified for that low of a jump. While I was there, a twin blade, heavy Army Chinook helicopter landed. The crew had wanted to have lunch at the restaurant by the airstrip, a bit off from the loft. Thirteen jumpers with military ID got to step off out of it that day. It was quite a site and quite a story that day. But that for another time...
But the next time I went out to go jump, I got to go.
And it was an event...
I jumped, static line snapped, chute was not inflating above me, slowing my descent nominally. Making things worse, I could not actually see it. The risers connecting me to the canopy had crossed against the back of my neck so I could only stare at my chest, where lay my chin just above where the emergency chute sitting all nice and tightly secured to me, ready for instant deployment which I was now supposed to use; oh, and of course that hard ground 3,000 feet below, beyond the chute on my chest, with its great grouping of tiny, tiny fenced off meadowland that was currently floating gently up toward me at about maybe 100 miles an hour.
I could see it all between my dangling feet. But that was then.
Back to Jimmy's, Rod's and my first jump...
After you jump out of the plane, you're supposed to take proper form to keep from tumbling terribly out of control, like Jimmy had just done, almost potentially hanging himself on the fifteen-foot static line that pulls the chute out as you fall away from the plane, for those of us not yet certified for free fall.
After you jump out of the plane, you're supposed to take proper form to keep from tumbling terribly out of control, like Jimmy had just done, almost potentially hanging himself on the fifteen-foot static line that pulls the chute out as you fall away from the plane, for those of us not yet certified for free fall.
You took your first long class, did your first jump, then some more jumps and eventually become certified for free fall.
In those days, you didn't attach yourself to a jumper. It just wasn't done. It was, "weird" to consider. But the newer way doesn't tend to lose new jumpers, so...
The two veteran jumpers (including the jokester) went first. No problems, no issues.
Jimmy looked pretty scared as he got situated in the open door. He looked up at me and the look on his face was one I'd never seen before, or after. But hey, he didn't hesitate, she hit his leg, said, "Go!" and he jumped. However, as he existed, Jesse nearly leaped out the door, freaking both Rod and I out. She hung there for a while staring at--something. It was freaking me out. What the hell was going on with Jimmy?!!
Finally, she noticeably relaxed and pulled herself back in. Looking back at us, saw the looks on our faces. We asked what happened. She hesitated, then leaned in toward us and, maybe saw it as a learning moment.
"He did what we taught you not to do," Jesse said. "He didn't flare properly and started to tumble. I was afraid he'd wrap up in the static line. I've seen it before. If that happens you can get it around your foot, or worse, around your neck and get dragged. If it doesn't kill you, you're just being dragged behind the plane."
"Then what?" I asked. She said, "Then the jumpmaster, me, has to climb down and clear you for hopefully a good fall. But he cleared the line and his chute opened. He's fine. OK. So...next." She looked at Rod. He looked back at me with a big smile on his face, the worry he'd had for Jimmy now washed away.
Rod crawled over to the door. I always held Jimmy in high regard, maybe a bit intimidated by him being the older brother, but he was always the nicest guy. I had assumed that day that he'd bravely exit the plane, and Rod might be the one feeling a bit tenuous about jumping.
I don't know why I thought that. I think it was more about Jimmy being one way, than Rod being another. But Rod got just into position, then turned once situated outside the plane, looked Jesse, then back at me with absolutely no fear on his face, just great gusto and a big smile.
I'm not now sure if he did, but I remember him giving a big thumbs up and then focused on thee task at hand, outside the plane. Jesse said something to the pilot, he responded. She looked at Rod and nodded, he nodded back and finally hit him on the leg, and said "GO!"
And he was gone. Mind you, being almost last wore on one's nerve. Seeing what I had just seen, also had. I think had I gone first, or before Jimmy, I would (maybe) have been fine.
Jesse closely watched Rod release his grip in fearlessness, and in perfect form. She turned to me and gave me a thumbs up and a smile. All was good. Just the opposite of what I would have expected as Jimmy always seemed fearless to me. I felt a great relief, except that, I suddenly realized, I was next.
That shifted the entire world for me in that moment.
For myself, it wouldn't normally be a problem. I'd hung off cliffs in the Cascade and Olympic Mountains, and all kinds of crazy stuff years before in Civil Air Patrol on search and rescue maneuvers. I had my SCUBA license. SCUBA takes a different kind of bravery. As does repelling down a cliffside. Or climbing up one. But I'd always been like a fish in water, as my mom liked to say.
So, I climbed out of the plane, finding it harder than I'd expected to place my foot on that tiny, TINY footpeg, hanging outside the plane, my right leg just dangling there in the propwash of the plane at a slow 100MPH, and looking down through 3,000 feet of--nothingness.
Then Jesse our jumpmaster hit my leg and said, "GO!" Good grief.
So, of course, bravely I did what all courageous types did. Right? I hesitated, then--looked back up at her from what I found an awkward and uncomfortable position and said bravely, "WHAT!?" It was the only thing I could think of to distract and delay from my position.
She looked at me--incredulous. But fully understanding what stage of fear I was involved with at that moment. Mind you, every second of delay puts a jumper either closer to, or farther away from the LZ (landing zone), and that 10' circle of pea gravel that is the target everyone wants to land on. And few do.
She looked at me--incredulous. But fully understanding what stage of fear I was involved with at that moment. Mind you, every second of delay puts a jumper either closer to, or farther away from the LZ (landing zone), and that 10' circle of pea gravel that is the target everyone wants to land on. And few do.
Also, my delay changing the calculus for where I will land, was also changing her own. Something not quite on my mind at that time.
"GO!" she said and knowingly hit me again on the back of my thigh. I pulled my eyes from hers and looked forward, seeing my hands gripping the strut and the spinning propeller further forward, and thought, "I am NOT losing that 30 bucks because I rode the plane back down." That seemed to move me more than anything else. Then I wondered how to trick myself to do what I wanted. I thought, "I only need to relax one of my fingers and then the next..." That didn't work.
Then I thought, just go limp, stop gripping. Make your hands go limp and--it happened.
The plane leaped forward, out of my grasp as my grip failed and I realized I had let go and the plane was gone.
Swimming back toward the plane, it quickly didn't appear to be working. I looked up for what I was trying to achieve (the plane) and realized was already out of my site. That subsumed my thoughts. Where the hell did the plane go? Which was when I realized that the static line had snapped and the chute was pulled out.
However....
It was all quite hard to miss, the culmination of all that drama.
As I fell away form the plane, I remember, Count. "One thousand one. One thousand two. One... oh screw it!" My eyes were shut tight. I hoped for an opening. I heard the snap, an odd sound of the canopy deploying in a stream of nylon and then, the chute inflating and a slowing down. I opened my eyes. I looed up at a beautiful fully inflated canopy, and smiled.
Then I looked below me and realized I was like 3,000 feet in the air dangling my feet. It was terrifying. But nothing bad happened. I breathed. After a minute I realized the absolute silence. The beauty all around me. I relaxed and enjoyed the ride that seemed to take forever. I noticed the tiny fenced areas of the farmland. I feared being lost. How the hell would I know which to aim for?
As I descended, I was eventually able to pick out the pea gravel LZ and people and I was headed right for it. The groundmaster was moving his arms, guiding me in. I manipulated my toggle left and right I could clearly see no one had landed in the LZ but off to the side. Except for me.
Which actually went quite smoothly and I actually hit the ten foot wide target of pea gravel. I was exhilarated. After all, I was the only one that jump who hit the target. The other more experienced jumpers already on the ground had all missed. And Jimmy and Rod, of course. Which happens, as the jumpmaster in the plane can only zero in on one or a few jumpers to hit the target as the plane is continuing on in a line at about 100 miles per hour. The new "square" chutes make this less an issue now a days.
When I realized the ground was coming up faster than I expected hitting pea gravel is a definite and softer benefit. As I found out on my second jump. The groundmaster nodded and said, "Gather your chute." So I did. But before I got my harness off, I knelt down and kissed the ground. I thought it funny, but also kind of meant it. I was glad to be on the ground. I looked over at the groundmaster who had a very disgusted look on his fast as he turned and walked back to guide our Jumpmaster Jesse down.
I got my harness off and--first jump completed. I walked over to Rod and Jimmy and needless to see, we were all pretty pumped up and pleased with ourselves. No one felt our hangovers. That came after the adrenalin wore off.
But getting back to that second jump...
Once out of the plane, this time I was proud of myself that I counted the full 6 count. Then tried to look up to assure myself the canopy I heard deploy, was fully inflated and function. But something wasn't letting me look up. I couldn't move my head upward. That was weird.
What I missed most seeing was what that chute above my head was doing because. And frankly, I didn't seem to be slowing down. Count to six, look up, check the chute opened, make a decision.
You either relax and enjoy the ride down. Or do some emergency stuff like cut away from the failed chute, releasing the connectors to the risers connected between the harness and the canopy, then just pop the emergency chute by pulling the ripcord handle on the canvass wrapped bump of nylon on your chest.
I began to consider feeling stressed out, but I had been told you only have about ten seconds to make a decision on what to do in a situation like that and at that altitude. So I really didn't have the time to stress out. Or be afraid. Which I thought I would save for either just before I impacted the ground, or just after I landed and somehow, continued living against all odds.
I began to consider feeling stressed out, but I had been told you only have about ten seconds to make a decision on what to do in a situation like that and at that altitude. So I really didn't have the time to stress out. Or be afraid. Which I thought I would save for either just before I impacted the ground, or just after I landed and somehow, continued living against all odds.
Which, actually, I was kind of counting on.
Also, my hangover seemed to magically dissolve away. I guess adrenalin does that.
I remember thinking I needed to break away, pop the emergency chute; but then a thought broke into my consciousness. The realization that if I pop the chute, "I don't have $2.50 for an emergency chute repack." That would be embarrassing. So, I thought...I bet I could fix this. It's just twisted. If I could just get this one to work, the deployed one, I mean, it's just sitting there, out, but not inflated, then; no sense in being embarrassed. And that would really suck."
Also, my hangover seemed to magically dissolve away. I guess adrenalin does that.
I remember thinking I needed to break away, pop the emergency chute; but then a thought broke into my consciousness. The realization that if I pop the chute, "I don't have $2.50 for an emergency chute repack." That would be embarrassing. So, I thought...I bet I could fix this. It's just twisted. If I could just get this one to work, the deployed one, I mean, it's just sitting there, out, but not inflated, then; no sense in being embarrassed. And that would really suck."
Right. OK, then.
I did the obvious thing, what anyone might do. Right? No?
I did the obvious thing, what anyone might do. Right? No?
I tried to pull apart the risers so I could snap my head back. It was then I realized just how much strength it took to keep the risers apart for more than a second or two as they were supporting all my weight. It was too much. I had to let them snap back into place. My head still down. Pinned down, taking my agency from me, out of my control. I refused to let that defeat me and I was rapidly running out of time.
At which point, I put all my strength into it and pulled them apart enough I could slip my helmeted head back and it went back further than I'd expected and I had to let the risers go. They snapped into place and now I found I was now staring straight up at the streaming tube-like, "cigarette roll" (as they call those malfunctions); a funny looking arrangement of a Hell of a lot of 1.1 rip-stop nylon NOT inflating and there, far beyond that, a truly beautiful, silent, blue sky.
Technically, this type of "function" as they liked to call them (I discovered a few years later with PJs when I was a parachute rigger in the USAF), is known as a "compression twist", but at the time, I really wasn't caring what the correct technical term for it was.
Technically, this type of "function" as they liked to call them (I discovered a few years later with PJs when I was a parachute rigger in the USAF), is known as a "compression twist", but at the time, I really wasn't caring what the correct technical term for it was.
Apparently, it can happen when you twist the chute as you put it into the pack during repack, so when it extracts it spirals and compresses, holding itself in a tube shape, so it can't inflate as air has no entryway into the canopy.
I noticed that it was really quite quiet falling like that through the sky.
I noticed that it was really quite quiet falling like that through the sky.
Except for this one noise, and what was that anyhow as it was getting quickly getting louder as I fell? I thought about it for a moment (just part of a second, don't worry) and realized finally that it was me, passing through the air, at drag decreased terminal velocity only 100 miles an hour (go ahead, stick your head out the window of your car at 100 mph some time, and you'll see what I mean). Full termina velocity is around 120MPH, but the tube above me was causing drag, slowing me down a bit.
There were some other minor sounds from material flapping, or loose harness webbing, but other than that, just the screaming of the air shooting past my ears that seemed to take up the majority of my attention.
Funny how time slows as you're about to die...
At about that point, head was stuck back, the risers were holding my helmet back, I realized that I could have it either way, head forward and down or back looking up, but not easily transition between the two extremes. I hadn't expected that.
At about that point, head was stuck back, the risers were holding my helmet back, I realized that I could have it either way, head forward and down or back looking up, but not easily transition between the two extremes. I hadn't expected that.
So, I figured, well? I might as well try to fix it. I may have no choice at this point. Besides, I didn't really want to watch my knees being shoved up into my hips should it come to that. Wait, no, I wouldn't be able to see that, would I, not in this position.
I figured I'd feel it either way though. No sense in evoking sensory overload, ya know?
It was at that moment that I thought to put into play all my brilliance and act accordingly. So, I did the only thing I could think to do, what I thought in the first place, and pulled the risers apart as wide as I could with all my strength for as long as I could and hope that worked. Seemed like it should.
So the chute above me could then open at the bottom to inflate and I could just sit there happily and relaxed and watch the show of a colorful spectacle of yards of nylon spinning rapidly around up above me, so that it could open to its full and glorious (likely a) 32-foot modified round, TU-slotted flat circular, standard static-line gear of the day). I was surprised as I pulled them apart, that I was actually able to hold them far apart after a certain distance when it got easier, and again, I think some of it was the adrenalin.
And that was when the amazing happened. But shouldn't have been the surprising. A parachute nickname is "air anchor." Should I have expected the chute to spin? Or...
I wasn't considering a small, overlooked item. That being physics. You see, when you have above you an "air anchor" and try to move it against that of say 180 pounds of dead weight plus gear, well, the larger "air anchor" wins every time and the dead weight (yes, me) spins instead.
At which point I began to spin uncontrollably as the inflating parachute above instead got to watch my spectacle with feet flying out from centrifugal force as I did a strange little meat puppet twirl.
I wasn't considering a small, overlooked item. That being physics. You see, when you have above you an "air anchor" and try to move it against that of say 180 pounds of dead weight plus gear, well, the larger "air anchor" wins every time and the dead weight (yes, me) spins instead.
At which point I began to spin uncontrollably as the inflating parachute above instead got to watch my spectacle with feet flying out from centrifugal force as I did a strange little meat puppet twirl.
Unbeknownst to me, not so far below on the ground, down there beneath me at the LZ, the other jumpers, and our groundmaster--were watching in shared fascination and sheer horror. But I wasn't thinking of them. I was busy on my carnival ride.
"Why in the Hell isn't he cutting away and deploying his reserve!" The groundmaster wondered. He who controls guiding you in and the ground LZ, as Jesse handled the issues in the planet leading up to the jump.
Fascinated, they watched the display of me spinning, after having not broken away from the malfunctioning main chute sooner and using the reserve chute; and in horror at having lived moments that felt like hours to the more experienced jumpers as they watched the far more inexperienced sky diver (my esteemed self) not breaking away from the "compression twist" (something that has killed many sky divers and especially first-time parachutists for nearly a hundred years or more).
"Why in the Hell isn't he cutting away and deploying his reserve!" The groundmaster wondered. He who controls guiding you in and the ground LZ, as Jesse handled the issues in the planet leading up to the jump.
Fascinated, they watched the display of me spinning, after having not broken away from the malfunctioning main chute sooner and using the reserve chute; and in horror at having lived moments that felt like hours to the more experienced jumpers as they watched the far more inexperienced sky diver (my esteemed self) not breaking away from the "compression twist" (something that has killed many sky divers and especially first-time parachutists for nearly a hundred years or more).
The groundmaster saw EVERYTHING and was not pleased with me. Something he made painfully clear once it was understood I was good and back on the ground, alive, mostly.
I had a grand finale as I snapped to and stopped spinning quite suddenly. I was a little dizzy and I had to let my eyes catch up to my head and allow my vision to focus again, but I was very happy to note that I no longer heard any high speed winds, and that above me (yes, I could now look up quite easily through the now uncrossed risers) there was finally a beautiful open and fully inflated canopy doing what it was meant to do: slow descent to a reasonable and much more fun speed.
I was now able to enjoy a quiet, and incredible view of a descent, with a massive panorama of the entire region below me with Mt Rainier in the distance. It seemed to last forever, until I got within about 40-50 feet of the ground at which point, things seemed to increase in speed and the culmination of the jump. That being, the landing.
Remember, on my first jump I was the only one who hit the pea gravel. So of course, I wanted to do it again. I was headed right for it. The groundmaster was guiding me not in the direction I wanted so I did what I wanted. I could see he was gesticulating frantically but I was concentrating on my pulling the risers and I overshot the pea gravel, something he knew clearly, I was going to do.
I had a grand finale as I snapped to and stopped spinning quite suddenly. I was a little dizzy and I had to let my eyes catch up to my head and allow my vision to focus again, but I was very happy to note that I no longer heard any high speed winds, and that above me (yes, I could now look up quite easily through the now uncrossed risers) there was finally a beautiful open and fully inflated canopy doing what it was meant to do: slow descent to a reasonable and much more fun speed.
I was now able to enjoy a quiet, and incredible view of a descent, with a massive panorama of the entire region below me with Mt Rainier in the distance. It seemed to last forever, until I got within about 40-50 feet of the ground at which point, things seemed to increase in speed and the culmination of the jump. That being, the landing.
Remember, on my first jump I was the only one who hit the pea gravel. So of course, I wanted to do it again. I was headed right for it. The groundmaster was guiding me not in the direction I wanted so I did what I wanted. I could see he was gesticulating frantically but I was concentrating on my pulling the risers and I overshot the pea gravel, something he knew clearly, I was going to do.
I pulled hard on one riser and I thought I could spiral down back to the target gravel. But I kept going forward too much and as I spun around a wind caught the chute and spun me harder. Think bucket of water on a rope you spin around and centrifugal force keeps the water in the bucket.
But essentially what it meant for me was that I was gaining momentum in that spin at the end of those ropes until the road running through the meadow was rising to meet me far to fast. I slammed into it, but at an angle. My combat boot encased feet hit first, as they hit the ground the split down the sides, my body hit at such an angle there was no good way to cushion my slamming into the rocks and dirt of that road.
After creaming into the road, I lost my happy feeling pretty quickly as the pain spread throughout me from my feet to my upper body. I just lied there in pain. The groundmaster ran over to me and asked if I was OK. Embarrassed I said yes, but do something about this chute! He said just pop a riser. I did and the chute deflated. I asked if he could help get my helmet off and he did. I just lied there in the dirt feeling like an idiot. A painful one at that.
He asked if I was OK. I said, yes. He asked if I I was sure. I just yes, I'm fine, it hurts, but I'm OK, just let me lie here for a while. He asked again, are you sure you're OK? I looked at him oddly and said, Yes, why? He pointed at my boots. I looked down and say the leather had split down the sides. I was surprised but I just said, Yeah I don't know what that's about but I'm good.
He nodded and said, "OK, but when you're ready, I want to talk to you." I just nodded and put my head back in the dirt, staring at the sky as he walked away.
After about fifteen minutes, I got up, humiliated and walked over to the groundmaster wherein he "tore me a new one," and made it clear as you approach the LZ the groundmaster is in control and you DO whatever he indicates. He asked if I knew there was a draft running along that road. I said no. He said that's why you got slammed into the ground. I said I just wanted to turn and hit the pea gravel. He said you never had a chance at that, I was giving you your best path down. ALWAYS LISTEN TO YOUR GROUNDMASTER! Got it!?"
Yeah, I got it. I also didn't walk right for a week or so after that. I didn't need a better reminder.
Then he asked what I was thinking in not breaking away from a defective deployment. I said I thought I could fix it. He made it clear, you don't fix it you break away. Safety first. I wanted to explain to him I wasn't just some 17 year old who didn't know anything but I'd been in a lot of dangerous situation and trained to fix problems in real time. I had first responder first aid training. All kinds of things like that but--thought it best to bite my tongue and just, nod yes.
Also, I said, I didn't have $2.50 for an emergency chute repack.
That stunned everyone within hearing range. Jesse had landed a few minutes before and was nearby packing up her chute and leaned over to me and said don't do that again. OK? She made it clear, that rather than go through what they just witnessed, with a new jumper (again, no tandem jumps back then), they would all have been happy to pitch in to pay the cost of a repack for the emergency chute. I was humbled looking around and everyone was nodding in agreement.
Once again, Life was good.
Thinking back on it, that wasn't as stressful as this past week has been for me; that week that I would one time experienced, some several decades later.
No matter how intense things feel right now? You can almost always count on them getting more intense later.
Makes you think.
Oh. And here's the funny thing.
I looked up who Jesse was and is today and found her! She's a world-class record-breaking sky diver who at 77 made her 23 when I knew her:
