rage 14 University Daily Kansan, September 11, 1980
Sports
ROBERT POOLE/Kansan staff
Tracee Hamilton, Kansan sports writer, contemplates where she's been. Hamilton leaves the airplane with her static line, the umbilical cord for beginning sky divers, ready to pull her chute open in a matter of seconds. Hamilton skydived for the first time last weekend at the Greene County Sport Parachute Center, south of Baldwin. The plane was flying at approximately 28,000 feet when Hamilton took the plunge.
CHRIS TODDIKansan staff
Sports writer 'chutes' for sky with parachute
By TRACEE HAMILTON Sports Writer
The musty air inside the plane hung like old clothes in an attic. The cabin was tight and cramped even for two passengers, their bodies tensed
"Cut the engine," yelled the first passenger, looking like a giant grasshopper in his green
The roar of a single engine muffled all other sounds. Eves met, then quickly looked away.
THE PLANE SLOWED, and the noise died slightly. The door of the plane flew open, the wind blew, and Coultier chased the stuffiness out of the cabin, and the passengers greedily gulped the air.
sit in the door," the larger passenger in green shouted.
The second passenger silently obeyed, her band tightly grasping the edge of the door like a lion.
"Ready," the first cried. It was a command, not a question.
The figure in the door heard the shouts, the engine's hum, the wind slamming against the fuselage. She dived suddenly, as though to escape the din.
Then, there was silence. Ears rang with the rare sound of no sound. She didn't look up or down, but hung there, suspended over the patchwork countryside like a dotted toss on a careless child's hand. There was no sense of time and motion. The moment was timeless. It was freedom.
THIS FEELING HAS been shared by skydivers from all over the country. The Greene County Sport Parachute Center, south of Baldwin, has initiated more than 5,000 people into a world of diving from airplanes, free-falling and parachute manipulation.
The name of the center is as misleading as the myths surrounding skydiving. Greene County is actually in Kenia, Ohio, and eight branch drop sites across the country are named after it.
"It's kind of a franchise," Manley Paulos, jump master, says. "Usually, guys will start jumping and enjoy it so much that they make a business of it."
Paulus, who has been jumping for four years, said that of the 90,000 skydivers trained by the Greene County Centers, not one ever bounced on the first jump.
That sounded good to a first-time jumper like me.
My training session began in the noonday sun on one of those September days that feel like July. Manley Paulus and I sought shade on a picnic table under an old tree, and I, with three dogs of various sizes, listened to his strange narrative, entwining horror stories about jumping accidents with confident reassurances of success.
AND THE SUCCESSES have been many. Only one person has been killed in a jump at the center. She maneuvered her chute over a 36-foot wide pond, and landed there. She made no attempt to use her flotation device, built into every reserve chute.
Manley's instruction was broken only by an occasional moan from a passing train. Railroad traxie locks lie to the jump site, and are to be
avoided. We discussed our parts in the upcoming performance, then rehearsal began.
One of the most important lessons was the skydiver's chant, the dumy ripcord pull, a routine that makes the pupil pretend to pull a record even though he actually doesn't.
"Stand up, legs spread, arms back, arch the
go, g!!" Manley ordered.
"Arch-thousand, look-thousand (look for the imaginary ripcord), reach-thousand (reach for it), pull-thousand (pull at the air), five-thousand, six-thousand, seven-thousand, check canopy," I shouted at full volume. Manley wants to hear the divers shouting even though he went and whenever Manley shouts go, his pupils repeat the chant. It's part of quick thinking.
"Your main chute doesn't open. What do you do?" he shouts.
AS LONG AS you think, Manley says, and don't panic, you'll be fine. And to test quickness in thinking, he throws emergency situations at his pupils, who must rifle back immediate answers.
Silently I act out emergency procedures—left arm in air, right hand pulls ripcord of reserve chute and drops it, right hand punches chute to make sure it comes out and opens quickly.
"Mae West."he cries.
Mae West is when the suspension cords leading to the canopy are draped over the canopy itself, making two or more huge bubbles.
Just thinking about the nickname has taken too much time. Disgusted, Manley cries, "Hey, Mae West, to the right."
Over and over, I repeated emergency procedures, steering techniques, and the chant. Manley kept after me a drill gerriless testing a troop, until he was sure I knew what to do.
LEARNING TO LAND after a jump was the most difficult skill Manley taught, but the right landing can prevent a number of broken bones. Manley has a platform for pupils to jump from.
Knees and feet together, crouch, hands in air.
"I'land!"
"Ready to land." he yells.
Jump, land, roll to right side on calf, knee,
thigh, hip, roll over 180 degrees, swung legs behind body, and drop feet, still together, on the opposite side.
Over and over, with Manley screaming out the direction to fall. I rolled around in the field, raising a cloud of dust on every landing.
The sun snuck toward the horizon, and thin blue clouds sheltered it for a time. The joking died down. Manley lent me one of his jump suits, bright blue, and about five sizes too big. I dilt into the smallest pair of combatlike boots I could find, and chose a green helmet.
MANLEY STRAPPED the gear to my back and helped me tighten the straps. We trudged across the worn runway to the small, camouflage-green Cessna 180. Heat waves quivered off the craft.
Manley held the door and I backed in with my 35-pound gear. Then came the standard skydiving question.
"Yes." Manley replied.
“Can I check it?” I asked, and gave my static line several yanks to be sure.
Manly smiled and nodded, and I looked away. I felt like an actor in a play, as though it wasn't really me going up in that plane. We took off. Rusty Young, pilot and owner of the center, said something, but it was lost in the excitement and engine noise.
We flew over the drop site, and Manley threw out what looked like a roll of yellow paper towels. This marker tells the jump master the direction he needs to take to help him determine the best site to drop his divers.
I TRIED TO THINK of the lessons I'd learned, and especially how to maneuver the chute. But when the door of the plane flew open and I clutched the strut, everything was flushed from my mind.
There was no sensation of falling, but of floating, no feeling of fear, but of wonder; it was hanging above the world, and, unlike being in a vacuum, there was nothing between the earth and me except air.
I felt as though I belonged in the sky, like a bird. I steered the chute over a plowed field, and reluctantly began my descent.
I've heard stories of people who land and kiss the earth, glad to be safe. I didn't want to land. It was a feeling like watching a good movie. I wanted to crawl inside the screen and live the script, not walk away when the lights come up.