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Tuesday, September 21, 1976
5
University Daily Kansan
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To remember what to do after jumping from a plane, the trainees practiced a counting routine time and time again. Rusty Young, jump instructor, supervises throwing arms and heads back to prevent tumbling before the parachute opens.
First jump
Leapers fight nerves, wind while skydiving
During six hours of training, I had the feeling that the jump was going to be a snap—all I had to do was fall out of the plane and my chute would open by itself.
But later, when Rusty was coaching us on how to fall away from the airplane, I hit my head on the underside of a wing. That raised him. "We gave me indications of what was to come."
Jumping out of an airplane is the sort of thing that doesn't require nerves of steel. But it definitely would have helped if mine had been anything but Saran Wrap.
Rusty Young, who looked more like a drinking buddy than a jump instructor, was the man who showed the ropes to me and 10 other KU students.
We learned what to do after jumping from the plane in the form of a counting exercise. This rather bizarre form of instruction was not so that it could be repeated in one's sleep.
On the ground, it was simple.
He demonstrated how to get in the plane, to crawl out of the plane and how to hold the plane up.
"Arch thousand . . ."
I threw my hands back over my head in what resembled a form of pagan worship.
"Look thousand . . ."
I looked for my ripcord, a necessary unless I wanted to become a statistic.
"Reach thousand . . ."
"Pull thousand ..
I reach for the ripcord ...
... and pull that little piece of plastic for all its worth. Then, I look up to the sky to make sure the parachute has opened normally. Simple enough.
The rest of the training concerned itself with what to do if a parachute does not open or fails.
The landing, called a PLF (Parachute Landing Fall), is achieved when you hit the balls of one's feet, the side of one's thighs, or the other side of one's back—hopefully in that order.
Rusty made us repeat the instructions with all the warmth of a marine drill instructor who had a toothache. We were impressed that if it took forever, which happily it didn't.
By early evening we were ready for our first lump.
Mother Nature hadn't been very cooperative in our endeavors. Although it was a warm, sunny day, those famous Kansas winds had been gusting to 40 miles before taking the training course. It was suggested that we all settle down and wait for the calm.
we began to suit up in the standard jumpers outfit: U.S. military issue combat boots, a one-piece coverall jumpssuit of leather and an old football helmet painted to match.
six duehards remained by the time
she closed so short to five miles an hour,
the maximum speed.
Walking out to the airplane, my stomach began to go into a free fall of its own, beginning to remember my aversion to anything higher than a small step ladder. 1
began to go over the steps in my mind,
"Arch thousand, look thousand, . . ."
I climbed in with two other jumpers in identical garb (‘...’ , ‘look thousand, reach thousand, ...’) and the airplane began its flight when the dirt runway. Dust filled the plane.
With Rusty at the controls, we climbed to 2,800 feet, the prescribed height for the first jump. I moved forward in the airplane holding my hand over my reserve parachute so it wouldn't open before I might need it.
Rudy's assistant, Jeff Saunders, asked Rudy's guardian if all it was all right. I felt my gut and affirmed.
My body was caught in a struggle between fear and excitement. The blood in my veins had been replaced by adrenalin long ago.
My ride down was much less eventful than my landing. I positioned my chute correctly and was all set for the landing, and I staked it. Stake landings are not to be anticipated.
My heart was pumping faster than the 70 miles an hour we were traveling.
I turned around to see the countrywide spread below me in front of a magnificent sunset. It was a feeling like the calm after a storm.
As I climbed out of the plane and into my jump position, my mind kept saying, "Go there." But I didn't. I just stood on the floor.
In the plane, I had reasoned that as long as I didn't have to look down, I would be all right. I forgot that to get in position I had to reach at my feet, a costly mistake on my part.
I bought I was about to land, so I throw my feet out, toe first. But it was too soon. I came down first on my beaks and then on the floor. I didn't know how long he hadn't imprinted my pockets before the jump.
During what seemed to be an eternity, but was only a few seconds, my body peeled away from the airplane. I started into my arch, but the wind hit me in the stomach and I flew back. I looked for the airplane for me to arch, but all I could do was look at him in dumb amazement.
As I floated down, I pushed my helmet up out of my eyes. I was struck by the quiet of my trip. The airplane, long departed, was just a
I heard Jeff yell "Go!," but my body wouldn't react. I had frozen outside the airplane.
Story by Gregg Hejna Photos by Dave Regier
Fortunately, the parachute opened and pulled me upright.
memory.
Yes, it was the same field I had left only a short time ago but I was glued to be back.
I climbed to my feet and began to gather my parachute.
A pilot chute pulls the still-folded canopy out.
Before the wind died in the early evening, the class learned what a parachute looked like fully inflated.
Jeff Saunders hangs smiling, about a mile above rural Wellsville farms.
Lynn Bortka, Kansas City, Kan., graduate student, mirrors his first-jump sensations as he walks to his down-to-earth friends.