Freefall, St. Mary’s Airport, Maryland, August 1995
By Michael D. James

The Cessna 182 was so mellow during the ride up to 10,000 feet that I was caught off guard by the hell that broke loose when the airplane door opened.

We had been through the routine many times on the ground. Over the noise of the propeller I heard “ARE YOU READY TO SKYDIVE?” The only answer I had practiced was “YES!” But I wasn’t ready.

The first instructor “Jimmy” was already outside, suspending himself over the wing strut like a hood ornament. The second instructor ordered me out of the plane. I reached my left hand out the door onto the strut. OK. So far so good. I put my foot on the metal plate above the landing gear. The strength of the wind outside the plane wasn’t like the wind outside a car window, it was a river that wanted to sweep me away, probably slamming my head against some part of the plane in the process. Getting the rest of the way out of the airplane was an unexpected struggle against the wind and fear of slipping off the plate over the wheel.

Now I felt unprepared. Had I practiced enough? Had I been properly trained? Why didn’t I remember how to get out of the plane? What ELSE would I forget on the way down? Were my instructors aware of my secret weaknesses — that I was clumsy, clueless at sports, a coward who would freak out and freeze up at the worst possible time? Wouldn’t a regular static-line jump from a lower altitude have been a safer way to try this? From inside the plane two miles above the Earth I couldn’t see where I would land. A thought came: “This is a REALLY dangerous thing to be doing!” as if it were an insight that had never occurred to anyone before.

The second instructor “Cindy” followed me on to the strut. Three of us hung below the right wing of an airplane whose load was about to get lighter. “CHECK IN!” she reminded. Oh boy, I was forgetting EVERYTHING. “CHECK OUT!” I yelled to Jimmy on my right, who acknowledged “LOOK UP!”

Now it was my cue to signal the three of us off the wing at exactly the same time so that we would fall together. On the mock-up airplane wing, we had practiced the movements “up, down, arch” to the rhythm of “ready, set, go,” releasing the airplane and assuming the correct falling position on the word “arch.”

Up until then I had no idea there was a “correct” way to fall; I chose skydiving over, say, surfing because falling seemed to be a basic skill possessed even by inanimate objects.

The arch position keeps the body stable during freefall so the parachute will open cleanly. The hips are forward, arms up and bent, legs apart, knees slightly bent. It reminds me of the dish on the bottom of a space capsule before splash down.

For one part of me, the movements “up, down, arch” were an unthinking habit. Another part of me couldn’t avoid knowing I would be absolutely, irrevocably, committed to being “ready to skydive” when I released the airplane on the third step.

So I moved: up, down, ….. ARCH! The airplane was gone. Falling out of control, seemingly alone, I wondered if my hesitation caused me to fall later than my instructors. It’s hard to remember exactly what happened next. I remember the feeling of falling, falling, falling (probably flailing wildly) with no clear sense of what was my orientation was or what I could do to correct it anyway. There were so many new sensations I think I had to numb myself to function at all.

I’m pretty sure I did the first altimeter check before 8000 feet. I know I did at least ONE practice ripcord pull because I remember the feeling of going aerodynamically unstable when I reached for it. My fear was that I would start tumbling through the sky, the parachute would tangle when I deployed it, then I would die, etc. Cindy later told me I was pulling my right knee towards my chest when I reached for the ripcord so that the whole motion resembled one of the abdominal exercises I used to do and had probably become a habit. My friend Rich and I later observed that it’s difficult to tell what your own bodyparts are doing when you can’t see them or feel them touch anything else. I imagine this is the way an infant feels before he learns any motor skills (except than an infant is safe in a crib rather than falling at 200 MPH).

My next recollection is the visible curvature of the horizon: water (the Chesapeake Bay) and land below, sky above. As long as I didn’t move, my “flight” was stable. This became a comfort zone of sorts.

My first memory of any interaction with my instructors was when Cindy got my attention and made the hand sign for the altimeter. I think we were around 5000 feet at this point. The altimeter needle moved faster than I expected. I was aware of the need to pull the ripcord at 4200 feet, but it was difficult to disrupt the relative security I’d finally found in stable flight by moving my arms again. Everything was happening too fast! I just wanted to slow down so I’d have time to think everything through. Finally, Jimmy directed my attention to my ripcord (he may have actually put my hand on it) on my right hip. I felt the round knob in my hand. One part of me said, “Wait, it’s not safe to pull this with two people right next to you!” before some other part of me overrode the hesitation instinct and pulled straight up. I’m pretty sure I was just under 4000 feet at this point.

The parachute deployment sounded like a sail in the wind. I must have been rotating left (probably due to pulling up my right knee again) because the chute spun me to the right and again I panicked that it would tangle. Earlier that day I watched a static-line student’s main chute come out hopelessly tangled and listened to Cindy on the radio direct him to cut it away. It’s very rare, he landed safely with his bright red reserve chute, but still….

By the time I had the presence of mind to check that the canopy was “there and square,” the beautiful invention was straight above me in perfect shape. I found the yellow steering handles, released the brakes, and looked for the landing area. Now the altimeter needle was somewhere over 3500 feet and barely moving compared to before.

The rectangular ram-air parachute flies forward at 20 MPH with the steering handles all the way up. Pulling down one handle or the other bends the wing to turn in that direction (the way the first airplanes and gliders worked). Flaring (pulling both all the way down) trades forward motion for lift. Flaring long enough leads to a stall.

I tried a couple of these maneuvers and was delighted that I had once again regained control over my universe. The parachute is trivial to fly. The only worries are being aware of the wind direction, being above the right checkpoints at the right altitudes, and resisting the urge to flare prematurely on landing. I knew a guy in Phoenix who broke his leg by flaring when he was more than 15 feet above the ground.

For that day’s wind conditions, the 1000 foot checkpoint was a building next to the runway (that’s right, small planes are still using the airport). I got there a little low/late and turned for the 500 foot checkpoint: the orange windsock. I crossed it at 500 feet and started the landing pattern. The pattern took me downwind of the windsock, then into the wind (as indicated by the windsock) for final approach. On final I noticed the sock drooping because the wind had died down.

The blur of the ground seemed to be a few feet below me. I wanted to flare then, but the instructor on the radio (which I couldn’t hear properly before then) kept saying “Arms up! Arms up! Arms up!” and finally “FLARE!” I held the steering handles all the way down and stepped out of the sky onto the ground as easily as one would step off an escalator.

As Rich helped me carry the parachute back to the tarp, I heard Cindy laughing, “Boy do YOU guys have some work to do!”