While it was flying.
On purpose.
I've got the story and the documentation to prove it.
It started a few months ago when I discovered that Heather, a sales rep that works with our business, has a pilot's license and several jumps under her belt.
Full disclosure: it actually started 21 years ago when I learned how to ride a bicycle, and therefore began to speed on things with wheels.
I asked Heather to let me know when the next jump would be happening. A month ago, she informed me that some of her friends were getting a group together to skydive. "Are you still interested?" She asked me. "Ab. So. Lutely." I replied.
I was contacted by Heather's friend Kathy, one of the jumpers. Over the phone, she sounded completely thrilled that I was joining. Perhaps because my interest confirmed that there were other humans as crazy as herself. The fact that I made the group large enough to get a discounted rate was a bonus. Kathy informed me that "Kathy, spelled with a C" was in charge of the group. I talked with Cathy and found her to be just as exuberant about skydiving as Kathy was. Cathy informed me that I could bring along a friend if I wanted, so I set out to find someone as wantonly reckless as myself.
My friend Anne has been laboring away at the University of Iowa for quite some time, and I determined that she could use a break from her studies. What better way to relax than to get thrown out of an airplane? I imagine there are various alternative activities you would recommend, dear reader, but then you're most likely not a Graber. I asked Anne if she wanted to join, and she replied, "I would totally go but I should perhaps converse with my parents. They might be concerned for my safety." An excellent course of action, and one that I deliberately avoided because my parents are always concerned for my safety, so why bother them with additional worries?
You'd never suspect that Anne is a borderline
maniac, but then you'd be wrong.
"I called my parents and my dad told me not to die if I go skydiving. Which I think can be done. So at least tentatively YES I want to jump out of an airplane." Anne texted. I planned to do a lot of Not Dying as well, so I agreed that it could be done. I refrained from mentioning that a solo jumper had perished earlier this year when his chute failed to deploy, because what kind of monster burdens his friends with worries? I'm considerate like that.
Yesterday afternoon, Anne and I traveled an hour to Skydive Iowa! in the town of Brooklyn. We met up with the rest of the team, a collection of middle-aged thrill-seeking adrenaline enthusiasts and a young man about my age. Kathy and Cathy were just as rambunctious and delightful as I imagined they'd be from our phone conversations. Kathy is a grandmother of two, so I gave her all sorts of grief about doing dangerous things when she's just a step away from the retirement home. That wasn't true, of course. Kathy was in better shape than I am.
I hope I can be a cool grandma like Kathy someday.
We were required to sign waivers releasing Skydive Iowa! from all blame should anything go wrong. If you've ever gone skiing or snowboarding, you're familiar with release waivers. This one was slightly more...alarming. Seven pages of carefully worded paragraphs that looked like they'd be right at home on a poison bottle. Instead of a signature at the end of the waiver, or even one at the end of each page, this document required an initial at the end of every paragraph. Not only was I waiving my rights to sue the company should something go horrifically wrong, but I was waiving my relatives' rights to sue the company as well. I was declaring I would not hold Skydive Iowa responsible for gross OR regular negligence. The waiver added an air of gravity to the atmosphere but as you can tell by the horrible puns I just highlighted, I was too busy thinking about my upcoming airplane ride to be concerned with accidental death court cases.
This portion caught my eye: "I understand that the success of my jump is dependent upon the perfect functioning of the airplane from which I intend to jump and the parachute system, and that neither the airplane nor the parachute system can be guaranteed to function perfectly."
We selected whether we wanted to have our jump videoed for an additional $80. Kathy wanted video footage of her drop but she was afraid that her cheeks would flap and she'd look silly. She ended up selecting the footage and hoping that her cheeks would behave.
Our group was shown an instructional video that further tried to discourage any inclination of ever wanting to jump out of an airplane like are you crazy or something?!!? but again I was distracted with the video instructor's magnificent beard to notice his dire warnings. All I heard was "Blah blah jumping out of a plane will "jump" start your facial hair! You'll have flowing manes like myself in no time, captain!"
Seriously, watch this video. Try to get any useful instructions out of it while looking at that glorious beard.
We practiced our "fall position" on the floor in the hanger. Laying on our stomachs, back arched, legs bent up, arms cocked out in a "lazy W" position, our thumbs connecting invisible wires to our ears. The position was fairly strenuous for all of us that haven't taken yoga, but I assured myself that it would be much easier when I was actually falling and there was a rush of air to help push my legs up.
Cathy, standing beside our extremely calm instructor, who
assuaged most of our new-found fears of skydiving.
After we had been properly and legally forewarned, we set out to...wait. There were a few groups before us, and the airplane holds only four occupants. Four solo jumpers or two sets of tandem jumpers. There were several of each type in front of us, and we watched as they loaded up in the airplane and came swooping gracefully back to the ground, faces glowing. I noticed that after each 30-minute flight, the pilot refueled the plane. Made sense to me; carrying unnecessary extra fuel would mean more takeoff weight, and that would just be wasteful. The pilot was also wearing a parachute, and I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Pensive, I suppose.
The weather was fantastic. A beautiful, clear day with just a slight breeze. I had dressed warm because it was 35 degrees in the morning, but it wasn't long before I began to shed layers and collect some vitamin D.
Finally, it was our group's turn. Kathy and Cathy went up first, and we could hear them cackling and howling almost before we could see their parachutes. A few minutes later, they landed breathless and wide-eyed. "Amazing!" Cathy said. "That was incredible."
I had been observing the different instructors and there was one in particular I was keeping my eye on. His name was "Junkyard Dog" and I had a strong sense that I was going to be paired with him. Firstly, all the other instructors had perfectly reasonable names. Brent Romberg, Gary Billings, Mike Parnell, and so on. As far as I could tell, Junkyard Dog was the only instructor that had any sort of nickname. He was borderline crazy, but an acceptable crazy. All the instructors loved what they were doing, but it just seemed that Junkyard Dog especially loved what he was doing. I could tell he was a serious adrenaline junkie. I liked him a lot, and hoped that my buddy-pairing intuition would prove to be correct. (I am still shocked that I failed to get a photo of Junkyard Dog. It saddens me.)
While waiting on the other groups, I watched the instructors pack the parachutes. They took their time and made sure the lines were untangled before rolling the chutes like an oversized sleeping bag and stuffing them into the backpack. The process took quite a while and looked fairly tedious, but I was grateful the instructors took their time doing it. Again, there have been humans that failed to pack their parachutes perfectly, and they are no longer on this mortal coil. We were informed that our instructors were carrying multiple safeties. If they happened to get knocked unconscious when we exited the plane, the chute would automatically deploy at 2900 feet. If the main chute failed to deploy, they were carrying a full-sized emergency chute.
The jump order was selected by the order we handed in our paperwork. Anne and I had been last to hand our paperwork in, so we were scheduled last to jump. Anne was hoping to return to Iowa City by 6pm, and our flight time was scheduled for around 6:30pm. I asked two of the other group members if we could switch places with them and they kindly agreed. Our new flight time was just past 5pm.
When our names were shown on the flight display, I was indeed paired with Junkyard Dog. This says great things for my intuition. It's practically a superpower, with females being the kryptonite. Junkyard Dog grabbed me a flight suit, which I eagerly put on and snapped approximately 20 selfies in. Then he helped me into the harness, which had various straps and belts and carabiners to fasten me securely to him for the jump. I had asked some of the flight instructors, "Do you keep track of how many jumps you've done?"
"Oh yeah. We all keep track. I have a little over 4,000." Said Brent. "I don't have near as many as Junkyard Dog, though. He's got over 8,000."
I walked over to Junkyard Dog and asked him, "I've heard you've done over 8,000 jumps. Is that true?"
"Eighty-six hundred, man. I love it." He replied.
"Stop tightening all those belts for a little bit so I can take this
selfie. I'm sure the latches aren't that important anyway."
I'd post the other 18 selfies but you get the picture.
I'm not sure how to word this delicately, but when Junkyard Dog hauled on the straps to tighten the harness, a sensitive portion of my body got pinched, hard. I didn't say anything about it because hey, these straps are a key factor in keeping me from not only pushing daisies, but fertilizing them with my pulverized body. And what do I know about skydiving harnesses? Perhaps this is part of the price one must pay for the thrill. Later on, I really wished I would have said something.
We shoehorned into the plane. Anne and her instructor slid in the compartment first, with Junkyard Dog and I entering last. We were going to jump first, and we were positioned right beside the gull-wing door of the aircraft. Even without seats, there wasn't much room for three-and-a-half adults. As I folded my left foot up into my left nostril to get into the plane, I envied Anne's shorter frame. That was the main similarity this flight had to a commercial flight. Height can be overrated.
You can't store additional leg yardage in the overhead compartment. I tried.
Let me just take a short intermission to explain to all you lovely viewers out there reading between the lines that Anne is a wonderful friend of mine (and I appreciate that she went along with me on my mad adventure) but we aren't dating. Those of you who are disappointed by that statement are precisely the reason that I must make this clarification. :) Squeezing into a small airplane in order to fall out of it at astonishing heights can be quite the bonding moment, though, so I will definitely keep it in mind as a prime date-night activity.
After getting situated in the small, rear-facing compartment, the plane wheeled out onto the runway. Junkyard Dog was holding the door slightly ajar, and didn't close it until we were lined up for takeoff. I appreciated that, because the open door afforded us a precious few spare inches of wiggle room. Once the door was closed, the instructors signaled that they were ready to the pilot, and the pilot throttled down the small grass airstrip. I thought to myself, I really wish I would have said something.
Taking off facing backwards was a fun experience. The small airstrip with the large parachute landing strip beside it quickly faded as we climbed. We rose slowly over the landscape, making large lazy circles. I watched as Iowa stretched out in all directions and realized, Good grief. Everyone is right, Iowa IS flat. I also kept an eye on Junkyard Dog's wrist altimeter as we ascended. After about a 5-minute flight, we reached our launch altitude of 9,000 feet. Junkyard Dog helped me adjust my goggles and threw open the gull-wing door, inviting a fierce blast of 45-degree air into the cabin. I had almost forgotten all of my instructions but Junkyard Dog patiently explained each step to me. My biggest fear about the whole thing was being unable to get my legs out the door. It took a little while, but I got it done and was soon seated on the edge of the plane. My feet were perched on a small platform above the landing gear, and I was looking nearly two miles straight down to the Iowa landscape. The view (and Iowa) was beautiful. Junkyard Dog explained that I just needed to tuck my thumbs under my harness and arch my back as soon as we exited the plane. He'd take care of the actual jump. I tucked my thumbs and declared I was ready.
I'm not sure why they call it "the jump" and "skydiving" when it could much more accurately be called "flopping". We just rolled out of the airplane like we were that extra scoop of cheese in an over-stuffed burrito. As we somersaulted away from the aircraft, I caught fleeting glimpses of Iowa, aircraft, Iowa, smaller aircraft. I had my back arched to avoid "potato chipping" and prayed that I was doing it right. Potato chipping is exactly like it sounds. If you aren't arched properly, the wind will throw you around. After a few flips, Junkyard Dog had us oriented into the correct "fall position".
And we fell.
For 30 seconds/two eternities.
The wind was brisk, but not as icy cold as I had thought it would be.
The fall was astounding. I loved every week of it.
I heard the drogue chute deploy, and I realized that I had forgotten how to breathe. I took a breath.
The main chute started pulling out, I could hear the nylon cords slithering.
The main chute filled with air, and we went from a 120mph free-fall to a 15mph float in a matter of seconds. The whole experience was unbelievably wonderful but tinged with searing pain, as only happens when one has a pinched, uh, nerve. The 105 mile-per-hour shift in velocity was akin to getting a wedgie from Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Junkyard Dog reached over my head and pulled my goggles free. It was incredibly quiet, and clear, and warm. We were lofting along on the gentle breeze, and it was such a contrast to the hurricane-force winds howling past us moments before. The next thing I knew we were launching around a corkscrew turn, g-forces swinging our bodies out like a pendulum. Junkyard Dog pulled out of the turn and asked, "Is that alright? Will that make you sick?" I was still trying to remember how to breathe consistently and I gasped out "Yeah, no! That was quite a bit of g-force but I'll be okay I think you can go ahead I liked it was great I don't think I'll get dizzy." So we plunged into another banked turn, looping first clockwise and then counter-clockwise, which I appreciated because I may have gotten dizzy. I don't normally get dizzy, but there was a lot going on. I looked up and saw Anne's chute far above us, swooping through a similar turn. Junkyard Dog was a little worried because I hadn't made a single peep, so he asked, "What do you think, man? Pretty cool, eh?" I discovered my tongue and started telling him, and all of central Iowa, how cool the jump was. We approached the landing site and Junkyard Dog took us straight over the aircraft hangars. I felt that we were going only slightly slower than the speed of sound, but we were actually coming in very gently. Junkyard Dog told me to raise my legs up like I was sitting in an imaginary chair, and we slid to a leisurely stop on the soft grass. I don't know how to explain the landing but it felt "fluffy". It was such a pleasant surprise. The flight suits were slippery and just glided over the grass. Junkyard Dog whooped, separated the joining carabiners between us and jumped up. We watched as Anne came swooping in shortly after.
"That was amazing." I said.
"Next best thing to sex, in my opinion." He said.
Junkyard Dog came over and loosened my harness. I think I may have almost cried in relief at that point. I mentioned my predicament and he replied, "Aw man. I hate when that happens." Yep. I really should have mentioned something before we took off. Regardless, the entire skydiving experience was excellent. I told that to Junkyard Dog, and he laughed and replied "After my first jump, I took out a bank loan so I could do it for a living!" I still can't believe I didn't get a photo of that man.
As for documentation?
Junkyard Dog signed his name upside down because
he lives life on the edge. Or because he's illiterate.
"Shawn Graber has successfully completed ground and aerial training and performed a skydive in accordance with the basic safety requirements of the United States Parachute Association"
And I'd do it again.
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