I've decided to do various and sundry things I've always wanted to do but didn't have time or money for. I found myself without anything else more interesting or appealing to do with my time and surplus money this summer, so I went down a few lists and opted for danger and excitement. I'd have done these things eventually, because I'm me, but right now adrenaline is better and better for a body than a fifth of tequila.
As far as physical experiences go, this was the second best of my life. Now, I shall write this as it can only be written:
I arrived at the airstrip in Cullman where the drop-zone is located, and was slightly disappointed at first. While I was aware that there aren't any dirt-runway "real" airports in America anymore, the drunk back-woods pilot (in a rusted quonset hut, its floor encrusted with cigarette butts and broken whiskey-bottles) has always been a figure of inspiration for me. It is a very nice airfield down in Cullman, and I was pleased to note that Wallace State has flight-school, but from the outside it lacked character, looked sterile--at first glance.
After taking some notes, I went inside to the office and was pleasantly surprised by the sheer amount of clutter, the old blue Singer sewing machine, and the utterly disorganized look of the place. Then there were the rat-traps, a slightly crooked picture, and a heavily used dart-board: a thing of beauty is a joy forever. Lots of bottles. My heart was lifted, and I knew I'd made the right choice. The owner, a woman who looked like she'd run a skydiving company (this is a compliment), was very professional and apologetic as my jump kept getting delayed, and she was very convincing at upselling the video and pictures, so I went ahead and paid for the total package.
I waited around, mulled about. I felt a little shy and out of place, which was actually unusual for me as I've not been terribly shy in over a year. I chalked it up to nerves and lack of alcohol, and just enjoyed the wait. That's something I've been working on: learning to enjoy the wait, because I've chosen to wait on so many things in life and have made myself miserable over it. Now I choose to wait with joy in knowing all the great things that do come to those who wait. Not wait idly, but wait with purpose, and work towards that purpose.
Again I digress. The next great thing that happened was when they were repairing the plane shortly before my jump. Minor technical issue, no big deal. But there's nothing quite as exciting or interesting as going up in an aircraft whose engine cowling was off only half an hour before. Some people think this is a foolhardy attitude. I'm a McLeod though, we're not known to be the sanest of Scots.
When I met my jumpmaster, he reminded me of Quint from Jaws (the old shark hunter). Same salty attitude and dry sense of humor, but friendly. Ex-military (early 1970s), really great guy, so it was all "yes sir!" from me. Show respect to the jumpmaster, men, for he controls your harness. He, too, added to the ambiance. These were the people I wanted to initiate me into activities most expect are unsuited to me.
He hooked up my harness, went over the rules and the plan of exit while we waited on the plane to return, and then I followed him outside into the hangar. The hangar was everything a drop-zone hangar should be: full of parachutes, harnesses, antique Pepsi machines, coolers, tools, and other miscellany. Cluttered, but a tidy sort of cluttered.
The jumpers before me returned just as the plane landed. I'd seen the plane from the waiting area, but up close it was everything I hoped for: an old, hideous brown Cessna with its paint peeling off (but occasionally covered up with a slightly different shade) and its windows festooned with various paratrooper decals. H. and I climbed aboard with the cameraman, and began the ascent.
The inside of the plane was every bit as appealing and appropriate as the outside: while it was not held together with duct-tape, it looked like it should have been. I noted with some glee an old tennis-ball used to replace the handle on one particular lever. It was a well-used aircraft, and like cars, aircraft should be well-used. It had the unfamiliar but welcome aroma of AvGas, oil, grease and sweat that such a conveyance ought to possess.
But the pilot, the pilot has been flying since 1947. You read that correctly. He briefly entered the waiting area and said hello to me and chatted for a moment: I don't remember what he said, but it was funny as hell, but I didn't know who he was. While waiting outside for the plane to land, I learned he'd skipped school as a boy to take flying lessons, and has been flying at that airstrip ever since. The picture, at that point, was complete. Old-school pilot, ex-military Quint-esque jumpmaster, amusing cameraman, perfect office, excellent hangar, and an almost perfect plane (it didn't spew black smoke when they started it, so that was a mild letdown.)
As we ascended, I took in the scenery of Cullman, which is admittedly much prettier when it is all rather small and distant, although it would not take much to make Cullman prettier. An atom bomb would do on the ground what 14,000 feet of separation does from above.
In any case, the cameraman turned to me and pointed the camera at me, and interviewed me briefly. Admittedly, my adrenaline was pumping to the extent that my wit was not what it is right now, so I answered his questions rather lamely. Rattled off my parents, someone dear, and my best friend as people I wanted to greet in my video.
By the way, if you'd like to see the video, you have to be willing to pay $10. One, because it cost so much to produce, and two, because I make rather Shatner-esque expressions upon exiting the plane, which alone are worth the price of admission.
Speaking of the exit, I must say I fumbled it rather well for a first timer. H. gave me an E for Effort (or rather said,"good job, good job," but I knew he just wanted repeat business.) Of course, the fact that we were jumping through rain and I was trying the Swan exit when I should have been covering my cheeks to protect them from icy missiles did not help. We did flip, which was definitely an experience. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that it had just begun to rain over the DZ as we lifted off; it wasn't totally overcast, but the very edge of the front had just struck.
Man was not intended to jump through clouds. That was perhaps the most bizarre part of it. Imagine driving through fog at 120 miles per hour, then realize that the gentleman behind you has the brakes, and clouds are going by rather quickly, and the ground is becoming rather large all of a sudden. I like to do things Man wasn't intended to do, however, and it was terrifyingly wonderful.
While I fell, I wondered one thing, one thing only. It wasn't the least bit surprising, and you might be able to guess if you're astute. Anyway now, no more of that. For the record, my thoughts had nothing to do with death by hard ground.
The sudden deceleration one sees in videos of parachuting is vastly overrated. It looks like a faster deceleration than it really is. 120 to 30mph. It didn't hurt, just a mild jolt.
After telling me a few things, he handed me the controls to the parachute (left strap, right strap) and let me navigate a little bit. That was exciting, though I felt as if any moment I'd certainly manage to crash us into something like a hangar or a plane, or worse, that house about a football field from the landing zone. Had I done so, I would have laughed, simply because there's no other reaction to have. But he took back the controls long before then.
My landing was quite the opposite of my exit: I kicked my legs forward like a boss, and we slid to a stop most comfortably. In a small plane like that one, the exit's not so dangerous as the landing itself, so the jumpmaster was pleased.
After finishing up the video (congratulatory high-fives, etc.), I walked to the hangar with the cameraman, got unstrapped, took off my orange jumpsuit, and immediately proceeded to utter unintelligibly awesome things to the other soon-to-be jumpers who asked me how it was. If you ever wondered while watching TV why extreme sportsmen and women talk the way they do, remember: they have vast amounts of adrenaline coursing through their veins and brains while they're being filmed. The audience does not.
After about twenty minutes of waiting, smoking, and a brief trip across the airstrip to the main tower for a soda of some sort (I believe it was a coke, but wasn't paying too much attention), I had humorous DVD in hand, and a CD with photographic documentation of the event, as well.
What more can I say? While initially put off by the clean-cut exterior of this airfield, I found myself elated and overjoyed that, as with all things and many people, the beauty does lie within: the beauty of a certain kind of chaos. It is enough to make me want to do it again. But if you find yourself desiring adrenaline but uncertain of a source thereof, you could certainly do worse than a drive to Cullman Alabama and a jump with the good people there. I might even venture to write this: you couldn't do much better.
