Patch Reader Shares Skydiving Experience

Gary Frisch, a resident of Gloucester Township's Laurel Springs section, shared the following essay about his first skydiving experience with Patch:

What, I asked myself, am I doing crouched at the open door of a perfectly good airplane, 14,000 feet above Perkasie, Pennsylvania? Oh yeah, that damned Bucket List, or Things to do Before I Kick the Bucket. And if I actually kick the bucket while doing them, well that’s not such a bad thing, or is it?

I’d always wondered what it was like to skydive. I’d seen videos of people I knew doing it, and came very close about 18 years ago, until a planned trip out with an avid jumper I knew was short-circuited after he suffered a hard landing and broke some bones.

It wasn’t until 2010, when I received a gift certificate for my first jump from my future wife, Christina, that jumping out of a plane moved back up my life’s to-do list. Better yet, Tina purchased "His and Hers" certificates. Nothing more romantic than jumping out of an airplane together. She was blissfully unaware at the time that I was about 15 pounds over the tandem-jump weight limit.  Hoping that weight would somehow disappear on its own, the certificate languished for over 16 months. This summer, with the expiration date nearing, I realized I’d have to be proactive in order to get down to the maximum jump weight of 250 pounds.

That was me in Sam Siler Veterans Memorial Park most mornings and evenings during the past two months, the middle-aged guy with the goatee sucking wind as he did laps. Would it be so terrible if I was, say, 254 on the day of my jump?  Yes, said the jump school, Skydive Philadelphia. I wouldn’t be allowed to jump if I were over by a pound. In a tandem jump, they explained, the combined weight of the student, instructor and gear couldn’t exceed 500 pounds.  The parachute pack and harnesses weigh 75. You do the math.

So I ran religiously and cut out most carbohydrates from my diet. The day before our July 15 jump date, I all but fasted. Without clothes, I was 249. But for some strange reason, the jump school required skydivers to be clothed. I broke out my postage scale and began weighing shorts, sneakers, T-shirts and even underwear, looking for the lightest possible combination. Remember that scene in Apollo 13 when Gary Sinise is in the simulator at NASA, looking for the precise sequence to start up all the vital systems in the command module without drawing more than 9 amps of power? That’s how I felt; digging out some old, lightweight sneakers, I got my whole wardrobe down to 2.9 pounds.  With a little more running the morning of the jump, and the commensurate loss of water weight, I’d be fine as long as I didn’t eat anything before the weigh-in.

I was. The weather wasn’t. With precious few breaks in an overcast sky, jumping that day was sporadic. With our harnesses on, and set to go up on the next flight, we were delayed by clouds. The temporary hold became a cancellation two hours later as thunderstorms moved into the area. Had the weather held for just 20 more minutes, we’d have taken the plunge. Now, along with the disappointment, came the awful realization that I had to maintain my weight for another week.

Our second attempt didn’t warrant the drive to the airport, as clouds were expected all day. Hoping the third time would be the charm, we scheduled again for July 25, which meant another five days of running in the park and watching what I ate.

This time, the sky was sapphire blue, and as we drove out to Penn Ridge Airport, we had no doubt we’d be plummeting toward Earth within hours. We arrived right on time for our 11 a.m. appointment, once again watched a compulsory video, and signed pages of waivers. We acknowledged we were willingly participating in an activity that could result in serious injury or death.  Nonetheless, the words of an old law teacher came to mind: You can never sign away the right to sue. 

While we awaited our turn, we watched as other divers floated down, marveling at their soft landings. We got a feel for the routine. The twin-engine Kingair turboprop would taxi and takeoff, climb to altitude in around 10 minutes, then overfly the airport perpendicular to Runways 8-26. We could listen to the air traffic channel over loudspeakers outside the building, and knew two minutes ahead of time when jumpers would be aloft. Gazing skyward, straining our eyes, we’d see nothing, until each brightly colored canopy unfurled, seemingly by magic, two, then three, then seven or eight. Their operators would twirl on their way down, sometimes making jarringly radical turns before alighting on the grass next to the tarmac.

Tandem is the preferred method for a first jump. The rookie’s harness is hitched to that of the jump master, with the veteran—and his chute, of course—in the back. There’s little for the first-time jumper to do except enjoy the ride and the view. 

We were summoned into the office to be weighed. I’d hoped they’d forgotten.  On my home scale that morning, I was 250.6 fully clothed. What would the result be here? Fortunately, the digital scale read 249, just as it had on our last visit. No need to remove my socks and belt.

Outside on the tarmac, we were helped into our harnesses, which included leg straps that essentially cradled our buttocks. The instructors tightened the straps, and went over our responsibilities. When exiting the aircraft, we were told, tilt your head back, thrust your pelvis forward, and keep your legs back, between the instructor’s. Just before landing, lift your legs. Sounded easy enough.

Since we’d paid extra for video, we were introduced to our videographers, who began taping pre-jump interviews. They’d stay with us during freefall until our chutes opened, then they’d precede us to the ground and capture our landing.

We were shepherded into the Kingair, whose engines never shut down after landing. It was loud as we climbed into the plane via a short stepladder. No pull-out steps, in-flight cocktails or other amenities on this stripped-down aircraft. Our group had about eight jumpers or tandems, including the two videographers. We sat straddling two wooden benches running the length of the aircraft, first-timer in front of his or her instructor. The video recording continued during takeoff and ascent.

My videographer asked earlier whether I was nervous. I wasn’t.  Excited, yes, but not particularly nervous. But now, as the plane climbed, my palms were sweating. I was mostly concerned about properly contorting my body as we jumped, thereby assisting rather than hindering our egress.

The view was beautiful as we continued our ascent. I noticed a lot of green and farmland below, with roads and highways appearing as ribbons. I’d been a student pilot, even soloed in an airplane, so the view wasn’t new to me, but it was always special. And now, we were climbing about 10,000 feet higher than my former cruising altitude. The terrain below became a patchwork of multicolored parcels. When we reached jump altitude, we were 2.5 miles high, or about halfway to airline cruise altitude. 

The fuselage door wasn’t a door at all, but rather a clear, plastic louvered curtain that slid up and down along tracks.  By turns, it was closed, partially open, then fully open as we neared jump altitude. 

My instructor, Chris, a well-built Aussie with sideburns whom my wife had classified as a hunk, had already clipped the metal couplers of my harness to his. “When the time comes, I’ll walk us to the door,” he said.  “Just lean back into me.”

“Will there be a countdown or anything before we jump out?” I asked.

“I’ll say ‘ready, set, go’ – but that’s more for the video guy than you,” he replied.

I’m no small guy, so I was a bit skeptical about my jump master duckwalking us to the door. But somehow he did. Tina, whom I’d kissed for luck, was the first to take the plunge. It was startling seeing the love of my life disappear out the opening.

A moment later, Chris and I were perched on the edge, my arms folded across my chest as instructed. Our videographer, Tiago, crouched on the wing strut, taping. I looked to both sides to orient myself, then barely heard “ready, set, go” as Tiago released his grip. A split second later we were doing a header out the door.

I’d pictured this moment in my mind a hundred times, but that couldn’t prepare me for the thoughts and sensations that overcame me. My initial thought was “OK, Gary, now you’re committed”…followed by a series of expletives. Chris released a small drogue chute to stabilize our fall—no somersaults in a tandem jump, please—and we were falling flat, facing the ground. The rush of wind assaulted my face, quickly drying out my mouth, but my goggles allowed me to soak in the view.  As all first-timers probably do, I played it up for the camera, giving the thumbs up and various other gestures. Chris spun us around the vertical axis a few times.

Despite the force of the wind, there’s little sensation of motion during freefall.  The only thing within my direct line of view aside from the horizon was Tiago, and he was falling at the identical speed as we were, about 120 miles per hour.  Nor did the ground appear to be speeding up to meet us—we were still way to high for that sensation. So I just enjoyed the physical sensation of what was the best thrill ride ever, far better than any roller coaster I’d ever ridden.  Occasionally I wondered if I was crazy for doing this, but the view and the excitement told me I wasn’t.

I knew the freefall would only last about 40-50 seconds, but it felt much longer. Finally, Tiago waved goodbye, then our canopy opened and our bodies went from a face down posture to upright. There’s a common belief borne of TV and movies that when the chute opens, it suddenly pulls the parachutist back up a little bit. That’s not the case; the person doing the filming just continues to fall at 9.8 meters per second squared while your descent is slowed, giving the impression that you’ve shot back up. Watching Tiago continue to fall at the mercy of gravity, I had the first real sense of how fast we’d been traveling.  I saw a blanket of tree tops, and our videographer hurtling toward them. It appeared he was going to crash right into them. Then he was a speck.

Now I could enjoy the peace and quiet of gliding down. Chris warned me that he was going to adjust my harness for comfort, and to not be concerned. I felt him tinkering with the straps. They slackened around my shoulders. I tried to remain calm 5,000 feet above the ground.

“That’s Tina under the orange canopy,” Chris pointed out helpfully. 

I looked over, then glanced up at my own, slightly less ostentatious chute for the first time. It was blue with pink bands.

We continued to drift, and Chris handed me the steering handles. Pull left to go left, pull right to go right, he said. I made a turn or two, then gingerly handed them back to him. I’d heard that even a properly deployed canopy could collapse in on itself with too much forceful steering. However unlikely, I decided not to take any chances.

Our descent lasted about five minutes. While enjoying the view, Chris had me practice my landing maneuver, which basically entailed lifting my legs up in front of me as high as I could. “I got this,” I thought.

For a moment it looked like we were headed for the roof of an airport building, but I knew from watching previous jumpers that my jump partner would deftly steer us past the structure. With a surprising amount of speed remaining, I felt the tap on my shoulder indicating to lift my legs, then we glided onto the grass between the taxiway and runway. Chris’ feet touched down first and he ran a few steps as my behind skidded along the grass.  It was a smooth but less-than-dignified landing.

Although Tina leaped first, I landed first, so I turned to watch my wife come in a moment later. I high-fived my jump master and videographer, then gave a congratulatory kiss to my bride.

People I know are either impressed or just plain shocked that I jumped out of an airplane. “You’re crazy” and “Better you than me” have been common refrains. I’m happy to let them think this was a super feat, an act of bravery or a case of grabbing life by the horns and going for it. But having done it, I now know that while man wasn’t necessarily meant to fly, skydiving is a pretty safe, even routine endeavor. I felt more likely to meet my demise on the Blue Route driving home.