Daniel Clay Comes Back Down To Earth

Hello HedgeEnders.  I was really stuck for something to write about this week – even more so than usual -  so I browsed the new site looking for inspiration and saw an advert for tandem parachute jumps.  I know, I thought, I’ve done a parachute jump.  I’ll bore everyone with a tale about that.

And – there’s no point pretending otherwise –  it is a boring story:  No one died and – other than Bowlsey (who drove us to the airfield in his Dad’s car without asking if he could borrow it) – no one even got hurt.  It was a long time ago, too, in the late eighties, back in the day when no-one cared if amateur parachute-jumpers survived their first jump or not (or any jump at all, being honest), so you didn’t have to start off with tandem jumps the way you seem to have to these days:  We were actually allowed to drop from the sky one by one, all alone.  

There were three of us who jumped, and we did it to raise money for the Hillsborough Disaster Fund, which means it must have been the summer of 1989, so I’d have been nineteen.  It was my mate Eric who organised it.  I don’t know why he was my friend, really, because he was optimistic and outgoing and interested in trying new things, which wasn’t my thing at all.  I just tended to nod and go Yeah, yeah, Eric, whatever, each time he suggested trying something, because, invariably, whatever he suggested never took place.  

So, most likely, when he said, Let’s do a charity parachute jump, all you have to do is raise a couple of hundred quid in sponsorship and you get to do it for free, I just said, Yeah, yeah, Eric, whatever, then thought nothing of it until he turned up one Saturday morning in Bowlsey’s dad’s stolen car asking for two hundred quid. 

This is all so long ago now I can’t even remember all the training we had to do but, for some reason, there was a day and a half of it to get through before we were even allowed near the plane.  At least two hours of this involved standing on a chair in a field, jumping off, rolling over, getting up, then jumping off the chair all over again while the instructor and his mates – all ex army – stood on the sidelines and laughed.   

Another part involved being shown how to pack a parachute.  After our third attempt the instructor looked over the mess we’d made of ours and shook his head in despair.  “You three are dead, lads.”   

As well as jumping off a chair and falling over we also had to jump off quite a high platform as if we were leaping out of a plane.  I don’t know what the drill is now, but back then, when you actually jumped, you had to shout “One thousand, two thousand, three thousand,” and, if your main chute still hadn’t opened, pull the emergency rip-chord – the main chute was on a static-chord that opened automatically a few seconds after you’d started your jump:  If it hadn’t done so by the time you’d counted to three thousand, you were meant to open your reserve chute by pulling the emergency rip-chord.  That was the idea behind jumping off this high-platform – we had to count to three-thousand then pull our emergency rip-chord before we hit the ground.   

When it came to my turn to jump, though, Eric sneaked up behind and pushed me, causing me to fall and hit the ground without counting or slapping my chest.  The instructor looked at me, shaking his head.  “You’re dead, mate,” he said, and shuffled away in despair.

Finally, though, it was time.  We all had to go into this barracks-style room and get kitted out with jump-suits, a main-parachute, an emergency parachute, and a crash helmet.  Then the three of us shuffled towards the plane.  I’d say, at this stage, Bowlsey was the most nervous – not because he was about to jump out of a plane, but because we were two hours behind schedule and he had to get his Dad’s car back before his parents returned from their weekend away.  Eric and I weren’t worried at all – Eric because he was mad, me because I’d never been in a plane before.

“What, never?” the other two asked as we trudged towards it.

“No.  But I’ve been to France on a ferry.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine then,” they said.

The plane was a little Cessna, probably designed for about three people to sit in comfortably.  There were five of us in it, including the pilot, a cheerful chap who constantly yelled at us to stop squirming around, which was just about impossible.  At one stage, while Eric and Bowlsey fought over who wasn’t  going to jump first, I was scrunched on my hands and knees with my head stuck under the pilot’s seat.  The noise of the engines and the scream of the wind was unbelievable:  the door we would have to leave the plane from was left open from take-off, so it was like being in a wind-tunnel, with jump-suits and maps and saliva flying all over the place.  I had no idea how high we were because my head was stuck under the pilot’s seat pretty much straight from take-off, but I could sense there was a pretty huge drop waiting for me out there, and I got a glimpse of just how terrifying it was going to be when Eric climbed onto the Cessna’s madly vibrating wing, looked down, and came to a complete standstill:  And, with this huge gurning grimace fixed to his face, that’s where he stayed for at least five minutes until a combination of the instructor screaming at him to let go and the colossal strength of the wind finally whipped him away.

Bowlsey, in contrast, simply clambered out and disappeared within a couple of seconds:  He must have been really worried about not getting his dad’s car back on time.

So now it was just me, the instructor, and the pilot. 

“Come on, mate,” the instructor shouted.  “Your turn.”

“I can’t,” I yelled.  “I can’t move.”

“Course you can.  Come on.  Stop messing around.”

“I’m not messing around.  And I’m not going out there either.  Get me back down on the ground!”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” the instructor shouted, “We’re not even that high up.  Really.”

I had no idea how  high we were. I hadn’t even looked out  of the plane’s little windows.  Which is probably why I was eventually able to crawl across to the door and start easing my way out: If I’d known just how high we were there’s no way I’d have gone out there.  And, as soon as I saw how high we were, I tried to climb back in.

“No, no, no,” the instructor yelled at me.  “You’ve done the hard part, putting your head out.  Now just reach out and grab the grips on top of the wing.”

Slowly, inch by inch, I made myself reach out and take hold of the two hand-grips on top of the wing.  Then I swung one foot out.  Then I swung the other out.  Then came the worst bit – standing with nothing but four thin wedges of metal between me and the distant ground as the pilot turned the plane back towards the point I was meant to jump from and the instructor did his best to keep me calm: “Ha-ha,” he kept yelling, “You look terrified, son:  In fact, I think you’re the most terrified person I’ve ever seen in my life.”    

Then he yelled it was time to let go.

I pretended not to hear him.  I just kept my gaze fixed dead ahead:  There was a horizon that way; I might not throw up if I focussed on that.

“Son,” the instructor repeated:  “You’ve got to let go.”

I carried on ignoring him.

“Son... son...”

Ignoring him wasn’t working, so I began to plead with him instead:  “I can’t let go,” I told him.  “I’m going to have to come back in.” 

“Don’t be a waste of space, Son.   You’ve done the hard bit.  Just let go.  You’ll be fine.”

“But I haven’t done the hard bit,” I said.  “The hard bit’s letting go.  And I can’t do it.  Let me back in the plane.”  

He looked at me a moment, then slowly shook his head.  “You really can’t do it?”

“I really can’t do it.  Please let me back in the plane.” 

“Okay,” he said, “Okay.  Give me your hand.  I’ll pull you back in.”

“Really?”I said, “Really?  I can come back in?”

“Yeah, yeah.  Come on.  Give me your left hand.”

I reached my left hand towards him.  And, as I did so, he gave my crash-helmet a bloody big wallop with the flat of his hand, causing me to let go of the plane with my right hand, allowing the wind to whip me away.    

Honestly, that’s what he did to me.  And, a millisecond later, I was cart-wheeling through space like Darth Vader at the end of the original Star Wars, my eyes wide, my mouth flapping, and the last thing on my mind was counting one thousand, two thousand, three thousand:  In fact, the first time I gave any thought to my emergency rip-chord was about fifteen seconds after my chute opened all on its own.  And what a feeling that was, like being grabbed by the shoulders and swung between finger and thumb.  You just dangle.  And, after the rushing of the wind, the sudden billowing silence is fantastic, as is the sight of the land spread out beneath you:  Despite the fact getting to that stage is one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever been through, seeing the world from a place like that is one of the most stunning things I’ve ever done in my life. 

So, seriously, despite the fact you wouldn’t ever catch me doing it again, if you ever get the chance to try it, throw yourself out of a plane sometime.  If you’re lucky enough to have your chute open on you, it’ll be something you’ll never forget.