Hymn

Head Down

Life is miraculous. Pretty much everything about it is amazing, if you look at it from the right angle.  And often I think it’s a miracle that I’m still here to enjoy it. 

You’d think with my complete lack of coordination and absence of any recognisable skill, I’d bit quite careful in my choice of hobby.  Not so.  In fact such is the continuing demonstration of stupidity that I am single-handedly disproving the whole theory of evolution.

Now, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.  And when the dog can’t rub his tummy and pat his head at the same time, you’d be a little cautious when approaching new life-threatening situations wouldn’t you?  Unfortunately this dog is fond of chasing parked cars and barking at the sun.  There is a suspicion that he might have a touch of rabies or at least the early stages of dementia.  I am that dog.

So when the skydiving instructor tried to teach me two new manoeuvres simultaneously, I nodded my head and yapped enthusiastically.  On the ground, I nearly had both of them.  Nearly.  In the air,  I got them half right.  Or rather I got half of one position right and half of the other.  If I hadn’t combined them, I might not have pitched head down and rocketed away from the other jumpers I was meant to be flying with.  As I looked at my feet and clear blue sky, I caught a glimpse of my tutor.  He looked quite pale all of a sudden.  As I turned my head and looked forward, all I could see was ground.

Now, I’m quite used to falling as one’s supposed to, that is flat and looking at the horizon.  In that stable position, a hundred and twenty miles an hour feels almost leisurely.  Rotated ninety-degrees and falling head first, the whole experience becomes rather more intense.  It’s rather like those times when one wakes tied to the bull bars of a cowboy’s SUV and he’s about to start herding some very frisky cattle.  Except in this instance the whole experience took place very fast indeed.

For the first time ever, I was the first to land.  I waited for my instructor, keen to digest the jump and organise another. 

Looks like I’ll have to make other arrangements though.  Apparently he’s busy the next time I go to the airfield.  Whenever that is.

Cloud Cuckoo

Today started beautifully bright but by the time we were ready jump an almost unbroken blanket of cloud enveloped us.  It wasn’t like this a few weeks ago.

It had been one of those astonishingly clear winter’s day.  And, nearly two and a half miles up, one could see for miles - at least forty miles, actually, all the way home.  To my home, anyway, I’m not sure about anyone else’s.  My love of flying, aerial photography and a bizarre fascination with maps make these flights up to altitude more bearable.  The prospect of leaping out still terrifies me so I distract myself by sightseeing out of the cabin window.  And pointing landmarks out to my fellow jumpers.

‘Look!  That’s the old Sheffield to London railway line. 
‘And that over there.  That’s the old US airforce base.  That runway is ten thousand feet long. 
‘That’s the distribution centre at the motorway junction over there. 
‘There’s the motor-racing track. 
‘Oo, Oo, there’s the cement works. 
‘And you see that water in the distance?  I live near there.’

Although I’m sure the other skydivers were riveted, I soon noticed that they appeared less focussed on the conversation.  I suspect it was something to do with the noise inside the plane.  Or their own pre-dive checks.  Or something.  And there I am, demonstrating what a really cool dude I am.  I’m sure they got the impression though.

Today there was nothing to see: we sought glimpses of blue sky.  The regulations say that if you can see the airfield from the exit point, even if it’s only through a fleeting gap in the cloud, then it’s okay to jump.  Some, with clearer minds than mine, might say that it’s never really okay to voluntarily leave a perfectly good aeroplane while it’s flying but what’s the point of having a clear mind if it’s never blown away?

Still rules is rules.  I think a lot of regulations are bunkum but being able to see where one needs to land doesn’t strike me as entirely unreasonable.  Today when I peered out of the plane all I could see was a billowing mass of cotton wool.  We could have been over the South China Sea for all I could tell.  The jump-master seemed to think it was okay though.  He was first out and I think that said something.  Like lemmings, we followed blindly into the whiteness.

Jumping into cloud can be quite fun.  If you hit a thick one, and thankfully they’re always soft, it can be quite a trek to the edge before leaping off again.  Depending on how fluffy the cloud is, the hike can be a struggle - a bit like wading through candy-floss, only colder and less sweet.  Worse still, sometimes you can walk over a thin piece and fall straight through: that can be quite a surprise.   No problems today though.

I had been a bit worried about jumping after my recent bug but a good dose of extra strong medicine seemed to do the trick.

Man, That's Sick

I’ve spent months trying to penetrate the close knit skydiving fraternity.  You’d think it’d be easy, what with the shared recklessness of throwing oneself at the ground from high altitude and all.  But, no.  It’d be easier to insert an fully grown oak tree into a pair of stockings.  It’s not just that it’s all a bit cliquey, it doesn’t help that I’m a little too old, a little too incompetent and too rarely at the airfield.  I’m also way not cool enough for these ‘Diver Dudes.  My clumsy attempts at being friendly just make me appear desperate - never an attractive look.  Let me tell you, you just can’t coax a terrified Blind Date out of a toilet cubicle by being enthusiastic.  Even if you’re really, really, enthusiastic.  It gets even harder after a Restraining Order. 

However, today I made a little progress.  I’d managed to wring a conversation out of a guy buying coffee, one thing led to another and it wasn’t long before we’d agreed to jump together.  Now, before you start thinking that I’ve stumbled onto the set of a gay porno, let me just remind you that these are guys who regularly slip into tight-fitting jumpsuits, carry oversized coloured silk handkerchiefs, are transported to what some might say are unnatural highs with other men and then fall out with them.  You don’t get more macho than that. 

Anyway, despite the fact that we’d left the plane at 13,000 feet with me clinging on to him like a limpet and spent 8,000 feet (that’s 40 seconds to you and me) failing to make any other contact, we survived to tell the tale.  And we joked about chasing each other around the sky - in a perfectly normal and manly way, of course.  In fact, it was all fine until I started to leave.  “Yo! Man, what that on your trousers?”  ‘That?  That’s dried baby sick.’  And the bubble burst and it was all over.  I wasn’t cool.  I was a dad covered in vomit.

No Go

I’m not very good at Reading the Signs.  I shouldn’t have pushed my luck after arriving at the airfield and getting on a lift immediately.  It was going so well - thought I’d go for another.  However, the second lift was delayed by 90 minutes because we had to search for a girl who had missed the airfield.  She’s landed (safely) more than two miles from the drop zone.  A Club Record.

I’ve not seen it happen before.  Someone refusing to jump.  Twice.  It is bloody scary so everyone was pretty sympathetic.  Until, that is, we realised the consequences of his refusal.  We all had to go back - in the plane - because of the Rules.  As we touched down, thunderous storm clouds appeared from nowhere.  And, for some nannyingly soft reason, They don’t like planes flying in thunder and lightning.  Or skydivers jumping through it.  Losers.

Cloud Spotting

I’ve lost track of the number of hours I’ve sat at the airfield waiting for the weather to clear.  This morning I left a sleeping mother and baby and drove down hoping to exploit the recent spell of clear skies.  Except, of course, today the sky was impenetrably grey.  I waited a couple of fruitless hours before going home.  As if I didn’t feel bad enough scurrying away to indulge myself, I waste a whole morning and have the expense of travelling there and back.  Bloody clouds.

Wind bag

It’s the largest vertical wind tunnel in the world apparently.  Ex-MoD.  I’m not that experienced but after watching the formations flying before us, I thought: that looks easy.  Session 1.  Slightly timidly launched myself into the air stream only to sink straight to the floor.  “De-arch to rise,” he’d said.  90 seconds of wrestling later I’d enjoyed a few fractions of a second off the bottom grill.  Session 2.  Every time I followed the Instructor’s directions I’d sink.  I’d de-arch and tumble around like a leaf for a moment.  Not happy. Two thirds gone - no flight whatsoever.  Session 3.  Exactly the damn same. Furious.  Only in the debrief I am told that he’s trying to keep me on the floor.  If I’d wanted to lay on the floor I could have stayed in my lounge and not travelled half way across the country and pissed £30 away in five minutes.

Anvil

I haven’t felt in much of a rush to progress but today I thought I’d give it go: a 2-way - that’s skydiving with someone else.  Part of my trouble is the pressure I feel to not let the other person down.  I don’t want to be crap.  At 12,000 feet, he stands on the outside of the plane and I latch on.  Frankly, it’s a coupling that feels a bit too intimate for strangers. But I’m doing as I’m told.  In fact, I’m so concerned about doing exactly what he told me, I forget to think for myself. As he enters the air stream first, I have to make a position that levels us off.  I do that but fail to release it.  Pretty soon, and in freefall that’s a long time, we’re dropping vertically; all I can see is the sky and his increasingly concerned face.  I am an anvil.  I’m determined not to loose my grip and look like a wuss so I’m clinging on for grim death.  Tic toc, down we go.  He shakes his head.  I nod in return.  Tic toc.  He shakes me.  It’s all right, I return, I’ve got you.  Tic toc.  Then it dawns on me.  I let go.  I check my altimeter.  Where’s all that height gone?  It’s time to pull my ripcord.  Actually, it was time to pull a couple of seconds ago.  I pull.  Done wonders for my confidence.  And his.

Onwards and Downwards

Finally.  After another three attempts today, I’ve done it.  My first one was an example of exactly what not to do.  There seemed so much to do within the time.  I panicked trying to fit it all in and completing the manoeuvres became a dangerously overriding concern.  The second was better but still not right - still too low at the end.  My mounting frustration didn’t help.  I’d just about written the day off when there was a slot on the last lift.  And did it.  Perfect-ish jump - certainly good enough to qualify.  Thank Heavens.

Dying to Deceive

I finally got to take the test this afternoon.  I was desperate to pass but knew I’d messed it up.  I left feeling utterly despondent; not because I’d failed but because I deceitfully said I’d meant to do it in that way.  Thankfully, he wasn’t so easily conned.  But I feel like a worm.