(no subject)
"Out... in... OUT!"
And with that, I launched myself out of the side of the Sea Otter airplane for the third time in my life. The previous two jumps had gone superbly, and now I was prepared to prove that I am ready for solo freefall. Two seconds into the drop, I had checked out my altitude, heading, stability, body position and handles. 12,500 feet above the ground and falling quickly. Facing directly at Mt. Hood. Stable, feet about shoulder width apart, hands in the Lazy-W, arch formed with my entire body as a biological airfoil. Main chute ripcord positioned at my right hip, slightly in front of the harness. 12,000 feet. Time to start accelerating.
Hands in, feet together, legs straight. My head drops below my hips, the wind increases against my face, and I'm moving fast. By this time I can't hear anything except the roar of the air rushing past my body, driving up against me as I tear down through it. Five seconds counted off silently to myself---it's so loud that I couldn't hear myself say it even if it was vocalized---and I break out of the dive, flaring my legs and arms and resuming the oh-so-beautiful arch.
Altimeter check: 10,500 feet. Perfect. Time to start maneuvering techniques, part deux. I turn my head, look over my left shoulder, twist my torso to the left, and immediately pirouette 180 degrees in the air. The Coast Range is beautiful at this altitude. I allow myself a quick glance at the ground, noting the distance, and that I moved a lot farther in my horizontal glide than I had wanted. Oh well. The parachute is steerable. For now, another turn. Altimeter: 9,500 feet. It's only been a few seconds since I glanced at it last. My speed is about 105 MPH, but I'm not thinking about that now. I'm busy looking over my right shoulder, twisting my torso and bending my body to execute another half-turn around my center. My line of sight passes over Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Adams before finally re-settling on Mt. Hood. Everything is going perfectly. The wind against my face feels cool, delicious refreshment from the beating sun that's assaulting every piece of my skin that it can.
Three more turns, left, right, left. I look at my altimeter again: 6,700 feet. I pause. Do I have enough altitude to make another turn? A split-second later, my body begins twisting before my mind really makes the decision. Altimeter check. The needle is sitting at 6,000 feet, moving rapidly counterclockwise around the dial as I plummet towards Earth. I keep watching it as it moves past 5,750 and onto 5,500. That's it for freefall. I signal that a parachute is about to deploy, two quick waves of my arms, then reach back with my right hand, grasp the handle, use my left hand to stabilize myself, and pull. I hear and feel the drogue pop out of the harness, followed closely by my chute. It's pitch black, with two narrow white stripes paralleling indicating which way it's going to take me. The force of the deployment jerks me against my harness; it's slightly uncomfortable, but it doesn't hurt. All of the lines connecting the canopy with me appear intact. The steering toggles are in their stowed positions, about a foot and a half above my head. Their dull yellow color and visible, large-gauge stitching appears spartan compared to the elegance of the canopy not 15 feet above them, but built to be functional, not pretty. Four fingers through the loops and a quick tug on each, and they're free. Now, time to make sure the chute actually works.
A yank on the right toggle sends me spinning around to the right. Beautiful. A pull on the other toggle turns me hard to the left. Awesome. I pull both of them as far as I can, the chute flares out, and I feel myself come to an almost complete stop in mid-air, 4,700 feet above the ground. Three for three. "Now...", I wonder, looking around the ground, "where the hell is my landing zone?
Six minutes later I flare a final time, after twenty-some-odd turns and a number of mini-flares to drop altitude. My speed drops, my descent slows dramatically, and my feet strike the earth. The momentum of the chute and my own body drag my feet across the ground, reminding me vaguely of waterskiing, before I come to a stop. The jet-black chute collapses from lack of weight hanging off of it, slowly falling to the ground behind me.
I've proved that I can jump solo.
And with that, I launched myself out of the side of the Sea Otter airplane for the third time in my life. The previous two jumps had gone superbly, and now I was prepared to prove that I am ready for solo freefall. Two seconds into the drop, I had checked out my altitude, heading, stability, body position and handles. 12,500 feet above the ground and falling quickly. Facing directly at Mt. Hood. Stable, feet about shoulder width apart, hands in the Lazy-W, arch formed with my entire body as a biological airfoil. Main chute ripcord positioned at my right hip, slightly in front of the harness. 12,000 feet. Time to start accelerating.
Hands in, feet together, legs straight. My head drops below my hips, the wind increases against my face, and I'm moving fast. By this time I can't hear anything except the roar of the air rushing past my body, driving up against me as I tear down through it. Five seconds counted off silently to myself---it's so loud that I couldn't hear myself say it even if it was vocalized---and I break out of the dive, flaring my legs and arms and resuming the oh-so-beautiful arch.
Altimeter check: 10,500 feet. Perfect. Time to start maneuvering techniques, part deux. I turn my head, look over my left shoulder, twist my torso to the left, and immediately pirouette 180 degrees in the air. The Coast Range is beautiful at this altitude. I allow myself a quick glance at the ground, noting the distance, and that I moved a lot farther in my horizontal glide than I had wanted. Oh well. The parachute is steerable. For now, another turn. Altimeter: 9,500 feet. It's only been a few seconds since I glanced at it last. My speed is about 105 MPH, but I'm not thinking about that now. I'm busy looking over my right shoulder, twisting my torso and bending my body to execute another half-turn around my center. My line of sight passes over Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Adams before finally re-settling on Mt. Hood. Everything is going perfectly. The wind against my face feels cool, delicious refreshment from the beating sun that's assaulting every piece of my skin that it can.
Three more turns, left, right, left. I look at my altimeter again: 6,700 feet. I pause. Do I have enough altitude to make another turn? A split-second later, my body begins twisting before my mind really makes the decision. Altimeter check. The needle is sitting at 6,000 feet, moving rapidly counterclockwise around the dial as I plummet towards Earth. I keep watching it as it moves past 5,750 and onto 5,500. That's it for freefall. I signal that a parachute is about to deploy, two quick waves of my arms, then reach back with my right hand, grasp the handle, use my left hand to stabilize myself, and pull. I hear and feel the drogue pop out of the harness, followed closely by my chute. It's pitch black, with two narrow white stripes paralleling indicating which way it's going to take me. The force of the deployment jerks me against my harness; it's slightly uncomfortable, but it doesn't hurt. All of the lines connecting the canopy with me appear intact. The steering toggles are in their stowed positions, about a foot and a half above my head. Their dull yellow color and visible, large-gauge stitching appears spartan compared to the elegance of the canopy not 15 feet above them, but built to be functional, not pretty. Four fingers through the loops and a quick tug on each, and they're free. Now, time to make sure the chute actually works.
A yank on the right toggle sends me spinning around to the right. Beautiful. A pull on the other toggle turns me hard to the left. Awesome. I pull both of them as far as I can, the chute flares out, and I feel myself come to an almost complete stop in mid-air, 4,700 feet above the ground. Three for three. "Now...", I wonder, looking around the ground, "where the hell is my landing zone?
Six minutes later I flare a final time, after twenty-some-odd turns and a number of mini-flares to drop altitude. My speed drops, my descent slows dramatically, and my feet strike the earth. The momentum of the chute and my own body drag my feet across the ground, reminding me vaguely of waterskiing, before I come to a stop. The jet-black chute collapses from lack of weight hanging off of it, slowly falling to the ground behind me.
I've proved that I can jump solo.