In my mid-forties, unaware that this would be one of the most important moments in my life, I visited a local nudist resort at the invitation of a bodybuilder who had helped me to research steroids for a novel. Perhaps it was a strange setting for a first date, but I've never been shy about getting my clothes off, especially in a group of strangers, and I thought I might find interesting material for writing. I did, but nothing about the resort ever got written. I met Chik and Laurie that day, a couple relaxing in the hot tub who suggested I try a tandem skydive. "Like nothing you can imagine," they said. Strapped to an experienced--and gorgeous--skygod who had done thousands of jumps, Laurie told me, I would experience the freedom of flight without a plane--freefall. Then I would float gently and silently under a brightly colored canopy over stunning landscapes and lakes, and the Adonis skygod would land me softly, like taking a step down from a ladder. Sport parachutes were rectangles, they explained, not round, and you didn't have to fall and roll. No? I knew nothing about it, but where could you get better advice? They certainly looked happy and healthy all over--and were obviously hiding nothing. From what I know now, my state of undress might have given them a clue that I was skydiver material in the raw. My date, however, also interested in nudity, clarified that he was scared of heights--a "whuffo"--and was never seen again. (Wha' fo' you wanna jump outta perfectly good airplane?).
I've always had an insatiable quest to see it all, feel it all, and figure the world out, so of course, I seriously considered their offer to drive me to the drop zone in Clewiston, Florida, the closest skydiving facility to my home. Surprisingly I had little fear. From my late thirties I'd stuck with strenuous fitness workouts including weights, boxing, and cycling. A process had taken over me, one physical step to the next, my body hardening and leading me into rugged and unusual places-like jungles, ruins, and coral reefs--without my brain needing reasons. Through internal or external means, fate had led me to many adventures, and skydiving was merely the next in line. I had recently achieved my lifetime goal of getting my first novel published, and I felt that I couldn't lose. I could also rationalize most anything as future material and a tax deduction, but I never expected the change in my life since I took my first leap.
On Saturday morning, about a month later, I plummeted from 13,000 feet, strapped back to chest with a truly gorgeous jumpmaster, and landed safely and exuberantly. From that point on, I flung myself into the wild and interesting blue yonder. I started the first training class with the intention of doing one or two jumps as research, an adventure to use in a novel, but the sky opened up and with it a new world below. I was born to fly--and party with the best, a side of the skydiving culture I quickly embraced.
I was welcomed into the skydiving community my first night, drinking around the bonfire, listening to the stories of near death, and riding bicycles on the runways that parallel Everglades terrain, canals, and sugarcane fields. I paid $15 for use of a bed and shower in someone's trailer, regardless of the fact that I had no clothes for the next day. This was the beginning of a change. Money spent for clothes now went to jumps and gear, my hair often seemed too unimportant to comb, and I sometimes arrived uncombed and in shorts at the college where I teach, just in time for creative writing class. Friends at home, an hour and a half from the drop zone, at first required me to call to say that I was still alive on Saturday night, but soon they learned to forget me on weekends.
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I was carried into the skydiving world by new friends and the overwhelming sense of freedom and discovery, powerful motivation to overcome extreme fear. I had no idea of the complexity of skydiving. Jump out of the plane and pull the ripcord, right? I hadn't seen the film Drop Zone and even missed Keanu Reeves in Point Break, though all the Hollywood distortion might not have been helpful. I had no idea you had to learn to fall flat and stable to open the parachute-- otherwise you wrap up and die.
After a six-hour class on the ground, Gerson and Patrick, two true skygods, would hold me steady as we leapt into the blue for the first jump. Some inner knowledge that a combination of honor, ego, and skill would compel them to save my life if I turned out to be the basket case I expected allowed me to remain calm in the plane. At about 10,000 feet, a question popped into my head. I yelled, "Why am I doing this?" My fingers were icy, my mouth dry, but I was smiling. Could anybody hear me over the engine's roar? Gerson and Patrick smiled back, like two Cheshire cats. If there is an answer, I still don't know it, but I no longer care.
At a few thousand feet higher the door opened, and I didn't look down. I was out, held lightly by both arms, flying flat on my stomach-jerkily--with no more feeling of fear, going through the practice movements to pass the first skill level. For most people there's never any fear in the air. Your mind focuses on the task and clears of all distraction. It's "play" in the highest form, taking the stress out of all other worries, since compared to them, this is something that obviously can kill you.
However, the skydiving stress at the beginning is enough to turn your own body against you. The more I heard and the more I jumped, the more terrified I became during the days and hours between jumping. I developed a bad case of sciatica so that sitting in the car on the way to the drop zone was extremely painful, and I had to lie around with an ice pack on my back between jumps. By my fourth lesson I needed acupuncture to relieve the tightness in my throat, and when I went to sign up for jump five, my sight and hearing shut down halfway. I made a zillion trips to the bathroom, bowels twisting, not only before getting on a plane, but all week long whenever I looked at a skydiving magazine or even thought too long about anything connected with the sport, which was nearly every thought I had during the first six months. I lost five pounds every weekend-which I couldn't put back on completely during the week, although I did a hell of a job trying. Every Saturday morning, I made sure my bed was made and the dishes were done before I left for the DZ, just in case my mother had to come to clean out my apartment. I had an envelope of photos marked "In the case of my death, please destroy these without looking."
I really expected to die every weekend. It made writing and teaching difficult because I couldn't concentrate and I felt I was wasting my time on work since I would soon be dead. For me, whatever "adrenaline rush" I got was certainly not equal to the associated misery. Yet, I couldn't leave it alone. I drove to the DZ each Saturday praying for rain and high winds, and at the same time worried to death that I wouldn't get to jump. I smelled the air as if for the last time and found every detail of the endless sugarcane fields beautiful. I thought about things in my life left undone.
Soon I bought my own rig, a container with main canopy, reserve canopy, and the $1,000 computerized automatic device used to open the parachute in case of being knocked unconscious in freefall--not required, but good for my peace of mind. I didn't need to worry until I started jumping with others, but I knew that would soon be on my agenda. Formation jumping was my choice of skydiving disciplines. I enjoy the camaraderie in "dirt diving," which is planning grips and movements on the ground that will be used for building various configurations in the air. Also, learning to move quickly and accurately in freefall in order to keep close body contact takes years to perfect. Everyone has screwed up dives many times, and besides landing safely, the most important thing is to smile, someone will always say. Shared gestures and hand signs are performed with excitement before exiting the plane, silent wishes of good luck. It's impossible to ignore the seriousness that hovers behind risking your life with others, regardless of the fun. It bonds dear and lasting friendships. Skeletal figures on helmets dare death or harm to touch us, but there will be those inevitable events for a few we'll mourn over the years to come.
Personal responsibility is taken seriously by skydivers. It's up to the individual to stay out of other people's way and not to jump through clouds where he or she might run into another skydiver or a passing aircraft. It's also important to know where to exit the plane in order to be able to make it back to the landing area, and to know if the wind conditions are safe. Although the wild crowd pushes their own limits with fast landings as well as adventures into the night, in the air, true concern for others is obvious. On the way up to altitude people's eyes rove over each person's gear in sight, checking to see that all straps are tight and everything is properly connected.
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For a year, life existed for me only at the drop zone. The combination of terror, success, and an unspoken challenge to match the intensity of the day by other means at night, drew me in and kept me coming back. I've heard that it's not unusual for emergency room doctors and nurses lead wild or reckless lives, and I wonder if there's a connection between the excitement of battling death on a regular basis and crossing dangerous boundaries during off hours. Not that skydivers face death in the same way as medical personnel, but that feeling of being extra alive before and after jumping and the loss of fear added to a basic thrill seeking personality, and it seems natural that some people are bound to live more wildly-or fully.
The rules are different on the drop zone--at least for those who choose to continue the thrills deep into the night. I recently heard the story of a new drop zone bar being named "The Wet Spot," not only pertaining to the beer served there, but in honor of a loud active couple who were observed creating such a spot on the roof in the moonlight. I bet there's video! Although sex on a roof is rare as far as I know, skydivers--trying to save money on everything but skydiving--will share any available space, tents, rooms, or trailers, or the tattered sofa that can be found in the middle of the hangar at every DZ. "I was out like a light" or "I slept like a log" is the polite morning response from others to any vocalizing or repetitious movement in the night. I know of one skydiver who overcame her fear of looking out the plane door by having sex on the floor in front of it the night before. More than one couple has attempted full naked sex in freefall, hooked up inside the door before a planeload of encouraging eyes. I also heard of a woman who set out a small plastic wading pool on the drop zone for her fiftieth birthday. She climbed in nude and directed the pouring of chocolate syrup, squirting of whipped cream, and sprinkling of nuts-no birthday cake, but a great way to get the party going. Inhibitions often get lost at the drop zone. The sky is rarely the limit!
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Marvin Zuckerman, a University of Delaware professor, describes the thrill-seeking personality, or what others have called the T-type, in several studies, much as I've observed it-and felt it-on the drop zone. They are people of a predisposition to look for novelty and heightened or complex sensations, willing to take risks to get them. Normal life leaves them frozen, and they have to stoke the heater with thrills. Characteristics include love of travel, extreme sports, fast driving, loud hard rock music, spicy food, smoking, drinking, drugs, and variety of sexual partners. There are degrees of thrill seekers in skydiving that go from my careful level to B.A.S.E. jumpers who jump from stationary objects so low to the ground that there's no margin for error. Personally, I get enough adrenaline jumping with the altitude necessary to correct most parachute malfunctions and landing at a normal twenty miles per hour or less on an enormous soft grassy field.
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One Saturday night, a bunch of us jumped into the back of a pickup truck--drunks with guns--I could say--with a spotlight similar to what I'd seen used in the game reserves in South Africa for viewing the animals. This was a real hunt for the gator that had terrorized the drop zone owner's dog. It didn't take long to find the evil yellow glow of reptile eyes level on the water of a canal beyond the runways, a scapegoat, and less time for somebody to shoot him. A skydiver immediately stripped so as not to get his clothes wet and went in to pull up the carcass. By the light of the full moon, naked, chest deep in water, weeds, and scum, he grabbed the tail and pulled before the animal could sink. "It's not dead," he yelled, lunging backward, as the rest of us watched from the road. "Too much resistance."
"No way. I hit him in the head," the shooter replied.
The skydiver grabbed the tail again, this time slinging the near six-foot gator to the bank. It gave a squirm or two until the final bullet met its brain.
"Told you," he said. He jumped back into the driver's seat, naked and dripping, and drove us all back to the hangar. A local girl who worked as a parachute packer knew how to dress out the meat and we stayed up most of the night watching. The bloody mess of entrails was left on the hangar floor to scare the pilot in the morning, as couples paired off and drifted under the stars to tents and campers.
The next day we had grilled gator bites for dinner, tail meat marinated in Mojo Criollo and wrapped in bacon. It's become the usual party fare in Clewiston, along with roasted wild pig, curried goat, swamp cabbage, beans and rice, and grilled chicken for when the pig runs out. Before skydiving I was a vegetarian.
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I saw this on video--a skydiver wearing his rig, jumping off the top of a Winnebago, pretending it's a plane because the sky is solid overcast and there's no skydiving. He breaks his ankle. With the help of friends, he hobbles into a car on his way to the hospital. He looks at the camera smiling. "I am so stupid, " he says and shrugs, no sign of pain on his face. There's a saying in skydiving: If you're gonna be stupid, you have to be tough. Risk is a reason to live for some, consequences fully accepted.
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Jet--jet--jet--jet--jet--" Four years and nearly 500 skydives later, the lightening surge of excitement still runs through me as I recall my first jet jump in August of 1998. I waited, a novice, proud of my seventy-seven jumps, to climb the steps into the Boeing 727 jet that I would soon blast from at 180 mph. I had long since gathered more than enough material for a new novel, my rationalized motivation for skydiving, and now I didn't care if I ever wrote it.
The heat rose from the runway as I stood among hundreds of skydivers on that bright Friday afternoon. I felt the sweat run down my backbone under my sleek, black and aqua nylon jumpsuit, but there was no discomfort. The humidity, the sun in my eyes, and the thirty-pound rig consisting of main parachute and reserve chute, heavy on my shoulders, brought only a feeling of recognition. Bowels clenching with the power of adrenaline, I swept my eyes lovingly over the 727 AmeriJet that filled my horizontal range of vision. My chest and leg straps were snug. I was ready. I gathered my hair, bleached and brittle from a week of sun and carelessness on the airport into a ponytail to be stuffed under my hard plastic helmet. No time for vanity at the World Freefall Convention-a wild ten-day party of 5,000 skydivers from all over the world. Despite my 5'6', somewhat muscular stature, I felt small amid the 200 jumpers, mostly men, lined up for the first load, in front of the powerful aircraft--but we would soon be equal. My body, as well as any 250-pound man's, would seem a weightless particle exploding from the rear door of the jet, hurtling--probably end over end--into the blue 14,000 feet of air.
As we waited, we checked each other's gear, making sure nothing had been forgotten or loosened. We heard a siren, an ambulance speeding to another part of the airport, and there was a moment's pause in the buzz of excitement, but nobody commented. Don Kirlin, the organizer, gave the word on the megaphone, and staying in line, we began to jog up the steps into the hollow shell generally used for cargo, all in striking colors, baggy suits to slow down the descent and tight stretch suits to add speed, depending on the style of jumping chosen by the individual. That year, some of the men jumping barefoot displayed painted toenails to match their parachute colors. A few others had shorts pulled up over their leg straps, a dead giveaway that they would pull the shorts off and tie them on their chest straps before they exited, allowing their genitals to be battered by the cold wind. I don't know how nudity in skydiving first started, but now it's a tradition, a thrill to add on any occasion. I anticipate a nude jump sometime in my skydiving career, but not from a jet packed with 200 people.
I hunched down, as directed, to sit in the fourth line of seatbelts, securing mine through my leg strap. It was the same jump, from the same type of aircraft, as first made by D.B. Cooper, 1971, in his unsolved hijacking for $200,000--but we had no motivation of money. All I wanted-all we wanted--was to live, and we only wanted to live to skydive.
As the engines began to rev, I felt the increasing pressure in my guts that comes with knowledge of what can go wrong. First, I worried that the Velcro on my rig was a bit worn for this blast, and might result in a dangerous premature opening. There are cases when someone still falling crashes through another's open parachute, causing death to one or both jumpers. Next, I worried that I would hit my head as I dropped through the chute-like door on the back of the jet. It seemed possible to be knocked unconscious by the impact, even wearing my helmet. Of course, I had the safety device that automatically opens the parachute at 750 feet if the jumper is incapacitated, but landing unconscious has obvious drawbacks--all of which I began to review and imagine. My landings were less than great anyway, meaning more on the butt than on the feet--and not always where I wanted. As a novice in unfamiliar territory, with barbed wire fences and gullies in the surrounding corn and soybean fields, as well as the tents and structures erected on the airport, my imagination ran wild. On top of life threatening concerns, there was the terrible possibility of embarrassment that, through lack of skill, I might not be able to do my part in the formation with three guys, as planned.
A video camera held up in front of me scanned the rows of skydivers, and I grinned and gave a thumbs-up. There was fear behind my flash of teeth, and I hoped it didn't show on tape. Don Kirlin started the chant and it built in volume and emotion above the engine's roar as we began to taxi. The chorus of 200, packed groin to butt, four rows across, in the tube-like cabin, pressurized the air with energy. It filled my head, my world: "Jet-jet-jet-jet-jet--" Beyond the sweat, the fidgety shaking hands, the feeling of a vise closing off my throat, was the overwhelming power of the thrill, the pure anticipation of being free in the air, flying, controlling my movement and destiny. "Jet-jet-jet--" I struggled to take long deep breaths and bit hard on the sides of my tongue to bring saliva into my mouth. Worth it, all worth it, even if I die.
The excitement snaked in a near visible connection up one row of jumpers and down the next as we climbed to altitude. I wiped sweat from my forehead. For my exit, I decided to cross my arms and pull up my legs to sit my way out, facing forward through the door, as recommended to be less rough on arms and legs. The nude guys crossed my mind-how would they exit? For sure, there'd be video. Few minutes remained to continue my litany of worries and pray for help from deceased friends and relatives.
As the door opened at 14,000 feet, the chant started up again, but collapsed into the roar of wind and thump of feet as the first line of jumpers began to hustle out, some of them in a near run, keeping hands on the back of the jumper ahead to cut down separation in the air. They dodged the discarded seatbelts locked into the floor and disappeared from sight as they leaped without hesitation down the rear chute.
I scrambled to stand and keep up with the tall man in front of me as we jogged to the door, the flood of anxiety roaring through my chest. But as my feet left the floor on exit, all fear was gone. It dissolved into thin air as always, literally. I was flung into the blue, feeling sling-shot, tumbled by a force that would incur disaster on the ground. But there was nothing in my way, just clear sky, and my body slowed to a speed where I could gain control of my movements, something around 120 mph, the average falling speed. I arched hard, bringing myself into the stable belly-down position, catching sight of my more experienced friend, next out of the plane, already under control and heading in my direction.
Then the unexpected, or mostly unexpected, occurred. The right hand loop attached to a line, used for turning the parachute when already open and flying, flew into my vision. I grabbed it. I felt more puzzled than frightened. This was supposed to be tightly stowed inside my rig! Immediately, the left loop flew into range, and I caught that one also. I realized that the Velcro, supposed to hold the parachute closed and all the lines inside, had blown apart on exit from the force of wind on my back as I fell below the jet. This was a definite problem. Facing outward from the door had been a mistake.
My friend flew close, hovered to look, waved, and sped off. I knew he was giving me space to open high because of the mess of tangled lines on my back that I might have to cut away before opening the reserve. He would stop the others from approaching. I looked at the loops and lines in my hands, considering the options. There was danger in opening that high for the fear of being hit by someone still in freefall, yet it was frightening to wait until the recommended altitude, 2,500 feet, because pulling the cutaway handle and then the reserve would have to be executed quickly by then, without fumbling. I had only practiced with my feet on the ground. I waited several more seconds, looking around and above me, seeing clear skies. A more experienced skydiver might have waited longer, having confidence in sanity and reflexes, but that wasn't for me.
When my altimeter showed 4,000 feet, I threw the lines and loops, one to each side, waved my arms in warning, and tossed out the small pilot chute that replaces a ripcord by yanking a pin to open the main parachute. I looked over my shoulder feeling nothing at first, expecting a useless clump of nylon and lines still matted on my back. What I saw seemed a miracle. The hot pink bundle of fabric pumped like a heart suspended thirty feet above my head, lines stretching out clean and even, as they should. With the slightest tug, my personal rainbow puffed open its stripes of blueberry and purple alongside the pink. I had a solid rectangle to fly, an open sky, and plenty of altitude to get to a huge landing area away from the crowd and land safely on foot or butt. Soon the green grass rolled fast before my eyes, and I slid in on butt. Oh, well. I was only a little shaky as I walked over to my friends, who had landed more gracefully and closer to the tent area. I filled them in on the rest of my story. My near parachute malfunction, as all "firsts," would have meant buying the traditional case of beer that night if I was on my home drop zone, but beer is free at the convention, so I got off easy all the way around.
As we passed by the jet filling with another load of eager jumpers, we saw a naked brunette-mostly shaved in the pubic area--trot up the steps. She wasn't even wearing a parachute. She turned, waved and smiled at everyone, and stepped into the plane. A minor cheer went up. "I heard that the pilot promised her a free ride in the cockpit, if she turned up without clothes," my friend said. The three of us nodded. Of course. Later, on video, we saw her strapped into the cockpit, grinning boldly.
When we got back to our camp, sadly, we heard what the sirens had meant. Jerry Loftis, a skillful and well-known skysurfer who had appeared in soft drink commercials, had "bounced" on a far runway, meaning landed without benefit of a working parachute, not something you want to picture. He hadn't taken any steps toward deploying his parachute, so the consensus was that he had a problem with his skyboard and lost altitude awareness. No one will ever know for sure. He had no automatic opening device-they can be dangerous under certain conditions. That night his friends set up a memorial wall for him where people wrote kind thoughts and wished him luck for "new horizons." His was the only death that year. With 5,000 skydivers, averaging five or six skydives a day, for ten days, a death is not unexpected. A friend remarked to me that if his turn came, he didn't want anyone saying that he died doing something that he loved-he would not be loving those last few seconds. Nevertheless, to jump is to accept your fate.
* * * * * * * * * * *
There are always a few injuries at the convention from skydiving, as well from ground behavior. But skydivers heal to jump again. I saw a landing collision one afternoon that caused a woman's canopy to collapse about twenty feet off the ground. I heard her yell after she hit: "Fuck, I broke my back again." As a new skydiver, I thought that was insane, but now, I realize that if I break something, I'll be likely to start again, if and when I can.
A good many skydivers jump into ripe old age. I met Bob Sinclair, that year, 80 years old, who'd been a stuntman for the early 60's TV series Ripcord. He camped and jumped with the rest of us. A saying of the older skydivers is that you never get too old to skydive, but when you stop skydiving, you get old. We like to joke that there's no adult supervision at the drop zone because none of us have ever grown up.
That night we drank "jet fuel," a near toxic mixture of many types of alcohol, lots of watermelon, strawberries, and other fresh fruit thrown into a cooler, while we watched some skydivers at a nearby campsite execute a brilliant idea to squirt lighter fluid on their bicycle tires and ride through the campfire to provide a light show. After a short time they threw the bikes into the fire as well, for obvious reasons--another creative use for fire discovered on a drop zone, among many others. The "jet fuel" continued to slide down like dessert; and in a short time, Jacques, a Canadian Floridian who had helped his wife concoct the batch, was grabbing passersby and dragging them to the tent for a taste. Between his accent and slur, they had no idea what "Wan some fet juel?" meant, but many followed him and a few woke up on the ground nearby in the morning--others on battered sofas previously delivered to the airport and shared among the tents.
Near dawn, still alive and walking in some manner, a friend and I passed a woman on a couch being massaged by four men, one at each of her limbs, their hands sometimes meeting in the middle. She was moaning in pleasure and, no doubt, trying to do her part for the convention, since there are about eight men to every woman skydiver. We cut across one of the landing areas where people had been landing on a target during the day. It was misty and not quite light so we nearly stumbled into a couple bent over a small hay bail in the outer circle having sex. We dodged them, stepped over their clothes, and kept walking. They didn't miss a stroke. Freedom, spontaneity, novelty and high sensation-the thrill-seeking life, for a certain few who choose it-nobody else's business.
We woke every morning of the boogie, like kids at Christmas, even after staying up all night and catching a little sleep at dawn. That year I jumped many types of aircraft, including the Bell helicopter and the Pitts acrobatic plane-hanging from a handle and letting go, while the pilot few upside down. I took a few dives from roomy Mr. Douglas, the DC-3 with personality that blasted rock music and air conditioning on the way up. My most exciting landing was twenty feet in front of a huge dead hog in a ditch, the black fur having rotted and slid down to reveal his bleached ribs. I wrote it on a table in black marking pen: Dead Hog Tour, see Vicki.
* * * * * * * * * * *
I seem to be living my life backwards, from a bookworm in my younger days to skydiver and adventurer worried less about comfort, craving more for excitement, the older I get. My father died of a heart attack at forty-one-so every year I get past that is gravy. On a practical basis, I'll never run out of material for writing, but even better, it's living beyond my dreams. As a Floridian, dogsledding on the trail between cabins for four days in Finland, nearly bathed in dog slobber, dog food and dog shit, slimy in my own snot and sweat, I survived cold and found happiness. Sailing across the Devil's Triangle in a thirty-foot boat, ducking spiders the size of my hand in the jungle of Peru, slogging through a hippo mud bath in South Africa, landing in a field with kangaroos at sunset in Australia-what more can I ask? I look forward to my first outdoor rock climb next month. But the sky is tops, of course! Skydiving has taught me more about myself than all the rest and inspired me with confidence. When you can throw yourself out of a "perfectly good airplane" time and time again, reliant on nylon, Velcro, rubber bands, and yourself -- and love it -- you can do anything.
Vicki Hendricks writes more about sky diving in her latest book, Sky Blues.
