#29 - 18/12/11
After two months I was very pleased to be back in the plane. I was even pleased to be crushed in on a full load, considering the temperature outside. Rather fittingly, after my last entry, it was a toasty minus 15 degrees at altitude. We chatted about it as we were gearing up. I have a custom fitted jumpsuit that I can only really fit a thin jumper underneath. Looking at the other jumpers with multiple layers on, I wasn't convinced it would be enough.
I was given a false sense of security when the door was opened at 3000' to let a static-line student out and it didn't seem that bad. When the door opened up on the jump run that illusion was sucked out of the plane just before the first skydiver. I should have worn another jumper.
I barely even noticed. The adrenaline was rushing as always, rising to new levels with each "whoosh" that accompanied a group of jumpers leaving. I watched the guy before me go and got into the door, counting to seven. As soon as the spacing was adequate, without a moment's hesitation, I went.
I had been thinking about my exit for most of the ride up. It was, well, better. I still tipped over as I got into the airsteam, but my arch was good and I righted myself quickly. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until I tried to check my altimeter and found I couldn't see.
I'm being dramatic. Things were a bit blurry, but I could see I was at about 11000'. My goggles always steam up on the plane, where the air is close and humid, but have always cleared as I've got in the door.
Until now.
If you've ever stuck your head out of a car window whilst doing 120mph you'll understand why we wear goggles. I didn't want to take them off, so I just lifted them a little bit away from my face. They cleared enough for me to see, and I was able to work out where I was. Then I noticed the cold. Damn it was cold. I've said I've never noticed the temperature in free fall, and that was true. Hopefully it means I'm taking control, no longer just some awe-struck novice.
I pulled at 5000'. The opening was beautiful: gentle and on-heading. I was over the landing zone, so had a bit of a play with the canopy before turning it into the wind and getting ready to fly my pattern. Unfortunately the winds were horrendous, and I started moving backwards. Learning from the last time, I pulled down on the front risers. The canopy dove into the wind and my reverse speed slowed considerably. I was still being blown over the edge of the landing zone, so I had to make a decision as to where I was going to touch down. I guessed I would start making forward progress as I got lower and the winds died, so kept aiming for the landing field.
I was right. I touched down safely away from the field's boundary. One positive for the high winds was the landing - as I flared my canopy it cancelled out the wind and I literally dropped onto my feet in a perfect stand up landing.
Pleased with the jump but with totally numb hands I decided to call it a day. I had planned on hammering out a set of jumps to practice exits and landings, but the winds were too high for me to play much with the canopy and the cold took the edge of the ecstasy of free fall. So with my wallet bulging under the weight of lift tickets I said my goodbyes and headed home.
Diary of a Casual Skydiver
Sunday 18 December 2011
Tuesday 6 December 2011
Frozen Air
I don't mind winter. I wouldn't say I was particularly optimistic, but the thing that awful weather makes me think of is the warmth I'll feel when I get in. Ice on the pavement is just an opportunity for a childish slide. The one issue I do have, however, is the cloud.
Five days, I took off last month to burn away holiday. Five days, and not a single jump. Every day my alarm would go off early, I'd look out the window and then roll over and go back to sleep. One day I went to the drop zone anyway, looking for some clear sky I knew wouldn't be there. It's extremely frustrating.
I had the same problem last year. I still managed to get a few jumps in, and I'm sure I will this year. And that's a good thing, because winter jumps are fantastic.
As you may know, air gets colder as you gain altitude. Depending on the conditions, at 12,000' it can be more than 20 degrees Celsius colder than on the ground. At Headcorn they have a board by the manifest that tells you the wind strength and direction at altitude, which is useful for working out how you'll drift as you fall, and the temperature, which is useful for scaring Tandems. The coldest I've ever stepped out into is -22 degrees C (-8F). You add wind chill of 120mph to that and it's cold.
You don't notice it at that height. You're cold on the plane, but when you get out the temperature is the last thing on your mind. There's always the rush of free fall, and usually work to do, but on the clearest winter days the view is phenomenal. On a crisp winter day in January you can easily trace the east coast. On one particularly spectacular jump I could see France, then turning 180 degrees, London. And all unobscured by airliner glass, or mountain mist.
Unfortunately it has to end. As you drop your field of view closes in, then you pull your parachute. I think I enjoy the canopy ride more than most jumpers, and the air is warmer when you're lower, but you definitely notice the cold. Even gloved fingers go numb, and you can't wait to get on the ground. But maybe that's just because you have to get on the ground before you can go back up for another view...
Five days, I took off last month to burn away holiday. Five days, and not a single jump. Every day my alarm would go off early, I'd look out the window and then roll over and go back to sleep. One day I went to the drop zone anyway, looking for some clear sky I knew wouldn't be there. It's extremely frustrating.
I had the same problem last year. I still managed to get a few jumps in, and I'm sure I will this year. And that's a good thing, because winter jumps are fantastic.
As you may know, air gets colder as you gain altitude. Depending on the conditions, at 12,000' it can be more than 20 degrees Celsius colder than on the ground. At Headcorn they have a board by the manifest that tells you the wind strength and direction at altitude, which is useful for working out how you'll drift as you fall, and the temperature, which is useful for scaring Tandems. The coldest I've ever stepped out into is -22 degrees C (-8F). You add wind chill of 120mph to that and it's cold.
You don't notice it at that height. You're cold on the plane, but when you get out the temperature is the last thing on your mind. There's always the rush of free fall, and usually work to do, but on the clearest winter days the view is phenomenal. On a crisp winter day in January you can easily trace the east coast. On one particularly spectacular jump I could see France, then turning 180 degrees, London. And all unobscured by airliner glass, or mountain mist.
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| An estimated field of view at altitude |
Thursday 24 November 2011
The horse that threw you
#s 7 and 8 - 24/11/10
Never end the day on a bad jump.
It sounds like a superstition, but it's actually sound advice. I used it with my one fail, level 4, passing well immediately after. I used it a year ago today, after my level 6, my worst ever jump. My first ever solo exit, without an anyone holding on to keep me stable. Simon, my instructor, told me if I went unstable he'd stay clear until we got dangerously low or I sorted myself out. "I'll just watch you and p*ss myself laughing." were his exact words. I gave him a lot to laugh about.
I was finished with 1000' to spare, and just sat there (laid there? fell?) enjoying the grand majesty of the view, the sensation, and my success. All the frustrations of the last jump were forgotten.
Every landing is a joyful moment, my heart pumping and an immovable grin on my face, but this one was something special. Not only had I gone from my worst jump to my best, but I had finished my training. From here I just had to prove the skills I had learnt and I would be a fully licenced skydiver. That night, instead of going to sleep ruing my mistake, my thoughts were of my success and the future.
Never end the day on a bad jump.
It sounds like a superstition, but it's actually sound advice. I used it with my one fail, level 4, passing well immediately after. I used it a year ago today, after my level 6, my worst ever jump. My first ever solo exit, without an anyone holding on to keep me stable. Simon, my instructor, told me if I went unstable he'd stay clear until we got dangerously low or I sorted myself out. "I'll just watch you and p*ss myself laughing." were his exact words. I gave him a lot to laugh about.
I didn't fail it, surprisingly. Despite spending most of the jump unstable, after both the exit and the back-loop, I managed to get a track done just before I hit my pull altitude. Simon passed me, with the warning that the level 7 was much more complicated and time-consuming and if I didn't improve dramatically I had no chance of finishing before I ran out of sky. This gave me nothing but determination, and I made sure I was on the next lift. The results speak for themselves.
I was finished with 1000' to spare, and just sat there (laid there? fell?) enjoying the grand majesty of the view, the sensation, and my success. All the frustrations of the last jump were forgotten.
Every landing is a joyful moment, my heart pumping and an immovable grin on my face, but this one was something special. Not only had I gone from my worst jump to my best, but I had finished my training. From here I just had to prove the skills I had learnt and I would be a fully licenced skydiver. That night, instead of going to sleep ruing my mistake, my thoughts were of my success and the future.
Wednesday 16 November 2011
Back to School
My annual leave is renewed on December the first. This is to stop impulsive, reckless types using it all up before Christmas. It's a nice idea but it means work slows to a crawl in November because selfish idiots are using up unspent holiday. This year, as with most years, I was one of those idiots.
It was for this reason that I found myself on the way to the drop zone today. The weather sucked, but I was hoping it would clear up later. Unfortunately as I arrived I was greeted by a very empty car park. My fears were confirmed by speaking to the instructors - there were no tandems there and without them the chance of any lifts going up were negligible. Fortunately I had planned for just such an eventuality. I grabbed my rig and headed for the packing shed. An instructor was coerced into giving me a packing lesson.
First off was a spectacular vindication. Clem, the instructor, was staggered by the idea of flat-packing my canopy. The material and configuration is different to the student rigs I'd been using so far, and it wasn't feasible. A lot of my frustrations from the last post were fully justified. I was taught pro-packing, which is done with the canopy hanging over my shoulders instead if lying on the ground. Things went much better than before, up until I had to get the canopy in the bag.
At this point you can basically read the 7th paragraph of my last entry. Things did go better this time, I might actually jump this one, if I absolutely had to. It still took a half dozen attempts to get it there, but with Clem watching over my progress and suggesting ways to make it easier I triumphed. Half way through he admitted he wouldn't recommend a low number Zero-P canopy (which mine is) to a new jumper, because of the difficulty of packing them, and I responded "At least after this I'll be able to pack anything." with an optimism I wasn't really feeling.
Eventually I got it all packed and was able to chat to Clem about the need for an AAD service and reserve repack. He immediately got the AAD out my rig (which meant I got to pull my reserve handle - very exciting) and got me set up to send it off the the manufacturer.
With the weather poor and no other jumpers on site I thanked Clem and headed home. I'm continuing to waste holiday next week, so I've got my fingers crossed for just one day with good weather and a busy drop zone.
It was for this reason that I found myself on the way to the drop zone today. The weather sucked, but I was hoping it would clear up later. Unfortunately as I arrived I was greeted by a very empty car park. My fears were confirmed by speaking to the instructors - there were no tandems there and without them the chance of any lifts going up were negligible. Fortunately I had planned for just such an eventuality. I grabbed my rig and headed for the packing shed. An instructor was coerced into giving me a packing lesson.
First off was a spectacular vindication. Clem, the instructor, was staggered by the idea of flat-packing my canopy. The material and configuration is different to the student rigs I'd been using so far, and it wasn't feasible. A lot of my frustrations from the last post were fully justified. I was taught pro-packing, which is done with the canopy hanging over my shoulders instead if lying on the ground. Things went much better than before, up until I had to get the canopy in the bag.
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| If I ever need it, I've probably messed up |
Eventually I got it all packed and was able to chat to Clem about the need for an AAD service and reserve repack. He immediately got the AAD out my rig (which meant I got to pull my reserve handle - very exciting) and got me set up to send it off the the manufacturer.
With the weather poor and no other jumpers on site I thanked Clem and headed home. I'm continuing to waste holiday next week, so I've got my fingers crossed for just one day with good weather and a busy drop zone.
Sunday 30 October 2011
Packtice makes Perfect
I'm sitting on my sofa, shattered. I've just run my first half-marathon in 3 years. Monika is curled up next to me. She's just run her first half-marathon ever. I'm dead proud of her. It's been a good weekend, even if I haven't got any jumps in.
The first thing I learnt, after unpacking my parachute, admiring it in all its glory and setting it up as if I'd just got back to the manifest (daisy-chaining the lines, stowing the breaks), is that my flat is nowhere near big enough to pack in. A quick rearranging of the furniture helped, but I still had to run the lines down to the container in the hallway.
Yesterday I packed my parachute completely for the first time. Packing is basically the art of getting a parachute into a bag that any normal person can tell is obviously too small for it.
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| Glorious, but terrifying |
The second thing I learnt is that I find the idea of packing pretty scary. They say all parachutes want to be open, but the doesn't help when you've got hundreds of square feet of nylon piled up in front of you. My little brother got me a packing guide video for my birthday, so I manned up and started.
It started really well. I've had a couple of packing lessons at the drop zone, and the first steps were pretty easy. I had the lines sorted quickly.
However, after this I had to start counting and sorting the cells and this was difficult. Eventually I had it basically right, so I tried to fold it to get the four sets of lines on top of each other. This did not go well. After a couple of false starts I had everything in basically the right place, but instead of neat groups my lines were in a mess of spaghetti.
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| This clearly WILL NOT GO |
Next I had to fold the canopy to get it to a size that would go into the deployment-bag. This will go down as one of the most frustrating events of my entire life. The false starts we numerous and infuriating. What little order existed in the way the cells had been laid out disappeared completely. The video said not to stuff the canopy into the d-bag but I couldn't see any other way. Eventually, on about the eighth attempt, I got the damn thing in, though it was overflowing through all the gaps and looked pretty dangerous, and I was drenched with sweat and in a generally bad mood.
To finish off I brought in the lines and stowed the d-bag in the container, closing it with a proper pull-up cord instead of a shoelace. I've done this before a couple of times so found it easier.
The whole process took me over an hour and a half. A professional packer can be done in less than 6 minutes. At the moment the £5 for a pack-job seems like the most economical choice I can ever make, but I need to get good at this and it was my first unsupervised attempt. I'll take it to the drop zone and get some advice on the best techniques (every parachute is different).
Am I pleased I've done it?
Yes
Would I jump that pack job?
Not a damn chance.
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| Victory |
Sunday 23 October 2011
Year Two - Looking forward
Most instantly, my B licence. I need 50 jumps, as well as the ability to pack, spot, land accurately and do pre-jump inspections of gear. This shouldn't be a problem. Usually a B licence is accompanied by Formation Skydiving 1, which signs you off to do formation work in free fall, but this doesn't hold much interest for me. I'll see how my budget holds up.
I want to be jumping my own rig as soon as possible.
I want to get good at tracking, and start participating in tracking dives with other jumpers.
If things go really well I'd like to own and be flying a Phoenix Fly Tracking Suit. This is a special jumpsuit that channels the air to increase your tracking speed and reduce your fall-rate. The manufacturers recommend at least 80 jumps experience.
Finally, I think if I can get 75 jumps in this year it'll be a good one.
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| Not me - not yet. |
Sunday 16 October 2011
All play and no work makes James a dull skydiver
#28 15/10/2011
I finally got myself back to the drop zone yesterday. My plan was to practice tracking (moving horizontally across the ground) in free fall then get the understanding of the new size canopy I had missed out on last time. The drop zone was busy, and it took me longer to get on a lift than usual, but the skies were completely clear and there was a low, steady breeze. Conditions were perfect.
Our lift was well organised. I was the last fun-jumper out, because you fall slower when tracking and I was pulling higher to play with the canopy. The jumper before me was also doing a solo track, so we assigned headings perpendicular to the jump run (the direction the plane flies as we're getting out) so we'd avoid each other and the other groups. I was flying at about 80°, I'd orientate myself off the runway.
I was confident about doing all this, except for my exit. I so wanted to get it right on this rare opportunity to practice. I took my time in the door, visualised my body positioning, and went. Immediately I was unstable, flipping onto my back. All I could think was Arch, arch, arch, but it took an eternity (probably 3-4 seconds) for my body to correctly interpret the command. I don't know why, and that's frustrating.
The track itself went well. I could feel the air resisting my forward movement as I barrelled across the sky at maybe 40 miles an hour. A good tracker can double that but practice makes perfect. Just before I went into a track I looked down and could just about see the other jumper whizzing off in the other direction. I did a long track out then turned 180° and did a short track back so I wasn't too far from the landing zone, and pulled. This time I was in an ideal position so I started to play with the canopy. Damn, that thing can move! It probably didn't look like much compared to the high-number jumpers, but hard turns felt vicious, like I was penduluming up to 90° and swooping round. It was great fun.
My landing pattern was good, but as I came in to land I flared slightly late. I was carrying more speed than I should have, and made the instantaneous, sub-conscious decision to land on my arse, sliding along. This was fun too, but not good for mastering the canopy.
Afterwards I found myself frustrated with the jump. The two most important parts - the exit and landing - were wasted. I decided to write off the day, go home and come up with a plan. At the start of next month I have a sizeable overtime payment coming. I'm going to take a day off and head to the drop zone midweek, when it will be less busy. I'll try and get in 3 or 4 jumps, possibly low-altitude, low-effort hop-and-pops, and practice exits and landings. Hopefully I'll make some progress.
I finally got myself back to the drop zone yesterday. My plan was to practice tracking (moving horizontally across the ground) in free fall then get the understanding of the new size canopy I had missed out on last time. The drop zone was busy, and it took me longer to get on a lift than usual, but the skies were completely clear and there was a low, steady breeze. Conditions were perfect.
Our lift was well organised. I was the last fun-jumper out, because you fall slower when tracking and I was pulling higher to play with the canopy. The jumper before me was also doing a solo track, so we assigned headings perpendicular to the jump run (the direction the plane flies as we're getting out) so we'd avoid each other and the other groups. I was flying at about 80°, I'd orientate myself off the runway.
I was confident about doing all this, except for my exit. I so wanted to get it right on this rare opportunity to practice. I took my time in the door, visualised my body positioning, and went. Immediately I was unstable, flipping onto my back. All I could think was Arch, arch, arch, but it took an eternity (probably 3-4 seconds) for my body to correctly interpret the command. I don't know why, and that's frustrating.
The track itself went well. I could feel the air resisting my forward movement as I barrelled across the sky at maybe 40 miles an hour. A good tracker can double that but practice makes perfect. Just before I went into a track I looked down and could just about see the other jumper whizzing off in the other direction. I did a long track out then turned 180° and did a short track back so I wasn't too far from the landing zone, and pulled. This time I was in an ideal position so I started to play with the canopy. Damn, that thing can move! It probably didn't look like much compared to the high-number jumpers, but hard turns felt vicious, like I was penduluming up to 90° and swooping round. It was great fun.
My landing pattern was good, but as I came in to land I flared slightly late. I was carrying more speed than I should have, and made the instantaneous, sub-conscious decision to land on my arse, sliding along. This was fun too, but not good for mastering the canopy.
Afterwards I found myself frustrated with the jump. The two most important parts - the exit and landing - were wasted. I decided to write off the day, go home and come up with a plan. At the start of next month I have a sizeable overtime payment coming. I'm going to take a day off and head to the drop zone midweek, when it will be less busy. I'll try and get in 3 or 4 jumps, possibly low-altitude, low-effort hop-and-pops, and practice exits and landings. Hopefully I'll make some progress.
Tuesday 11 October 2011
Year One - Looking back
The first year of my fantastic new adventure (that was unnecessarily dramatic) has drawn to a close in a disappointingly irrelevant yet still notable way (I'm in a dramatic mood apparently). Now seems like a good time to take stock of what I've accomplished in the last 12 months.
Firstly, and most obviously, I've discovered this sport, this magical sport with a guaranteed a rush every time I go. Every skydive is a more exhilarating experience than a lot of people will ever know, no matter what your plan is and how well you follow it. And I know I'm only just beginning.
A more measurable achievement is the attaining of my 'A' licence. It may be the lowest rung on a complex and difficult ladder, but gives me freedom to travel to other drop zones, and is proof that I'm not just doing this for the bragging rights (though I am a bit), but that I'm actually capable and could one day be good. The way I earned it is a source of pride, showing both talent and commitment. The Accelerated Free Fall course is intense and instructors wont think twice about making students repeat levels if they're not up to scratch. Only one failed jump is a genuinely impressive record.
Starting jumping in October was, in hindsight, an impulsive and foolish idea that neatly sums up my mindset at the time. AFF is best done quickly, and the winter weather made this impossible. I spent many days staring at clouded skies, wasting time and doing 140 mile round trips for nothing. It would have been easy give up. I know if I had convinced myself I'd wait until spring I would have never gone back.
The time wasted at the drop zone needn't have been. I could have learnt to pack last winter, but in fairly typical style I put off the hard graft to focus on the fun bit.
I certainly haven't jumped enough. 27 in a year is barely scratching the surface, and I'm fed up of arriving at the drop zone worried about my currency. I'm taking consolation in the fact that the first year is way more expensive than the rest, with training cost and gear rentals, and I couldn't sensibly justify any more. I'm just worried as I get older and more sensible that my money will disappear in other ways, but I'm happy with skydiving being a big part of my life instead of the whole thing.
Finally, the purchase of my rig is a sign of my commitment, and gives me contradictory hope that next year will be different, with jumps by the hundreds and new talents learnt.
Firstly, and most obviously, I've discovered this sport, this magical sport with a guaranteed a rush every time I go. Every skydive is a more exhilarating experience than a lot of people will ever know, no matter what your plan is and how well you follow it. And I know I'm only just beginning.
A more measurable achievement is the attaining of my 'A' licence. It may be the lowest rung on a complex and difficult ladder, but gives me freedom to travel to other drop zones, and is proof that I'm not just doing this for the bragging rights (though I am a bit), but that I'm actually capable and could one day be good. The way I earned it is a source of pride, showing both talent and commitment. The Accelerated Free Fall course is intense and instructors wont think twice about making students repeat levels if they're not up to scratch. Only one failed jump is a genuinely impressive record.
Starting jumping in October was, in hindsight, an impulsive and foolish idea that neatly sums up my mindset at the time. AFF is best done quickly, and the winter weather made this impossible. I spent many days staring at clouded skies, wasting time and doing 140 mile round trips for nothing. It would have been easy give up. I know if I had convinced myself I'd wait until spring I would have never gone back.
The time wasted at the drop zone needn't have been. I could have learnt to pack last winter, but in fairly typical style I put off the hard graft to focus on the fun bit.
I certainly haven't jumped enough. 27 in a year is barely scratching the surface, and I'm fed up of arriving at the drop zone worried about my currency. I'm taking consolation in the fact that the first year is way more expensive than the rest, with training cost and gear rentals, and I couldn't sensibly justify any more. I'm just worried as I get older and more sensible that my money will disappear in other ways, but I'm happy with skydiving being a big part of my life instead of the whole thing.
Finally, the purchase of my rig is a sign of my commitment, and gives me contradictory hope that next year will be different, with jumps by the hundreds and new talents learnt.
Friday 7 October 2011
Unhappy anniversary
One year ago today I made my first ever jump. On the way up I was more scared than I had ever been before, seriously questioning whether I was even going to jump. Even in the open door, looking down at the ground so far below I still hadn't made my decision. However, we practice the exit routine on the ground and though I thought I was going to decide at the time once I had checked in with my instructors I just followed the process. Before I knew it I was in freefall. I don't even remember the first few seconds of the jump, as a phenomenon known as "sensory overload" took over fairly heavily. It's the only time it's ever got me even slightly, but I may as well have been unconscious. Once I got over it I started to enjoy myself, and as the rest of the jump went better and better I started falling in love. The second my feet touched the ground I knew I was hooked.
Today, to celebrate this anniversary, I planned to take the day off work and head to the drop zone. Hopefully I could get a couple of jumps, but if the weather was bad I could learn how to pack my new parachute properly from one of the instructors. However, events have conspired against me.
While I was out running a minor slip and small, painless collision left my finger rather spectacularly dislocated. A quick attempt to sort it myself resulted in a huge amount of pain, no movement from the offending digit and the conclusion that professional medical assistance was required. The NHS did themselves proud and I finished my evening with a reset finger and a prolonged high from the nitrous oxide.
It's already been re-examined and had the splint and bandages removed, so I'm making good progress but jumping is off the agenda for this weekend at least. It's on my left hand and if I found myself needing to use my reserve handle for any reason I imagine I probably could, but I'd rather wait until I'm fully fit. The sky will still be there next week. At least now I have an answer next time someone says i could hurt myself skydiving...
Today, to celebrate this anniversary, I planned to take the day off work and head to the drop zone. Hopefully I could get a couple of jumps, but if the weather was bad I could learn how to pack my new parachute properly from one of the instructors. However, events have conspired against me.
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| Now, I'm not a doctor but... |
It's already been re-examined and had the splint and bandages removed, so I'm making good progress but jumping is off the agenda for this weekend at least. It's on my left hand and if I found myself needing to use my reserve handle for any reason I imagine I probably could, but I'd rather wait until I'm fully fit. The sky will still be there next week. At least now I have an answer next time someone says i could hurt myself skydiving...
Friday 30 September 2011
A plunge taken
I'm a naturally cautious person. And I don't plan on rushing the process of buying a rig. So, obviously, I now own one. The first one I went to see. I regret nothing, but then I haven't jumped it yet. This week I went to the bank, got out the most money I've ever held in my hands then did another 200 mile round trip to exchange it for a peach of a rig. 4 years old and only 140 jumps is way better than I was hoping for.
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| The urge to get naked and roll around in it was almost overwhelming |
It's not perfect. Reserve parachutes, the ones that are deployed when your main malfunctions, are repacked every six months by a fully qualified rigger, and this one is way overdue. I won't be allowed anywhere near a plane with it until this is done. The Automatic Activation Device, which deploys the aforementioned reserve if it detects I'm still in freefall under 1000', is due it's 4 year service. Which means the entire rig has to be sent to Germany. Also, it's filthy. It spent most of its active life at Empuriabrava, a jumper's paradise that covers everything that goes near it with a solid layer of impregnable dust.
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| My little piece of nylon-based freedom |
The main problem with it is that it's too small. Canopies are measured in square feet, the smaller ones are faster and more manoeuvrable which makes them more fun but also more dangerous. I'm currently jumping a 220. I was looking for a 190, but this is only a 168. It just means I'll have to rent club rigs for a few more jumps, which isn't an issue if I can display some patience I've so far been completely devoid of. Oh, and the colour scheme doesn't match my jumpsuit.
But the advantages make the problems inconsequential. It's in great condition, almost new. I'll get it clean, get it sorted and then be able to jump it for years. I don't believe in the idea of seeing something and immediately knowing it's what you want. That said, when I first went to see it, after I tried it on I instinctively kept it over my shoulder instead of handing it back to the seller. It's a great fit, but maybe it just felt right.
But the advantages make the problems inconsequential. It's in great condition, almost new. I'll get it clean, get it sorted and then be able to jump it for years. I don't believe in the idea of seeing something and immediately knowing it's what you want. That said, when I first went to see it, after I tried it on I instinctively kept it over my shoulder instead of handing it back to the seller. It's a great fit, but maybe it just felt right.
Monday 26 September 2011
Taking risks
I'm a naturally cautious person. Really. There are all sorts of different types of risk in this world, and the rewards for each have to be analysed before they will be taken or abandoned. We all do this process instinctively, hundreds of times a day. And we all see the rewards, and the probabilities, differently. I, for example, have looked at skydiving, seen the facts, spent time at the dropzone and decided I'll probably be fine and the thrill of each jump is worth it.
When it comes to large scale purchases, however, I'm a wuss. It takes me 3 months to buy a car. I have to find the best possible one, and then this has to be checked relentlessly. I'm too worried about getting scammed. This leaves me slightly uncomfortable with the situation in which I find myself.
Yesterday I went to the South Cerney dropzone near Swindon. My purpose was not to jump, but to meet someone coming from Cardiff who had a rig to sell. It seemed good. But, being my usual cautious self, I wanted it to be looked over by a rigger, someone who's job it is to check and maintain parachutes, to make sure there were no hidden issues. He spent approximately 30 seconds looking at it and asking questions before without even checking the canopies within he declared if I didn't want it he would buy it then and there. This was about as good a recommendation as I could hope for, but a part of me would have liked him to take it all apart and inspect every inch of it. In an unusual show of retail bravery, I said I would buy it.
The seller would only take cash, which I didn't have, so we are meeting up again to make the exchange. Before we could even leave the dropzone the rigger let the seller know that he had two other jumpers who had said they wanted it. I know I'm getting it for a steal, so I'm praying the seller doesn't decide he can get more money for it and call the deal off. I wouldn't really blame him if he did. If I do get it, I'll hand over thousands of pounds for a parachute I've never even seen. I'll probably be getting something fantastic. That's the risk.
Thursday 22 September 2011
One careful owner
Parachutes are like cars.
There are different brands, and these are perceived to have certain characteristics - sporty, safe, old fashioned, budget. Everybody in the group has one, and there's a large amount of arguing the pros and cons of various types.
The biggest similarity is the way you own them. You usually learn with one that isn't yours. Your first will be something slow, safe and well used. From there you progress to something that goes faster and costs more. If you have even a mild interest you spend a lot of time looking online and in magazines at the latest, best models you can't possible afford. And no matter how good yours is, someone always has a better one.
I'm currently looking for my first rig. The reason I only do a couple of jumps a month is that I've been saving money for it. Renting gear from the club doubles the cost of each jump, and in an already expensive sport this is a outlay I don't need. I have a budget, I'm looking for something used but in decent condition, not quite at the bottom of the pile. A rig's condition is also measured in jumps, and I want something in the hundreds, not thousands.
The trouble is the size of the market. Skydiving has a small community, so used rigs don't come up very often. I spend an unhealthy amount of time scouring UK Skydiver but it's a difficult process. If you discount everything too old, too expensive, too big or too small (both harness and canopy size) then there are only a couple of rigs on sale that would suit me. Still, I'll be buying something that will be the physical representation of the sport I love, something that will save my life every time I leave the aircraft. It's not a process I plan on rushing.
There are different brands, and these are perceived to have certain characteristics - sporty, safe, old fashioned, budget. Everybody in the group has one, and there's a large amount of arguing the pros and cons of various types.
The biggest similarity is the way you own them. You usually learn with one that isn't yours. Your first will be something slow, safe and well used. From there you progress to something that goes faster and costs more. If you have even a mild interest you spend a lot of time looking online and in magazines at the latest, best models you can't possible afford. And no matter how good yours is, someone always has a better one.
I'm currently looking for my first rig. The reason I only do a couple of jumps a month is that I've been saving money for it. Renting gear from the club doubles the cost of each jump, and in an already expensive sport this is a outlay I don't need. I have a budget, I'm looking for something used but in decent condition, not quite at the bottom of the pile. A rig's condition is also measured in jumps, and I want something in the hundreds, not thousands.
The trouble is the size of the market. Skydiving has a small community, so used rigs don't come up very often. I spend an unhealthy amount of time scouring UK Skydiver but it's a difficult process. If you discount everything too old, too expensive, too big or too small (both harness and canopy size) then there are only a couple of rigs on sale that would suit me. Still, I'll be buying something that will be the physical representation of the sport I love, something that will save my life every time I leave the aircraft. It's not a process I plan on rushing.
Sunday 18 September 2011
Only dead fish go with the flow
#27 10-09-11 (Part 2)
So there I am, hanging under my canopy, watching a tandem glide away from me and marvelling at physics, human innovation and the universe in general, when I turn towards the landing zone to gauge my progress so I can work out an approach. There's a technique we use to work out where we're going to land. As you sink your perspective of the ground changes. The top of your view gets shallower, the bottom gets steeper. The point where these affects meet, where your view stays steady, that's where your going to land. After couple of seconds I realise everything in front of me is getting shallower. I'm going straight down.
I have a problem. A parachute moves through the air at a certain forward speed. But the air moves as well. We call this phenomenon 'wind'. So if you're moving with the wind you speed over the ground is increased, and when your moving against it it reduced. If you fly directly into the wind, and it's at a speed roughly the same as the forward speed of your parachute, you'll go nowhere. And I was. Fast.
I was a few hundred metres from the nearest edge of the Landing Zone, but I didn't panic. Headcorn, the drop zone, has a great location, surrounded by nothing but fields (and a few lion cages). Plus the winds will be slower at lower altitudes, so I might get some penetration then (no sniggering - that's the technical term).
I pick a field just ahead of me that looks good, aside from being full of sheep. I was supposed to be testing out a new canopy, to see how it flies. That idea is discarded now - I want to land as close to the drop zone as possible, so I keep the canopy facing into the wind. However, I do a couple of flat turns - these are safe even close to the ground, and stalls as these will slow my landing to a more comfortable pace. Pretty soon I'm at a thousand feet and barely any closer the the DZ. I'm thinking about nothing but landing, and the sheep field is looking pretty good.
I should explain at this point that I'm not only one whose completely focused on my actions. My girlfriend, Monika, is waiting back at the drop zone.She doesn't understand the intricacies of skydiving, yet, but she may have figured out something's wrong. I hope she's not worrying about me.
Technocrati admin: BXHH59G3FBMX
So there I am, hanging under my canopy, watching a tandem glide away from me and marvelling at physics, human innovation and the universe in general, when I turn towards the landing zone to gauge my progress so I can work out an approach. There's a technique we use to work out where we're going to land. As you sink your perspective of the ground changes. The top of your view gets shallower, the bottom gets steeper. The point where these affects meet, where your view stays steady, that's where your going to land. After couple of seconds I realise everything in front of me is getting shallower. I'm going straight down.
I have a problem. A parachute moves through the air at a certain forward speed. But the air moves as well. We call this phenomenon 'wind'. So if you're moving with the wind you speed over the ground is increased, and when your moving against it it reduced. If you fly directly into the wind, and it's at a speed roughly the same as the forward speed of your parachute, you'll go nowhere. And I was. Fast.
I was a few hundred metres from the nearest edge of the Landing Zone, but I didn't panic. Headcorn, the drop zone, has a great location, surrounded by nothing but fields (and a few lion cages). Plus the winds will be slower at lower altitudes, so I might get some penetration then (no sniggering - that's the technical term).
I pick a field just ahead of me that looks good, aside from being full of sheep. I was supposed to be testing out a new canopy, to see how it flies. That idea is discarded now - I want to land as close to the drop zone as possible, so I keep the canopy facing into the wind. However, I do a couple of flat turns - these are safe even close to the ground, and stalls as these will slow my landing to a more comfortable pace. Pretty soon I'm at a thousand feet and barely any closer the the DZ. I'm thinking about nothing but landing, and the sheep field is looking pretty good.
I should explain at this point that I'm not only one whose completely focused on my actions. My girlfriend, Monika, is waiting back at the drop zone.She doesn't understand the intricacies of skydiving, yet, but she may have figured out something's wrong. I hope she's not worrying about me.
Monika's view of me - when I'm landing a canopy that actually goes forwards.
As I get lower I start to move forward, slowly. At 500' I realise I'm going to come close to the hedge at the edge of my field, so I put in a couple of flat turns to burn some altitude then line up into the wind. The sheep scatter as I get low - I can't help but grin - then I'm flaring as the ground comes up to meet me. It looks pretty good but there are too many unknowns in play so I drop into a Parachute Landing Fall - the safest, but least glamorous way of touching down. I get up, collect up my parachute, and start the walk back to where I should have been. Piece of cake.
I get back to the landing zone in time to catch the minivan back to manifest, and get the front seat. As we pull up I see Monika standing against fence closest to the LZ. I give a big smile, hoping she never noticed anything was wrong. Not a chance. I get a look back that suggests she doesn't know whether to kiss me or slap me. I was lucky. I got the kiss.
Technocrati admin: BXHH59G3FBMX
Saturday 17 September 2011
The sky - smaller than you think
The jump that kicked this off - #27 10-09-11 (Part 1)
Usually my second jump of the day is less nervous than the first. The nerves are never too bad anyway, it's amazing how quickly you get used to such an extreme event. However, this time I had a different, smaller parachute on my back. I wasn't sure how it would fly, but I knew it would be quicker, more aggressive. I had between the time it opened and the time I reached the ground to work it out or my landing would be rough and probably painful. But I was ready, I had a lot of jumps on the larger canopy and my understanding of how parachutes work was increasing with each of them.
We had a full load, 14 of us squeezed into the back of the jump plane. Across from me was a tandem. I like tandems. They're the dropzone's cash cow, and keep lift tickets for us fun jumpers close to affordable. They're also almost always first time jumpers, and the emotions they go through are great, both because they remind me of my first jump and because they're absolutely hilarious. This one was particularly good. She started panicking as the plane left the ground, and announced how we were so high every 30 seconds or so, looking out of the windows wide-eyed, swearing at her friends who were jumping with her.
As we reached altitude I started my usual routine, checking my rig, giving 'cool' skydiver handshakes to the jumpers around me, but I also leant over to the tandem instructor she was strapped to, patted him on the shoulder and said "Good luck Pete." Then the door opened and the swearing increased in volume, coarseness and frequency. 20 seconds later my turn came up. I got in the door, tried to focus on my exit and went. It sucked.
Freefall was amazing. It always is. But with a new canopy I wanted more time with it open, so I pulled at 6000' instead of 4. I watched it unfurl above me, thought how small it looked, then cleared my airspace and checked I had full control of it. The plan from here was to do some turns and stalls to see how the new parachute handled. However, I paused for a second as something caught my eye. A couple of hundred metres away from me was another falling object. As it started to expand I realised it was another parachute. Beneath it was a shape that must have been two people, a tandem. The whole assembly decelerated as the canopy opened, but something kept falling away from them. This was a videot, another skydiver paid to film the tandem's jump. He would open much lower, so he was on the ground ready to film the tandems landing.
I'm not sure I can convey how amazing all this was to see. Most of my jumps have been solo, and out there a mile from the ground you can feel pretty isolated. To see other people sharing my experience so close was fantastic. I let myself enjoy the moment for a second, then turned towards the landing area. I had work to do. Unfortunately at this point things got interesting...
Usually my second jump of the day is less nervous than the first. The nerves are never too bad anyway, it's amazing how quickly you get used to such an extreme event. However, this time I had a different, smaller parachute on my back. I wasn't sure how it would fly, but I knew it would be quicker, more aggressive. I had between the time it opened and the time I reached the ground to work it out or my landing would be rough and probably painful. But I was ready, I had a lot of jumps on the larger canopy and my understanding of how parachutes work was increasing with each of them.
We had a full load, 14 of us squeezed into the back of the jump plane. Across from me was a tandem. I like tandems. They're the dropzone's cash cow, and keep lift tickets for us fun jumpers close to affordable. They're also almost always first time jumpers, and the emotions they go through are great, both because they remind me of my first jump and because they're absolutely hilarious. This one was particularly good. She started panicking as the plane left the ground, and announced how we were so high every 30 seconds or so, looking out of the windows wide-eyed, swearing at her friends who were jumping with her.
As we reached altitude I started my usual routine, checking my rig, giving 'cool' skydiver handshakes to the jumpers around me, but I also leant over to the tandem instructor she was strapped to, patted him on the shoulder and said "Good luck Pete." Then the door opened and the swearing increased in volume, coarseness and frequency. 20 seconds later my turn came up. I got in the door, tried to focus on my exit and went. It sucked.
Freefall was amazing. It always is. But with a new canopy I wanted more time with it open, so I pulled at 6000' instead of 4. I watched it unfurl above me, thought how small it looked, then cleared my airspace and checked I had full control of it. The plan from here was to do some turns and stalls to see how the new parachute handled. However, I paused for a second as something caught my eye. A couple of hundred metres away from me was another falling object. As it started to expand I realised it was another parachute. Beneath it was a shape that must have been two people, a tandem. The whole assembly decelerated as the canopy opened, but something kept falling away from them. This was a videot, another skydiver paid to film the tandem's jump. He would open much lower, so he was on the ground ready to film the tandems landing.
I'm not sure I can convey how amazing all this was to see. Most of my jumps have been solo, and out there a mile from the ground you can feel pretty isolated. To see other people sharing my experience so close was fantastic. I let myself enjoy the moment for a second, then turned towards the landing area. I had work to do. Unfortunately at this point things got interesting...
Friday 16 September 2011
So many 'Why?'s
I am a jumper. A skydiver. At weekends, when the weather is sunny and my bank account is in the black, I like nothing better than to drive to a small airfield 70 miles away, strap a bag full of nylon onto my back, sit on the floor of an ancient, cramped aircraft as it climbs to 12000 feet then open the door and throw myself out. The majority of people consider this stupid, reckless or crazy. Something for suicidal adrenaline junkies only, or to be experienced once under the control of a tame suicidal adrenaline junkie and then left well alone before the numbers catch up with you. In a lot of ways they're right.
So why do I do it? In a word - boredom. Not the "I've got nothing to do today, hmm, skydiving" kind of boredom but a slow realisation that modern day life is so sanitised and safe that it's lacking a primal excitement, an integral element shared by all life. Human beings don't ever have to run from something trying to eat them any more, and whilst this is probably a good thing the downside is we miss the rush of getting away. When you skydive that changes. From 12,000 feet you find yourself heading towards the ground at 120mph, and you have less than 2 minutes before gravity turns you into a statistic. Saving yourself is easy, but you still have to do it. Jumping takes me closer to death, and I've never felt more alive.
So why write a blog? We have a log book to record jumps. It's a legal requirement, with more advanced parts of the sport requiring certain numbers of signed jumps. I fill out my log book as soon as I get down, when the memories are most vivid. However, my handwriting, which is terrible at the best of times, is not aided by the adrenaline coursing through my veins, a state which I can find maintained for hours after a jump. My mental faculties are similarly reduced, so there would be little chance of any eloquent prose (less than now, anyway). I also want to share these experiences, and most of my nearest and dearest are too busy or too terrified to come to the drop zone.
So why the title? Well, I consider myself a mediocre-to-good jumper, for my numbers. I have a pilot's licence, something that aids me under canopy as I understand how bodies move through the air, I'm good at spotting other objects in the sky and I can judge distances to the ground and fly neat landing patterns. My freefall isn't bad either. Of the seven training levels you have to complete to be allowed to jump solo, I failed once, a record I am led to believe is very strong. However, my exit, the moment at which I leave the plane, is shocking.
So why do I do it? In a word - boredom. Not the "I've got nothing to do today, hmm, skydiving" kind of boredom but a slow realisation that modern day life is so sanitised and safe that it's lacking a primal excitement, an integral element shared by all life. Human beings don't ever have to run from something trying to eat them any more, and whilst this is probably a good thing the downside is we miss the rush of getting away. When you skydive that changes. From 12,000 feet you find yourself heading towards the ground at 120mph, and you have less than 2 minutes before gravity turns you into a statistic. Saving yourself is easy, but you still have to do it. Jumping takes me closer to death, and I've never felt more alive.
So why write a blog? We have a log book to record jumps. It's a legal requirement, with more advanced parts of the sport requiring certain numbers of signed jumps. I fill out my log book as soon as I get down, when the memories are most vivid. However, my handwriting, which is terrible at the best of times, is not aided by the adrenaline coursing through my veins, a state which I can find maintained for hours after a jump. My mental faculties are similarly reduced, so there would be little chance of any eloquent prose (less than now, anyway). I also want to share these experiences, and most of my nearest and dearest are too busy or too terrified to come to the drop zone.
So why the title? Well, I consider myself a mediocre-to-good jumper, for my numbers. I have a pilot's licence, something that aids me under canopy as I understand how bodies move through the air, I'm good at spotting other objects in the sky and I can judge distances to the ground and fly neat landing patterns. My freefall isn't bad either. Of the seven training levels you have to complete to be allowed to jump solo, I failed once, a record I am led to believe is very strong. However, my exit, the moment at which I leave the plane, is shocking.
Looks good doesn't it? Well, the asymmetric legs are going to cost me in the next few seconds. And the old student jumpsuit is hideous
Even after 27 (and counting) exits I think I'm still completely overwhelmed by the experience. The first few seconds all my brain can yell is "This is amazing!" and "What the hell am I doing?!" Soon enough I sort myself out, but before that there's a bit of tumbling. This is referred to as being unstable. I'm good at it.
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