Skydiving is expensive and heavily weather dependent. At the start of last year I had no choice to take a long break from it, first because the English winter does not provide many days a sane man would jump in, and then because my bank account became stretched to its limits with other pressures. When I finally did jump, in May, I had my first ever malfunction. In training you drill and drill but until you actually find yourself at 6000' with a parachute that has failed to deploy in a land-able configuration you don't know how it's going to go. Seeing as I walked away from it, I think it went pretty well.
The weather this year has been very poor, and though it's picked up in the last couple of months I've chosen to spend a lot of money and time doing other things that could not be rescheduled. I don't regret these choices for a second, but it has meant jumping has had to take a back seat again. Tomorrow I hope to make my first jump in months. And it's May. Damn.
The jury is still out on exactly how much the mal was my fault. Lineovers are mysterious things, poor body position on my part may have contributed, but equally it could have been dumb luck. In truth, knowing how well it turned out, I'm glad it happened. It's a real test I've passed, and a great story I'll tell for the rest of my life. But I'd rather not go through it again.
Diary of a Casual Skydiver
Saturday, 25 May 2013
Sunday, 14 October 2012
Out with the Old
#39, 40, 41 - 14/10/12
During the first 6 months of my time skydiving I had a frankly sucky success rate when it came actually jumping after I got to the drop zone. It's a sport very dependent on the weather, and I've had trips foiled by rain, wind and cloud.
So I thought I'd seen it all.
Until I turned up early today, to find the airfield covered in a thick layer fog. However, lurking in the gloom was a pleasant surprise.
The most despised Islander was sitting, looking for a new owner, because next to it was a glorious new(ish) Caravan. Pretty soon the sun burnt away the fog and I got a chance to see what the new plane was like.
God damn it's fast.
Newer and lighter than the other Caravan, I found myself genuinely shocked by how little time it took us to get to altitude on each jump. This bodes well for the future.
My first jump was an exercise in mediocrity. My exit, tracking, pattern and landing were all "ok" in the most depressing sense of the word. There was nothing hugely wrong with it but I've done all of the elements of that jump much better before. My landing was a pretty solid stand-up, which I was pleased with.
The second jump was an improvement in all areas. Still not fantastic, but much better. The exception to this was my landing which was the smoothest ever. I touched down like an experienced butterfly on a sturdy leaf, or some other equally cliched metaphor. Anyway, it was good.
The last jump was an unequivocal f**k-up. Whenever I exit I make sure to check I'm in the right sort of place to get back to the landing area, though there's never been a problem before because I'm never the first man out so someone else has got us in the right place first. Well, it turns out my brain doesn't actually do anything during this check because immediately after I got out I realised the airfield was beautifully obscured by a nice big cloud. My plan was to do some flips and turns but this immediately got cancelled as I fell towards the huge white monster. I watched the jumper who got out before me, silhouetted against the cloud, as he clipped its edge, then I fell into it. I knew I was well clear of the other guy but I was still concerned by the possibility of a collision. Watching my altimeter my pull height of 5000' came and went. As it reached 4000' the cloud started to clear and I pulled. As I got down the pattern seemed busier than usual, with more canopies landing together than usual, but I maintained good situational awareness and landed well again.
After talking to a senior instructor I understand better what I did wrong. Skydivers tend to play it a bit hard and fast with the "avoid cloud" rule. He said that if you can identify the landmarks around that's ok, and that's what I did. Also, I've been down to 4000' before. It's a safe pull height. The two things I did wrong were not checking the spot properly, and not jumping the plan. Both of them were ok this time, and, after today, both of them I'm sure I'll do properly in the future.
During the first 6 months of my time skydiving I had a frankly sucky success rate when it came actually jumping after I got to the drop zone. It's a sport very dependent on the weather, and I've had trips foiled by rain, wind and cloud.
So I thought I'd seen it all.
Until I turned up early today, to find the airfield covered in a thick layer fog. However, lurking in the gloom was a pleasant surprise.
 |
| Just plane better (Sorry) |
The most despised Islander was sitting, looking for a new owner, because next to it was a glorious new(ish) Caravan. Pretty soon the sun burnt away the fog and I got a chance to see what the new plane was like.
God damn it's fast.
Newer and lighter than the other Caravan, I found myself genuinely shocked by how little time it took us to get to altitude on each jump. This bodes well for the future.
My first jump was an exercise in mediocrity. My exit, tracking, pattern and landing were all "ok" in the most depressing sense of the word. There was nothing hugely wrong with it but I've done all of the elements of that jump much better before. My landing was a pretty solid stand-up, which I was pleased with.
The second jump was an improvement in all areas. Still not fantastic, but much better. The exception to this was my landing which was the smoothest ever. I touched down like an experienced butterfly on a sturdy leaf, or some other equally cliched metaphor. Anyway, it was good.
The last jump was an unequivocal f**k-up. Whenever I exit I make sure to check I'm in the right sort of place to get back to the landing area, though there's never been a problem before because I'm never the first man out so someone else has got us in the right place first. Well, it turns out my brain doesn't actually do anything during this check because immediately after I got out I realised the airfield was beautifully obscured by a nice big cloud. My plan was to do some flips and turns but this immediately got cancelled as I fell towards the huge white monster. I watched the jumper who got out before me, silhouetted against the cloud, as he clipped its edge, then I fell into it. I knew I was well clear of the other guy but I was still concerned by the possibility of a collision. Watching my altimeter my pull height of 5000' came and went. As it reached 4000' the cloud started to clear and I pulled. As I got down the pattern seemed busier than usual, with more canopies landing together than usual, but I maintained good situational awareness and landed well again.
After talking to a senior instructor I understand better what I did wrong. Skydivers tend to play it a bit hard and fast with the "avoid cloud" rule. He said that if you can identify the landmarks around that's ok, and that's what I did. Also, I've been down to 4000' before. It's a safe pull height. The two things I did wrong were not checking the spot properly, and not jumping the plan. Both of them were ok this time, and, after today, both of them I'm sure I'll do properly in the future.
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Nailed it!
#37 & 38 - 08/09/12
I got it. Finally. Not sure what's changed. Back in the Caravan (whoop!) I launched myself out, twisting as I went so I faced into relative airflow (because the plane is flying forwards). Physics did its thing and I rotated gently through 90 degrees into the belly-to-earth position, rock solid and in complete control. Having stayed perfectly on-heading the whole time I spun so I was facing perpendicular to the jump-run and then rocketed off in a track, the whole sequence feeling like the most natural thing in the world.
It was a no-wind day, so my landing was a bit faster than usual, and I got dumped unceremoniously on my backside. This didn't dampen my spirits, but I was concerned as a tandem landed near me, close enough that I could hear the instructor yelling "Lift your legs up!". The student didn't respond and I noticed he was completely limp, chin resting on his chest. When his trailing legs caught the ground the two of them were pitched forwards and landed on their front. I jogged over, anxious to help but unsure what I could do. The instructor got up and was crouched over the student, but before I reached them I could hear laughter. The student was still lying on the ground as he had been told, but seemed ok and was making jokes about the experience. Apparently he had been fine the entire jump, then fainted just before landing. Moments later he was back on his feet and fully recovered.
I was hoping my exit wasn't a fluke so an hour later I was back on the plane and when my turn came I was rock-solid again. As I swung belly to earth I couldn't help but kick my legs and punch the air in victory, movements which of course made me unstable and sent me spinning. I recovered immediately, then went off into another track, which was a bit sloppier than the first one. However, on this jump I timed my flare to perfection and landed nicely on my feet, and even my canopy collapsing down on top of me in pure slap-stick gold couldn't take the edge off what was probably my best ever jump.
A great day.
I got it. Finally. Not sure what's changed. Back in the Caravan (whoop!) I launched myself out, twisting as I went so I faced into relative airflow (because the plane is flying forwards). Physics did its thing and I rotated gently through 90 degrees into the belly-to-earth position, rock solid and in complete control. Having stayed perfectly on-heading the whole time I spun so I was facing perpendicular to the jump-run and then rocketed off in a track, the whole sequence feeling like the most natural thing in the world.
It was a no-wind day, so my landing was a bit faster than usual, and I got dumped unceremoniously on my backside. This didn't dampen my spirits, but I was concerned as a tandem landed near me, close enough that I could hear the instructor yelling "Lift your legs up!". The student didn't respond and I noticed he was completely limp, chin resting on his chest. When his trailing legs caught the ground the two of them were pitched forwards and landed on their front. I jogged over, anxious to help but unsure what I could do. The instructor got up and was crouched over the student, but before I reached them I could hear laughter. The student was still lying on the ground as he had been told, but seemed ok and was making jokes about the experience. Apparently he had been fine the entire jump, then fainted just before landing. Moments later he was back on his feet and fully recovered.
I was hoping my exit wasn't a fluke so an hour later I was back on the plane and when my turn came I was rock-solid again. As I swung belly to earth I couldn't help but kick my legs and punch the air in victory, movements which of course made me unstable and sent me spinning. I recovered immediately, then went off into another track, which was a bit sloppier than the first one. However, on this jump I timed my flare to perfection and landed nicely on my feet, and even my canopy collapsing down on top of me in pure slap-stick gold couldn't take the edge off what was probably my best ever jump.
A great day.
Sunday, 19 August 2012
Treasure Island(er)
#36 14/08/12
Headcorn has two jump planes, the Caravan, which is new and big and fast, and the Islander, which is none of these things. Fortunately we mostly use the Caravan, but sometimes it needs to go for maintenance, and then we're left without an option. And this was one of those times.
The thing that gets me about the Islander isn't the extra 5 minutes it takes to haul itself to altitude, or that altitude means 1000' less than in the Caravan, or even that it only carries nine jumpers meaning I might not be able to do as many jumps (as happened this day). No, what gets me is the damn landing gear.
It's a high wing aircraft, but the undercarriage is still on the wing, meaning it has a long support strut, which just happens to be right in front of the door.
I know that the aircraft is flying at 70 knots. I know no matter how hard I throw myself forward I'm going to be left behind. I know nobody ever hits that wheel. And yet, when I got in the door I still thought "I am definitely going to hit that wheel." Seeing as my new plan for obtaining some semblance of stability on exit was to throw myself forward into the airflow this caused an issue. So I went out sideways, and immediately started loop forwards.
It's amazing how fast your brain works when your adrenal glands have just emptied themselves into your bloodstream. In a fraction of a second I realised I wasn't going to be stable, thought "F**k it, if I'm flipping I'm doing it on my terms." and kicked my legs out to put me through a beautiful, on-heading front flip that ended with me slamming into the stable belly-to-earth position.
Was it the stable exit I wanted? No.
Was I stable faster and in a more controlled way than usual? Yes.
From then on the jump was good, but then I didn't really have any objectives. As I came in to land I discovered the winds were stronger near the ground (usually the reverse is true), so I came down short of my target but still well inside the Landing Zone. Continuing the good landing progress from last time I deliberately flared slightly early. The canopy reached a dead stop with my feet still a metre or so from the ground, but then gently lowered me down into an easy stand-up landing.
For me, it was a good jump. Hopefully next time I'm there the Caravan will be back and I can try my new plan for a stable exit without being psyched out by a tyre.
Headcorn has two jump planes, the Caravan, which is new and big and fast, and the Islander, which is none of these things. Fortunately we mostly use the Caravan, but sometimes it needs to go for maintenance, and then we're left without an option. And this was one of those times.
The thing that gets me about the Islander isn't the extra 5 minutes it takes to haul itself to altitude, or that altitude means 1000' less than in the Caravan, or even that it only carries nine jumpers meaning I might not be able to do as many jumps (as happened this day). No, what gets me is the damn landing gear.
It's a high wing aircraft, but the undercarriage is still on the wing, meaning it has a long support strut, which just happens to be right in front of the door.
 |
| Designed specifically to ruin my exit. Courtesy of Colin McGowan, looking at Belize. |
It's amazing how fast your brain works when your adrenal glands have just emptied themselves into your bloodstream. In a fraction of a second I realised I wasn't going to be stable, thought "F**k it, if I'm flipping I'm doing it on my terms." and kicked my legs out to put me through a beautiful, on-heading front flip that ended with me slamming into the stable belly-to-earth position.
Was it the stable exit I wanted? No.
Was I stable faster and in a more controlled way than usual? Yes.
From then on the jump was good, but then I didn't really have any objectives. As I came in to land I discovered the winds were stronger near the ground (usually the reverse is true), so I came down short of my target but still well inside the Landing Zone. Continuing the good landing progress from last time I deliberately flared slightly early. The canopy reached a dead stop with my feet still a metre or so from the ground, but then gently lowered me down into an easy stand-up landing.
For me, it was a good jump. Hopefully next time I'm there the Caravan will be back and I can try my new plan for a stable exit without being psyched out by a tyre.
Thursday, 26 July 2012
Margin of Error
#33, 34, 35 26-07-12
Exits and landings. The beginning and the end of the jump. The bits I suck at. Exits have always been an issue, but a couple of rough landings had knocked my confidence. So with summer finally arriving and providing weather that made it criminal to stay inside I headed for the drop zone to finally get in a day of hardcore jumping.
On my first jump the exit was poor. I rolled right and by the time I sorted out my arch I was far enough over that I completed the rotation instead of rocking back. From there I followed the plan, straight down with some turns, including seeing how fast I could spin whilst remaining in control. The rest of the jump and deployment went fine, but as I got below 500' I started to worry about the landing.
I realise now that I was concerned about flaring too high. At some point in the manoeuvre the forward and downward speed of the canopy both reach zero - the perfect time to land. However, after that the canopy will collapse, dropping you out of the sky. A lack of currency (I'd made 3 jumps all year) had left me without the confidence of exactly when to flare, and not wanting to commit to it fully. This led to me coming in too fast, and having to PLF or slide it out. And so it went with jump one.
As I got up I knew I hadn't pulled the toggles all the way down to complete the flare. The Polish instructor on my last jump had highlighted it then as well. At the other end of the jump I believed if I committed more to my exit, made it a more determined, aggressive move, it might be better.
I put this into practice on jump two. I leaped from the plane, straight into a tracking pose. However, I hadn't considered that the forces on me are different at exit compared to freefall, and found myself plunging towards the earth. Uneven airflow over my shoulders quickly turned this into a spiral. The effect was unexpected and completely, well, fantastic. Tracking forwards is like flying, this was something else. As my speed increased I levelled off and then flew forwards, tracking perpendicular to the jump run. Unable to see my altimeter I correctly guessed 9000', turned and tracked back, opening almost exactly were I had exited.
This time I flared strongly as I approached the ground, and was rewarded with a perfect tip-toes landing. It was probably my best ever and I couldn't keep the grin off my face afterwards.
Jump three was something of an anticlimax. I put my arms forward on another aggressive exit to try and level myself out, but still ended up spinning. Again my tracking was good and I had time to think about my body position and adjust it as I fell. The increase in forward speed was noticeable and satisfying.
The winds had increased on this jump so another stand-up landing was expected and I managed it well. As I started collecting up my canopy several students landed close by. Watching their inexperience I realised that flaring is not as precise an art as I had somehow made it in my head. A canopy doesn't collapse the second it stops moving forwards, but drift leisurely down for a while first. With this psychological block broken I believe I'm now competent at the important end of the jump. Now I just need to sort out the other.
Exits and landings. The beginning and the end of the jump. The bits I suck at. Exits have always been an issue, but a couple of rough landings had knocked my confidence. So with summer finally arriving and providing weather that made it criminal to stay inside I headed for the drop zone to finally get in a day of hardcore jumping.
On my first jump the exit was poor. I rolled right and by the time I sorted out my arch I was far enough over that I completed the rotation instead of rocking back. From there I followed the plan, straight down with some turns, including seeing how fast I could spin whilst remaining in control. The rest of the jump and deployment went fine, but as I got below 500' I started to worry about the landing.
I realise now that I was concerned about flaring too high. At some point in the manoeuvre the forward and downward speed of the canopy both reach zero - the perfect time to land. However, after that the canopy will collapse, dropping you out of the sky. A lack of currency (I'd made 3 jumps all year) had left me without the confidence of exactly when to flare, and not wanting to commit to it fully. This led to me coming in too fast, and having to PLF or slide it out. And so it went with jump one.
As I got up I knew I hadn't pulled the toggles all the way down to complete the flare. The Polish instructor on my last jump had highlighted it then as well. At the other end of the jump I believed if I committed more to my exit, made it a more determined, aggressive move, it might be better.
I put this into practice on jump two. I leaped from the plane, straight into a tracking pose. However, I hadn't considered that the forces on me are different at exit compared to freefall, and found myself plunging towards the earth. Uneven airflow over my shoulders quickly turned this into a spiral. The effect was unexpected and completely, well, fantastic. Tracking forwards is like flying, this was something else. As my speed increased I levelled off and then flew forwards, tracking perpendicular to the jump run. Unable to see my altimeter I correctly guessed 9000', turned and tracked back, opening almost exactly were I had exited.
This time I flared strongly as I approached the ground, and was rewarded with a perfect tip-toes landing. It was probably my best ever and I couldn't keep the grin off my face afterwards.
Jump three was something of an anticlimax. I put my arms forward on another aggressive exit to try and level myself out, but still ended up spinning. Again my tracking was good and I had time to think about my body position and adjust it as I fell. The increase in forward speed was noticeable and satisfying.
The winds had increased on this jump so another stand-up landing was expected and I managed it well. As I started collecting up my canopy several students landed close by. Watching their inexperience I realised that flaring is not as precise an art as I had somehow made it in my head. A canopy doesn't collapse the second it stops moving forwards, but drift leisurely down for a while first. With this psychological block broken I believe I'm now competent at the important end of the jump. Now I just need to sort out the other.
Monday, 16 July 2012
The International Language of Skydiving
A wonderful thing about skydiving is that if you're "soloing" - jumping on your own - once your out of the plane it doesn't matter where in the world you are, the sky is the sky. As long as you've done your homework on the drop zone it can be anywhere on the planet and it wont make any difference - if you're current and confident you should be fine.
With this in mind I found myself becoming less and less nervous as we climbed to altitude above SKYDIVE PETE. The chances of anything happening that would require me to attempt to communicate with the Polish-speaking jumpers around me reduced as time went on, and I knew soon it would just be me and the big blue sky.
There wasn't really much to make me apprehensive. The past hour had filled me with confidence. Deep in the heart of Poland I was still surprised that no one at the drop zone spoke English, which is the international language of the sky and therefore spoken by many pilots and jumpers that have a different native language, and having to rely on Monika to help talk to the staff and fill out the forms had been difficult but the manner in which it had all been done had been highly professional. They had asked all the right questions and I had given all the right answers. We had travelled some distance to get to the drop zone but if I had seen anything that I wasn't happy with I would have had no problem walking away with jumping.
 |
| L-410. A great jumpship. |
One thing I noticed as we climbed was that all the jumpers around me were on rental kit like me, none had there own rig. It was Friday evening, these men were obviously committed skydivers but I guess gear is harder to come by in Poland.
 |
| Just another skydive. |
Skydive Pete is a fantastic drop zone, modern, safe and cheap, and I would recommend it to anyone in the area. You'll need to speak Polish, unless you're lucky enough to have a personal translator like me. Still, I plan on brushing up on "Polish for Jumpers" then I'll be back.
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
My First Malfunction
Finally, I got back in the air. Financial, transport and weather factors
had all conspired to keep me on the ground for a ridiculous five
months, but today I was at the drop zone, and the skies were clear and the
winds were low. First order of business was getting me back up to speed
so I would be safe in the air. I trained with an instructor for about
half an hour, running through procedures and drills. Especially the
emergency drills. I hadn't practiced them to this level since my first jump
course. I never made a single mistake, reacting to each described
emergency quickly and confidently. It's ingrained now, I doubt I'll ever
forget it. With my instructor - and more importantly myself - satisfied I just
had to wait for my turn. It was getting late and so I decided to do
just one jump today to get current then return soon and get in a full
day's jumping.
On the flight up I was nervous, more so than I remember being on my last few jumps. This wasn't a huge surprise, I had spent so long on the ground that the jump plane seemed like an alien environment. I was worried about how I'd react to getting in the door, traditionally the scariest part of the skydive, but when my turn came there was no spike of nerves, and they were joined by a rush of excitement. There was no hesitation as I left the plane. My exit was surprisingly reasonable considering how rusty I was. There was some slow forward rotation but as always a couple of seconds into the jump I reminded myself to arch harder and was quickly stable. My plan for the jump was to do very little, just get used to being in the air again, so I completed a couple of turns and then just enjoyed the sensation and the view. My pull altitude was 6000 feet, back up to student height to allow me plenty of time under canopy. As my altimeter indicated it was time I paused for a second. I had wanted to practice a wave-turn-track, simulating the end of a formation jump, but had half forgotten. The moments hesitation was enough to stop me, and I pulled as usual. The parachute jerked me hard, but as I looked up to check it I realised something was wrong. Instead of a nice clean rectangle I had two triangles pointing at each other. One of the lines that connected me to the parachute was looped over the top of the canopy instead of coming straight down. I identified the malfunction at once: a lineover.
It wasn't exactly the cheesy situation that time slowed down. It was more that I had a whole conversation worth of thoughts with myself in about half a second.
That's a lineover.
I should chop it.
It's club kit. What if I chop it and I shouldn't have?
I'd like to say that I knew I had a lot of spare altitude and I knew I had a little time to make a decision, but I'm not sure that's true. I do believe I was about to cut the canopy away just before any doubt was removed from my mind. The parachute, which had spent the first half-second of it's flight behaving normally, dove sideways, putting me into a high speed spiral dive. When you turn a parachute, even a big one like I fly, you can get some decent turning force, but it didn't come close to the violence of this spin. I instinctively went through my reserve drill, pulling handles with strong, positive motions, and within a second or so I was detached from the canopy. As quick as that was I had still managed to build up a lot of momentum, and I was sent flying horizontally across the sky. I flailed momentarily before remembering to arch to maximise my chances of a clean reserve deployment. In truth the new parachute was probably already out and for the second time in a matter of moments I was rapidly decelerated. I looked up and was treated to the sight of a perfect canopy. Once I was sure my reserve was good I got into the old instincts and was checking my airspace was clear when I spotted a collapsed, drifting parachute over my right shoulder. I realised it was mine a briefly considered following it down to retrieve it. I decided not to based on my lack of both experience and especially currency. I didn't want to risk a dodgy landing for a main we could find later. I concentrated on flying and landing well, but failed. A combination of adrenaline and lack of current experience meant I misjudged my landing pattern and didn't quite make the right field. I was still within the airport boundaries and my landing spot looked good but I chose to PLF instead of standing up. I touched down well and as I got to my feet experience one of the greatest rushes ever, second maybe only to my first ever jump.
As I arrived back at the manifest I spoke to a lot of jumpers, who had either seen me cut away or noticed my deployed reserve. All of them blamed the lineover on packing error instead of poor body positioning. There was a rush of activity as the staff packers checked to see who had packed the malfunction, and I tried to reassure the guilty party these things happen. After I dumped my kit I sought out the rigger who had packed my reserve, and he got a handshake and the traditional offer of a bottle of his choice for saving my life. Instead he requested a crate of beer for the drop zone, so I went into town and bought one immediately. The banter at the dz was up to it's usual standards, and I jokingly informed the instructor that had cleared me that morning we had done so many reserve drills it seemed a shame not to try them in the air. I was desperate to stay until the last lift was down and enjoy a drink with the others but with the weather so good at 7 they were still going up. I had a long drive home so with regret I headed off.
Looking back I can assess my performance:
On the flight up I was nervous, more so than I remember being on my last few jumps. This wasn't a huge surprise, I had spent so long on the ground that the jump plane seemed like an alien environment. I was worried about how I'd react to getting in the door, traditionally the scariest part of the skydive, but when my turn came there was no spike of nerves, and they were joined by a rush of excitement. There was no hesitation as I left the plane. My exit was surprisingly reasonable considering how rusty I was. There was some slow forward rotation but as always a couple of seconds into the jump I reminded myself to arch harder and was quickly stable. My plan for the jump was to do very little, just get used to being in the air again, so I completed a couple of turns and then just enjoyed the sensation and the view. My pull altitude was 6000 feet, back up to student height to allow me plenty of time under canopy. As my altimeter indicated it was time I paused for a second. I had wanted to practice a wave-turn-track, simulating the end of a formation jump, but had half forgotten. The moments hesitation was enough to stop me, and I pulled as usual. The parachute jerked me hard, but as I looked up to check it I realised something was wrong. Instead of a nice clean rectangle I had two triangles pointing at each other. One of the lines that connected me to the parachute was looped over the top of the canopy instead of coming straight down. I identified the malfunction at once: a lineover.
 |
| A lineover. Not mine - only an idiot would take picture instead of dealing with it. Courtesy of Performance Designs |
It wasn't exactly the cheesy situation that time slowed down. It was more that I had a whole conversation worth of thoughts with myself in about half a second.
That's a lineover.
I should chop it.
It's club kit. What if I chop it and I shouldn't have?
I'd like to say that I knew I had a lot of spare altitude and I knew I had a little time to make a decision, but I'm not sure that's true. I do believe I was about to cut the canopy away just before any doubt was removed from my mind. The parachute, which had spent the first half-second of it's flight behaving normally, dove sideways, putting me into a high speed spiral dive. When you turn a parachute, even a big one like I fly, you can get some decent turning force, but it didn't come close to the violence of this spin. I instinctively went through my reserve drill, pulling handles with strong, positive motions, and within a second or so I was detached from the canopy. As quick as that was I had still managed to build up a lot of momentum, and I was sent flying horizontally across the sky. I flailed momentarily before remembering to arch to maximise my chances of a clean reserve deployment. In truth the new parachute was probably already out and for the second time in a matter of moments I was rapidly decelerated. I looked up and was treated to the sight of a perfect canopy. Once I was sure my reserve was good I got into the old instincts and was checking my airspace was clear when I spotted a collapsed, drifting parachute over my right shoulder. I realised it was mine a briefly considered following it down to retrieve it. I decided not to based on my lack of both experience and especially currency. I didn't want to risk a dodgy landing for a main we could find later. I concentrated on flying and landing well, but failed. A combination of adrenaline and lack of current experience meant I misjudged my landing pattern and didn't quite make the right field. I was still within the airport boundaries and my landing spot looked good but I chose to PLF instead of standing up. I touched down well and as I got to my feet experience one of the greatest rushes ever, second maybe only to my first ever jump.
As I arrived back at the manifest I spoke to a lot of jumpers, who had either seen me cut away or noticed my deployed reserve. All of them blamed the lineover on packing error instead of poor body positioning. There was a rush of activity as the staff packers checked to see who had packed the malfunction, and I tried to reassure the guilty party these things happen. After I dumped my kit I sought out the rigger who had packed my reserve, and he got a handshake and the traditional offer of a bottle of his choice for saving my life. Instead he requested a crate of beer for the drop zone, so I went into town and bought one immediately. The banter at the dz was up to it's usual standards, and I jokingly informed the instructor that had cleared me that morning we had done so many reserve drills it seemed a shame not to try them in the air. I was desperate to stay until the last lift was down and enjoy a drink with the others but with the weather so good at 7 they were still going up. I had a long drive home so with regret I headed off.
Looking back I can assess my performance:
- I'm fairly sure it was the packjob and not my flying that caused the malfunction, but I'll do a bit more research.
- I shouldn't have hesitated when deciding to chop. This time I had altitude, next time I might not be do lucky.
- At the end of the day, we practise these drills again and again but until you need to use them in the air you can't be sure how well you'll do. I walked away from a serious malfunction and that's a win in my book. I actually feel more confident knowing I'm capable, and I hope to prove that theory with a good day back at the drop zone next week.
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