07/07/13
Three fantastic jumps. Jumps so good just one of them would have been enough to class the day as a full success. To pull off all three of them within hours of each other was fantastic. Each one one was given an objective, and each objective wasn't just met but blitzed.
The first was all about the exit. That's all I wanted to do. Nail the exit. And that's exactly what I did. In hindsight it seemed so simple. Just jump out, making sure to twist forwards so I'm facing the airflow and let physics do the rest. That's what I've been trying to do all this time.
I understand why I was struggling. My brain has learned to deal with the raucous hurricane of freefall, but there's still that moment as I leave the door when it screams "AND WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO?!". That's in no way a bad sensation.
This time it was different. Perhaps I focused harder. Perhaps I'm just that little bit more used to it. Whatever it was I shaped up perfectly and dropped into the belly-to-earth position without a trace of spinning or flipping.
On the ground I planned the rest of the day. Two more jumps. The second needed to prove the previous exit wasn't a fluke. Then some tracking, because it's been a while. And if that went well, number three would be a fun jump. No rules, no goals, just as much stupidity as I could manage.
And so it happened. My second exit was again bang on. Perhaps confused by how easy this was becoming I lost my bearings and it took me 500' to confirm the direction I needed to track in. Then I was off. Halfway through I remembered a couple of tips I'd read to improve my body positioning and as I shifted I could feel my forward speed increase.
On the last jump things got off to a bad start. The heat limited us to 9000' instead of 12, so I'd have less time for chaos. I went out with no intention of trying to stay stable, facing the door and watching the plane as it shrank away. I stayed like that for a few seconds, just ragdolling on my way back to the planet. Then I checked my altitude and curled up into a ball, whipping through two axes in dizzying spin. Levelling out I stayed on my belly until pull time, but as I was about to wave off and track a little I spotted a canopy opening closer than it should have been. I turned away from it and pulled, confused by its proximity. I had left a sufficient gap before my exit, so I guess my tumbling fall must have slid me down the jump run.
With the parachute safely deployed I checked my airspace. The load only had one tandem and no videos, so the air was thick with canopies at my level. The increased risk of a collision was evident, but this wasn't worrying, I was just more alert. Watching these people soar around and below me was beautiful, and the whole thing was rounded off by a final tip-toe landing.
Next time will probably suck.
Diary of a Casual Skydiver
Showing posts with label Jumps. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jumps. Show all posts
Monday, 8 July 2013
Sunday, 26 May 2013
Business as usual
In many ways today was unremarkable. In the most important ways, it was great.
As is typically the case I got to the drop zone later that I wanted, and found it to be the hive of activity you would hope on such a glorious day. After such a long lay-off I needed some recurrency training, but with things so busy it took forever to get time with an instructor. Training was passed easily, I don't think I could forget my emergency procedures if I wanted to, and I was lucky enough to get on the next load.
I don't mind admitting that the time away from the sport had knocked my usually high confidence and on the flight-line the Jump Master, the jumper who was coordinating the load, picked up on my nerves. Speaking with him and another skydiver I let them know history indicated I'd be fine as soon as I got out of the plane, not realising I had set up the best moment of the day.
On the jump run one of the jumpers I had been talking with happened to be the man out before me and after making a normal exit, as I was setting up in the door, he flipped onto his back and gave me a big smile and thumbs up. I instinctively reciprocated, and as he fell away and I got ready to go the feeling of pure (for want of a better word) awesomeness of what I was doing was irrepressible. Then I went.
The jump was what I'd expect after a long break. My exit was poor but I corrected it with an easy flip. I did nothing in freefall, just loving the sensation I had all but forgotten. This time my deployment was clean and I got to keep the first canopy that appeared above me. My landing pattern was neat but my touch-down sloppy, requiring a dropped knee. Then it was done, and I was pleased to be back.
Second confession: I've been wondering if skydiving is still for me. It's a lot of effort, it's dangerous and it's expensive. But it's worth it. Now I've reminded myself how it feels I know I want to keep going. I'm still not sure how involved I'm going to be. Right now, with the last of the dopamine being replaced by that contented feeling you get after any special exertion I want to jump as much as possible, but in a few days time I'll have bills to pay and weekend plans and so I may only do a few jumps a year.
That's fine. I've always put safety first and as long as I continue to ensure I'm not a danger to myself or anyone else on the load skydiving just be a special treat. In a weird way I'm quite excited to find out exactly which way I go.
As is typically the case I got to the drop zone later that I wanted, and found it to be the hive of activity you would hope on such a glorious day. After such a long lay-off I needed some recurrency training, but with things so busy it took forever to get time with an instructor. Training was passed easily, I don't think I could forget my emergency procedures if I wanted to, and I was lucky enough to get on the next load.
I don't mind admitting that the time away from the sport had knocked my usually high confidence and on the flight-line the Jump Master, the jumper who was coordinating the load, picked up on my nerves. Speaking with him and another skydiver I let them know history indicated I'd be fine as soon as I got out of the plane, not realising I had set up the best moment of the day.
On the jump run one of the jumpers I had been talking with happened to be the man out before me and after making a normal exit, as I was setting up in the door, he flipped onto his back and gave me a big smile and thumbs up. I instinctively reciprocated, and as he fell away and I got ready to go the feeling of pure (for want of a better word) awesomeness of what I was doing was irrepressible. Then I went.
The jump was what I'd expect after a long break. My exit was poor but I corrected it with an easy flip. I did nothing in freefall, just loving the sensation I had all but forgotten. This time my deployment was clean and I got to keep the first canopy that appeared above me. My landing pattern was neat but my touch-down sloppy, requiring a dropped knee. Then it was done, and I was pleased to be back.
Second confession: I've been wondering if skydiving is still for me. It's a lot of effort, it's dangerous and it's expensive. But it's worth it. Now I've reminded myself how it feels I know I want to keep going. I'm still not sure how involved I'm going to be. Right now, with the last of the dopamine being replaced by that contented feeling you get after any special exertion I want to jump as much as possible, but in a few days time I'll have bills to pay and weekend plans and so I may only do a few jumps a year.
That's fine. I've always put safety first and as long as I continue to ensure I'm not a danger to myself or anyone else on the load skydiving just be a special treat. In a weird way I'm quite excited to find out exactly which way I go.
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.
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| 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.
Sunday, 18 December 2011
Cold, Blind, and Alone in the Void
#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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.
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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...
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