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.

The International Language of Skydiving

Jump #32 16-07-12

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.

My concerns proved completely unfounded, and I was fully questioned and briefed before I was allowed anywhere near any kit. I had decided to go for a bigger parachute, something slower and safer, and the instructor working with me had apparently made the same decision. With a 240 square foot main strapped to my back I made my way to the L-410 jump-plane. It was excellent, well maintained and fast with seating along either side and enough space to do gear checks on the way to altitude. As we made our way up I got into the zone, running through what should happen on the jump and what could happen. Despite having a tandem student to worry about the instructor that had briefed me noticed my state of mind and uttered some rare English: "Relax." I like to think he had misinterpreted my mood.

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.

As people started to exit if you'd asked me I wouldn't have remembered I was in Poland, surrounded by people I couldn't talk to. This was a jump like any other. My turn came up and there was no hesitation, I was out. My exit was ok, still with a bit of rotation, and I was soon stable and enjoying the Polish countryside, which wouldn't have looked out of place around Headcorn. At pull height I got a beautiful, on-heading opening. As I descended I was thrown by the size of the drop zone below me. It was bisected by a huge tarmac runway that was large enough to throw off my sense of scale, and I constantly felt lower than I was. I made sure to fly a perfect pattern but overflew my intended landing spot and flared slightly early. I controlled it and landed smoothly, quite proud of myself. My first jump in a non-English speaking country had been the best of the year.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

An estimated field of view at altitude

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...

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 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.

Back to School

My annual leave is renewed on December the first. This is to stop impulsive, reckless types using it all up before Christmas. It's a nice idea but it means work slows to a crawl in November because selfish idiots are using up unspent holiday. This year, as with most years, I was one of those idiots.

It was for this reason that I found myself on the way to the drop zone today. The weather sucked, but I was hoping it would clear up later. Unfortunately as I arrived I was greeted by a very empty car park. My fears were confirmed by speaking to the instructors - there were no tandems there and without them the chance of any lifts going up were negligible. Fortunately I had planned for just such an eventuality. I grabbed my rig and headed for the packing shed. An instructor was coerced into giving me a packing lesson.

First off was a spectacular vindication. Clem, the instructor, was staggered by the idea of flat-packing my canopy. The material and configuration is different to the student rigs I'd been using so far, and it wasn't feasible. A lot of my frustrations from the last post were fully justified. I was taught pro-packing, which is done with the canopy hanging over my shoulders instead if lying on the ground. Things went much better than before, up until I had to get the canopy in the bag.

If I ever need it, I've probably messed up

At this point you can basically read the 7th paragraph of my last entry. Things did go better this time, I might actually jump this one, if I absolutely had to. It still took a half dozen attempts to get it there, but with Clem watching over my progress and suggesting ways to make it easier I triumphed. Half way through he admitted he wouldn't recommend a low number Zero-P canopy (which mine is) to a new jumper, because of the difficulty of packing them, and I responded "At least after this I'll be able to pack anything." with an optimism I wasn't really feeling.

Eventually I got it all packed and was able to chat to Clem about the need for an AAD service and reserve repack. He immediately got the AAD out my rig (which meant I got to pull my reserve handle - very exciting) and got me set up to send it off the the manufacturer.

With the weather poor and no other jumpers on site I thanked Clem and headed home. I'm continuing to waste holiday next week, so I've got my fingers crossed for just one day with good weather and a busy drop zone.