"Why would anyone jump from a perfectly good airplane?" is a question often asked by those of us who fly perfectly good airplanes. Well, if you've ever seen a jump plane, you'd know: no seats, bare aluminum walls, minimal instruments, ugh.

"author, with power lines, contemplates brevity of life"

"Why did I jump from a perfectly good airplane, er, jump plane?" Simple, really. One of those mid-life crisis birthdays had crept up on me: 39 … again … and again … . Instead of buying a hot sports car or running off with a hotter cocktail waitress, I chose to jump from an airplane.

Back when I was young, dumb and full of dumb ideas, I had wanted to jump but didn't. Why now? Well, hell, bragging rights for one: "You mean, you were 39 … again … and again, and you actually jumped? Gee, you must be some man." Or something like that. Besides, I give spin training, and occasionally fly aerobatics - learning to jump from an airplane might prove useful someday.

And … if the chute failed to open … ? Well, hell … I was 39 again … and again … what did it matter. Life was over anyway.

I had, at the time, a friend who was similarly aged and deranged and he had an 18 year old son who wasn't about to let his old man show him up. My friend, Robert, lived near Bend, Oregon, and just north was a place called Cline Falls - a rock throw from the Deschutes VOR.

Cline Falls is a grass strip - a short grass strip - from which they launch a 182 and a 185 filled with happy jumpers whose landing zone appeared (to me, at least) the size of a pitcher's mound. The runway and hangars were bordered by a river east, trees west, telephone lines north, and power lines - very tall power lines - south. Just a perfect place to jump. Cline Falls jumpers were the most accurate on the west coast … their continued good health demanded it.

At the appointed date and time, my similarly aged and deranged friend, his offspring, Bobby, and I met at the jump school. We were greeted by Bob - 60ish, ex-82nd Airborne, who looked like he could, and did, still run twenty miles with full pack while bench pressing a 105mm howitzer. Bob doled out paperwork, processed same, took our bucks and began our training. We had chosen a static line jump, which requires something more than is required of those sissy tandem jumpers: strap some guy to your back and get shoved out of an airplane … what is up with that? A tandem jump requires money but no mastery - and presents you with no choice, no dilemma. The guy you're strapped to jumps, and you go along for the ride.

A static line requires volition - when the jump master dictates, you will yourself out onto the square-foot of diamond plate covering the right wheel, will yourself out onto the strut, and, finally, will yourself into the cosmos, into the hands of whatever god looks after those who choose to jump from perfectly good airplanes (or whatever kind of airplanes those jump planes are). A static line jump requires Moxie, Chutzpah, Cajones.

In the hangar in which they pack chutes, keep records, hangar fly (hangar jump?) and instruct novices, we learned how to launch from the airplane, how to arch our bodies - arms and legs bent backwards, gut protruding. We learned how to steer the canopy. We learned how to land - knees bent and feet together, so a tree limb, or fence or power line wouldn't make us less of the men we were before. We learned how to tuck and roll in case the landing was too fast or too wind-blown.

The next morning we learned more. This time, our drill sergeants were Mark and John. Mark scared us with what might happen if we didn't pay rapt attention to his instruction - John reassured us with how successful it would all turn out. We didn't, however, have the temerity to ask why John walked with that limp.

We learned the finer points of modern chutes - flying wings, actually, that were composed of cells which inflated with the relative wind. We learned the common problems associated with chutes when they opened - or when they didn't. We were shown blown-up photos of chutes in varying stages of disarray: tangled shroud lines; partially inflated cells; barely inflated cells. And - more importantly - we were told what our actions would be if we discovered any of these problems.

Then we were individually strapped into harnesses that hung from the rafters and those same photos were flashed above our heads. We were to recognize the problem and immediately initiate the proper response: kick and squirm if the lines were tangled; jettison the canopy if it were unflyable; and so on.

At the end we took a written exam, reviewed the few questions we had missed, then we drilled until we knew all the right answers. Then, we took an oral.

"Elvis lives in Cline Falls … with Robert & Bobby"

Our 8 hours of training were demanding, thorough and, truth be told, a tad intimidating. Our instructors were determined that we understood everything we needed to jump and land safely - no matter what might come our way.

Then we waited. There were lots of jumpers at Cline Falls that gloriously clear Saturday and they made lots of jumps. While we waited, we selected our attire: one-piece "jump" suits of various brilliant hues (the better for finding lost little lambs, I guess). Robert wore red, Bobby wore khaki and I … I chose the only one that would fit - a gaily colored (gayly colored?) white, bell-bottomed, tight-waisted little number with brilliant rainbow stripes. Elvis lives.

When came time to prove (or disprove) our manhoods, we were shepherded out to the jump plane by Mark, our former drill sergeant, now jump master. We practiced climbing out onto the platform, one hand on the strut, then the other; we practiced dangling (knees bent), then inching further out to insure that there would be no contact with the tailplane when we let go.

I prevailed upon my comrades to allow me the privilege of jumping first, knowing that if I jumped last I would never leave the plane. The thought of watching the others suck up the courage and leap filled me with dread. Since no one would jump until the previous jumper had landed, there would be considerable time between first and last - time that I didn't want to spend watching, waiting and worrying.

"Mark and the 'stare' in perfectly good airplane"

Mark positioned Bobby facing forward farthest from the door (youth will be served … last), Robert across from him, facing backward, and me with my helmeted head resting on a yellow tennis ball affixed to what would have been the co-pilot's yoke had it not been removed (for weight purposes, I assume). The only seat in the airplane belonged to the pilot, an ex-737 FO who quit the airlines because it was boring and because he could make more money in Oregon real estate. He loved flying jump planes because of the challenge.

What challenge?

Well, by the time we were ready to fly, it was well past 1 PM. Cline Falls has an elevation of 2920 feet and the temperature was approaching 90. With five of us on board, with the short grass strip (it says 3000 feet on the Klamath Falls Sectional but it sure doesn't look it), with the trees at the western edge of the runway … let's say it would be a challenge to get airborne. Not dangerous, not illegal, not outside the operating envelope of the aircraft … a challenge.

We taxied to the east end of the strip (there was a slight breeze from the northwest), did a run-up, then took the runway with every inch of grass available ahead of us. The pilot applied the appropriate amount of flap, and, holding brakes, ran the engine up to full RPM. Satisfied that all was well, he released the brakes and we lurched, slowly, forward.

Facing backward I couldn't see the runway remaining … but the quantity of runway that was slowly appearing behind did not thrill me. I looked at the pilot and was less than thrilled to see his grim-faced determination. The absolute nadir of thrill came when he softly began to chant through his tightly gritted teeth, "Come on … COME ON … COME ON, DAMMIT."

"Come on, DAMMIT."

Our mid-field training site (with our significant others nervously waving) passed behind us. The mid-field wind sock passed behind us. The onrushing trees, fortunately, were behind me and I couldn't appreciate their proximity … thank God.

The pilot grunted one more, "COME ON, DAMMIT," applied back pressure and we staggered into the sky, stall warner bleating. We began to climb, the stall warner ceased bleating, and we cleared those trees at the end of the runway with plenty to spare. I'm certain.

It took what seemed a week to climb to our 4000 AGL jump altitude. Once there, Mark (who had straddled my knees facing me so he could maintain eye contact and insure that I wouldn't wimp out), opened the jump door (an odd thing that raised outward and up, like a gull's wing) and dropped a weighted streamer to learn the direction of the wind at altitude.

I had been instructed to put my left hand, palm forward, outside the door to learn the strength of the slipstream. When I did, the pinpricks of a thousand thin steel needles assaulted my hand - which did nothing to calm the flock of 300 pound butterflies fluttering around my inner organs. Mark directed the pilot to a suitable piece of the sky for the prevailing winds, then he resumed staring, even more intently, into my eyes. He said something, but the wings of the 300 pound butterflies were all I could hear. He leaned outside one more time, affixed me once more with that stare and said, "Feet out."

As we had been drilled, I turned and dangled my bell-bottomed feet out of the aircraft.

"Climb out," he said.

I planted my feet as solidly as I could on the diamond plate and latched both hands onto the strut. The slipstream caught my face and took my breath - like a jump into a mountain lake. The needles stung my face and hands, buffeting my plastic goggles. Then I slowly inched my way out on the strut and dragged both feet from the platform - my tenuous grip was all that kept me from falling into space.

I looked at Mark whose eyes drilled deep into the back of my skull.

"Go," he said.

Before I went, as instructed, I looked up at the bottom of the wing where I saw the word "Arch" emblazoned in day-glo red.

Letting go was the easiest decision I ever made. Hanging from that strut was such a hateful thing - and that place such a hateful place, with needles stinging, slipstream whipping, my arms and hands straining to retain my grip - that letting go was all I wanted to do. And it didn't really matter if the chute opened or didn't because, at that point, anything would have been better than remaining in that place.

I let go.

The fall was a rush - too short a rush, actually. 'Arch thousand, two thousand, three thousand,' I had been instructed to count and, if the chute hadn't opened by that point, I was to look up and prepare to jettison the canopy.

Before I could worry about that, my bright rainbow chute whipped open and ripped me from the clutches of free fall - the jolt not nearly as bad as I had expected. The chute had, however, opened with a couple of tangled lines, so I commenced kicking my legs, swinging my hips, gyrating from side to side - and, just like Mark had predicted, the lines untangled. Elvis would have been proud.

The quiet was incredible, the aroma of pine forest and sage intoxicating, and the ride down a joy.

Well … almost.

You see, our helmets contained tiny radio receivers into which one of the more experienced jumpers (a jump master wannabe) would bark instructions. On this occasion the position was manned by a pretty woman: "Muffy" or "Trixie," I forget which.

Muffy's voice crackled over the receiver, "OK, number one (I was one, Robert two, Bobby three), let's see if your brakes work. First pull them both, halfway … then just the right … then just the left."

The brakes were wing-warpers: handled chords that dangled from the right and left shroud lines. Pull the right to go right, the left to go left, both to stall the canopy - which is how you landed. I pulled both, halfway, as instructed, then the right, then the left. Everything was hunky-dory.

"Insecurity is a power line and a girl named Muffy"

"Okay, now, number one, I want you to go right." I did. But right took me farther from the landing zone and across the high power lines. After drifting south, Muffy said, "Okay, now left," … then … "That's enough." I was now paralleling the power lines and my lack of altitude worried me. (Muffy was trying to bring me in from the southeast, since the wind was still from the northwest, but my insecurity about the power lines intensified with every foot of altitude I lost.)

I decided to turn right.

About twenty seconds later, Muffy said, "Oh, that's good, number one, it's good you turned right."

It was good. I crossed the power lines with some altitude to spare … but the jury's still out on how much. (I was later to learn that I was Muffy's "first" - I was almost delighted.) Way south of the landing zone and losing altitude rapidly, I began my flare, pulling on both brakes, but I was a tad high. Something about the ground approaching that fast makes everyone want to land high (did the same thing in that Grumman trainer, years ago, too). With no forward speed now, and no airspeed, but still high, my landing was not what I had hoped - a thumping three-pointer with my snow-white and rainbow-colored derriere bearing the brunt.

But, I had jumped, and I was down. Another jumper ran through the sage to help me gather my chute, then I watched, with glee, my homeys' jumps. Robert landed closer to the landing zone, his three-pointer as solid as mine. But young Bobby was damn-near perfect … within yards of the LZ and right on his mains - the best of the lot.

Did we swagger around Bend, Oregon that weekend? Is the Pope of German origin? "I jumped out of an airplane, today, cupcake … how 'bout you?" Boy, oh, boy, did we swagger … and, later, stagger … around Bend.

Would I do it again? Maybe. It was a thrill, but I've had better doing aerobatics. Still, when you find the chutzpah to jump out of an airplane, you learn an awful lot about yourself. And you learn another thing, as well: no one ever jumps out of a "perfectly good airplane" … not even Elvis.

© 2002, Stephen Glenn Daly