Buckle That Chinstrap

Buckle That Chinstrap 

By John Sherman

I am, like most people, afraid of heights. I stay clear of observatories and cleaning gutters. 

I went to college in a small town in central Pennsylvania. The only social life, and the only cover for underage drinking, was to join a fraternity. The parties were hedonistic, at least for our age. Guys, full of beer, would try to coax a young sorority sister into a back seat, only to be stumped by the “age of the girdle.” 

One Sunday morning, after getting hammered the night before, I was confronted by a brother with a slip of paper in hand. It read something like: “I bet $100 dollars I can jump out of a plane.” Followed by our shaky signatures. Option one was to suffer the humiliation and somehow come up with the cash. I chose option two. 

Outside the town, single engine planes could land on a grassy runway. That’s where some enterprising pilot set up a skydiving shop. This was 1961, and few people had even heard of the sport. Jumping out of a plane? 

They jumped on Saturdays. The night before, six of us gathered around a long plywood rigging table, each with a pile of thin orange material and a pack. In our group was a girl about my age. An instructor, a former paratrooper, began showing us how to lay out our chutes. 

I should have walked out right then. The prospect of complete know-nothings packing their own chutes was idiocy. I will say that we were very closely examined. The packs were gathered for the next morning. 

I borrowed a brother’s car and refused to bring him along for the show. It’s one thing to flub a tennis serve; it’s quite another to flub jumping into the sky. 

We made a circle just off the air strip, with the instructor (let’s call him “Sarge”) in the middle with a small pile of football helmets—-with face guards. We all felt a lot safer. Whatever happens, my brain will survive. It was definitely too late to quit. 

Sarge’s instruction was a bit shorter than I wished. He brought us alongside a single engine Piper Cub, or its cousin. The pilot explained the altimeter and said we would be jumping from 4,000 feet. Whatever. Behind the pilot were two seats and a static line up bar. 

“Where’s the door?” one of us asked. “Ain’t none,” replied Sarge. 

Our chutes had developed little since WWII. The canopies were round and ribbed. Once deployed, we had two handles for left and right. We were also issued a reserve chute—-just in case—strapped to our bellies. If your principal chute failed, we were instructed to roll face up, pull the ring and play out the backup by hand. 

Understand how primitive our getup was. Like comparing a Chevy stick with a Tesla. 

Paratroopers, carrying 70-pound packs, were dropped from as few as 700 feet. It was a seconds-long plummet onto the battlefield. Today’s RAM-air chutes are like jumping into a sofa. Instead of a round canopy, it’s rectangular, large and sectioned into cells that increase air resistance and allow you to fly, instead of drop. (Give a holler if you can’t grasp “terminal velocity.”) Now jumpers ride tandem on the backs of pros. Chickens. 

Sarge explained the two most common chute failures. The first is “Maggie’s Drawers” when a line cuts the parachute into two billows. The second is a “streamer” where the parachute is deployed, but doesn’t open. 

Sarge laid out an example: 

“So you jump from, say, 4,000 feet. You look up and you got Maggie’s Drawers. By that time you’re down to 3,000 and falling fast. You roll over and feed out your reserve chute. You’re now at less than 1,000 feet and falling faster. Your backup chute doesn’t open. You try to untangle it. By that time you’re down to six feet. 

“And any sumbitch can jump from six feet.” 

He demonstrated how to land and roll and gather our chute. And to get out of the way of the next jumper. 

“So who’s first?” The girl raised her hand. Whoa. I don’t remember why—-maybe to just get it over with—-I raised mine. 

We fastened the chinstraps of our football helmets. She had a little trouble with the step aboard; I pushed her up and in. I don’t remember exchanging a word. I can’t even remember what she looked like. 

The plane taxied, took off and seemed to climb in circles. We watched our compatriots disappear; only the tiny planes remained visible. The pilot pointed to where we took off and said, “This is your landing zone. You won’t have any problem with the power lines off to your right. Don’t forget to steer with your handles.” 

There was no question I would jump first, not so much out of chivalry as getting the hell on the ground. 

Then he explained that we didn’t drop from the door. Instead we had to lean out and grab a wing strut, swing out and let go. The terror gauge jumped from five to nine. 

Hanging on from the moving plane was only matched by silent movie star Harold Lloyd hanging on to the hands of a large clock. The pilot shouted to jump. 

After the tug of the chute opening with no impediments, all went silent, save for the whistle of cross breezes. Far away I could make out the Allegheny mountains and the Susquehanna River snaking through town. As the earth rose up, the drop zone was just below. 

I hit the ground, rolled, gathered in my chute, took off my helmet and was gripped with relief and elation. Mission accomplished. Back then there were no high-fives. 

I drove back to the fraternity house and got hammered.