I’ve written before about a skydiving misadventure where a friend and I ended up landing at the bottom of a quarry rather than the wide open terrain of the airport. As it turns out, my very next jump had a memorable landing, too.
As you might expect, skydiving is a very weather-dependent activity. In order to have a successful jump, you need to plan the jump from the ground up, and a lot of the planning is dependent on wind. You almost always want to land into the wind, so the direction the wind is blowing at the surface determines your final approach. The wind commonly blows different directions at different altitudes, though, so that complicates things. Going further up in altitude, you need to be aware of the direction the wind is blowing at the altitude you plan to open the chute, so you allow enough time and space to move into position for your final approach. Likewise, it’s nice to know which way the wind is blowing at the altitudes where you’re experiencing freefall, because even though it has a smaller effect on your spatial orientation, it does play a part. Putting all these details together determines the desired flight path of the jump plane and the location along that path where you want to exit the plane.
The problem is that, especially for the first planeload of the day, we don’t always know which way the wind is blowing, and how hard. That’s where some guessing comes in.
At the drop zone where I learned to skydive, we had tiny planes where you could only fit four or five jumpers. On most flights there was somebody that did a “hop ‘n pop” jump. This is where a jumper exits the aircraft at a relatively low altitude, skips the freefall, and almost immediately opens the chute. (It adds to your jump count, but doesn’t add much to your freefall time.) Once that jumper got out, it made the cabin roomier and the plane lighter, enabling it to climb faster for the rest of the jumpers.
To get your first-level skydiving certification (your “A license”), you had to successfully demonstrate the ability to perform a hop ‘n pop. It just so happened that doing a hop ‘n pop was next on my list of objectives on my way to earning my A license. It also just so happened that I made the plane roster for the very first flight of the day. Since I was going to be getting out early, it meant I was going to be the very first jumper out of a plane that day. The person with that distinction is affectionately known as the “wind dummy.” They’re the ones that get to go out and see what the actual conditions are, deal with whatever the reality happens to be, and correct or confirm the planning assumptions for future planeloads of jumpers.
All the people there that day collectively had tens of thousands of jumps under their belt. I think this was my 24th jump. Naturally I deferred to their planning experience and trusted them to plan the best route using the information and experience they had. They walked me through the flight and exit plan, and I was set. We did our safety checks, got in the plane, and took off.
As we lined up for me to exit the aircraft, I got out right where I was supposed to, jumping out at 4,000 feet. The chute opened and all my gear functioned the way it was supposed to. The problem was that the winds were a lot stronger than all of us expected. The headwind was stronger than my parachute’s forward velocity. Rather than heading toward our bulls-eye near the skydiving hangar, I was pushed backwards toward the fence line. It quickly became apparent there wasn’t any chance of having a short walk back, and for a long time it looked like I wasn’t even going to land inside the fence. I did whatever I could to make things work out. I skipped some of the safety maneuvers (doing turns to make sure the steering worked) because: 1. spending even a little time not flying forward increased my chances of landing in the scrub outside the airport, and 2. I was flying straight ahead and didn’t need to do any turns. I hung on my front risers to try to get the canopy to dive faster to get below the worst of the headwind.
In the end, the winds mellowed as I got closer to the ground, and God must’ve given me a little push. I made it inside the fence, but not by much. I still landed pretty far away, near the end of the runway. Airports look nice when you’re looking at overhead images of them, but you really lose the sense of scale and how long of a walk it is from one spot to another, especially when carrying a bundle of 190 square feet of canopy, string, and canvas over one shoulder while wearing a jumpsuit and harness that aren’t comfortable for walking long distances. It was probably close to half a mile. The other people that stayed in the plane made it all the way up to their planned exit altitude, jumped, landed, and made it back to the hangar and got their gear off before I reached the hangar on foot.
Sometimes you can plan well (or think you’re planning well) and still be surprised by things you didn’t see coming. You can get mad about it if you want to, but most of the time, you’re not getting back to that hangar until you make the trek. You can go ahead and grumble, but make sure you don’t do it until after you pick up your stuff and start walking. Sure, you can blow off some steam, but make sure you put more effort into the solution than the complaining. (And don’t forget to learn from the mistakes. Maybe next time let someone else be the wind dummy!)