Chapter 6: Ethereal Beings on Gossamer Wings

The following morning, I woke without complaint as the sun was rising. Stretching languorously in bed, I cast a glance at the alarm clock I had placed on top of my dresser, across the room. It was a quarter past seven. All told, a fairly decent night's sleep, but it was time for me to get moving. The gates at the airfield would be opening in about an hour.

After I had showered and gotten dressed, I ran into my family in the kitchen. "No golf this morning?" I asked.

Dad shook his head. "Not today, son... your mother and I want to do some antiquing, and maybe go for a leisurely drive. Besides, we played several rounds this week already and I figured a change of pace was in order."

"You off skydiving again?" Mom asked. There was the slightest hint in her voice that she still wasn't wholly comfortable with my pastime, but she appeared resigned that I wasn't going to stop on her account. I nodded. "Be careful, and call us when you're done to let us know you're safe."

"I promise." Sure, it may sound childish, but a mother who worries about her children won't ever be entirely at ease when there is the slightest chance they may be in danger, no matter how remote that danger actually is. Sitting down at the table, I grabbed a plate and started piling on the food that Ange had prepared -- scrambled eggs, thick slices of bacon, refried beans, toast, and chunks of watermelon, cantaloupe, and honey melon. I tore into my breakfast with gusto, and despite comments of "Don't wolf your food," "Stop shovelling, that's disgusting!" and "Were you raised in a barn?" I was finished within minutes.

"Thanks, Ange... that was great, as always," I said, standing up from my place. Without waiting for her to clear my setting, I took my plate and silverware, and put everything in the kitchen sink. I waved goodbye to my family, and then legged it towards to the garage door.

"Don't forget to call!" Mom called after me.

"I won't!"

The drive out to the Avra Valley Airport was much as I had remembered it last weekend -- peaceful and relaxing. Well, peaceful at least in the sense of my being one of the few vehicles on the road at the time; I had my adrenaline-pumping, stereo-thumping skydiving mix blaring through the speakers of my Honda at nearly full volume. Loud music is one of my passions, and I think one of the main reasons I don't like having passengers in my SUV is that I can play it as loud as I want. Eardrums be damned!

There was an open spot not too far from the packing area, so I pulled into it as Mutha's Day Out screeched "What U See," off their My Soul is Wet album. Actually, it was their only album, released some eleven years ago, and I could never understand why; the guitar shredding was brilliant in its simplicity, and the band really jammed in the studio. Alright, neverminding the fact that the members of Mutha's Day Out split ways shortly after My Soul is Wet was recorded on account of a troublesome recording studio contract and some creative differences, I'm still convinced they should have produced another album.

"What's going on?" I shouted towards the people sitting at the tables in the packing area.

"Hey man, not too much! What's shaking?" That was the guy who packed for me last weekend.

"Not too much, man... Stacey, right?"

"Close. Casey." He stuck his hand out, and I shook it. "Looking to get some jumps in today, huh?"

"Yeah, man... Christmas is closing in, and I'll probably be doing the family thing for a bit. Gotta get in all the air time I can!" I looked around, and nodded to a handful of familiar faces, people whose names I couldn't remember.

"I can understand that, man... just lemme know if you need any packing done, alright?"

"Sure thing." I hung up my two rigs and dumped my jumping bag beneath them, but not before I fished out the copy of Patriot Games I had started the week prior. Then I sat down at one of the picnic tables across from the manifest lady, who was enjoying a morning coffee and cigarette — the skydiver's "breakfast of champions."

"Morning," I greeted, to which she briefly smiled before pulling another haul on her smoke.

"We should be getting a decent crowd today," she said. "Special rates for each maxed-out Caravan load. Plus, we got a couple groups coming in from the university, celebrating the end of the semester."

"Regular jumpers?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Nope, they've never been before, and want to jump attached to someone who knows what he's doing. Depending on how many seasoned jumpers we get from out of town, we may need to stagger the university students... can't very well get big ways going on if there isn't enough room in the plane now, can we?"

I smiled. One of the major benefits of having a sizeable aircraft from which to jump is that larger groups of skydivers can leave the plane at the same time and do massive group manœuvres, something which was impossible from a small Cessna like the one I jumped from in Pepperell. Last week, there were a couple of four-ways which jumped, but the prospect of "big ways," would allow a number of us to qualify for the Bob Buqour Memorial Star Crest. The crest, awarded in memory of a cameraman who filmed the world's first eight-way and drowned a little over a year later filming sequences for a major Hollywood studio, could be earned by participating in an eight-man formation. I had only been in one eight-way before, but the divers had scattered before I had the chance to fill out my Star Crest Recipient application.

"I guess that means you're going to be bothered out of your skull today, eh?" I asked with a snicker. Given the level of frustration I had seen her exhibit last week, I knew today would be nothing short of entertaining for the rest of us. "So, how's about you manifest me, and then I change plans at the most inopportune time?"

"Oh, don't you get me started," she warned, "or I'll have Casey tie knots in your lines!"

I chuckled. "Hell hath no fury," I quoted as I went back to my Tom Clancy novel, "like a manifest woman scorned."

After about fifteen minutes of uninterrupted reading, Katherine started calling out the plane's manifest for the first load. At the mention of my name, I put my book down, ran a gear check on my rig, and suited up. Just as I fastened my altimeter to my left wrist, I heard a voice call out, "Man, I love this shit! What's the worst that could happen?"

With a chuckle, I turned around and saw the owner of the voice, one of the tandem jumpmasters, putting a passenger harness onto yet another young woman who seemed just short of entering a state of panic. I shook my head wryly, thinking the same thing to myself. As horrible as a week can get, just a single skydive can flush out all the badness. And, knock on wood, I haven't yet had to pull my "Jesus" handle, the white pillow-shaped reserve parachute deployment handle on the left side of my rig with a black fish decorating it. Still, I checked the position of the handles one last time as part of my skydiving routine.

"Pay no attention to these naysayers!" a salt-and-pepper haired man who looked to be no older than thirty-eight announced. "As duly established owner of this here drop zone, I do hereby declare that this skydive will be the most fun you've ever had... with your clothes on, that is!" With that, he fastened his own tandem rig and set up yet another passenger, this time a male, who was wearing a University of Arizona T-shirt.

"And if you're having more fun skydiving than the other thing, you sure ain't doing it right!" a rakish brunette exclaimed, as she sidled up to the owner and gave him a kiss. His wife, I assumed. Everyone in the packing area had a good laugh, and I thought the two made a good pair.

"Five minute call!" Kath shouted over the speakers. "The plane'll leave, whether you're on it or not!"

On that note, we got moving towards the Caravan at the boarding area. A pair of videographers shot footage of the two university students climbing into the aircraft, with the girl saying to the guy right behind her, "I can't believe I let you talk me into this!"

"Believe me," I shouted at her over the whine of the Caravan's turboprop engine, "you'll be thanking him in more ways than one when you touch ground again!"

Twelve minutes later, the Caravan reached a comfortable altitude of 14,500 feet above ground level, and I was starting to get twitchy. Anticipation had dried out my mouth as usual, and adrenaline had my heart pumping at an accelerated pace. There was a four-way getting ready to open the plane's door and hop out. Another jumper whom I had just met that morning, a Parachutist Over Phorty named Smitty, was set to exit the plane immediately after them in solo belly-to-earth freefall, and then I was to be out the door five seconds after him. Behind us would be a group of heads-down freeflyers, which some of us referred to as "freak flyers" in recognition of the insane speeds they reached. Typically, a freefaller hits speeds between 120 and 140 mph, but the extremely diminished wind resistance a freeflyer encounters in the heads-down position lets them reach falling speeds in excess of 250 mph.

After a moment, the plane levelled out, and the pilot cut the engines to limit prop blast on exit. The green light by the door lit up, and the jumper closest to it looked at all of us and loudly shouted, "Door!" Then, he rolled it open, and his four-way got in position to clear. After a cadence chant, they were gone. Five seconds after that, the POPS freefaller followed them.

As I moved into position, hands on the aircraft's doorframe, I put on a false look of fear, teasing the pair of eager yet terrified Arizona Wildcats. "But I don't wanna go," I shrieked. "I'm scared, and it's so far down!"

"Time's up!" one of the freeflyers said with a wicked grin on his face. He put his foot to my butt, and as we'd arranged, gave me a shove. The fake scream of horror I gave on my way out of the Caravan was sure to give the tandem jumpmasters something to chuckle about.

As soon as I cleared the aircraft, I hit a hard arch, thrusting my hips forward. Within seconds, the air rushing around me as I accelerated towards terminal velocity forced me into a belly-down position. After relaxing, stabilising my position in the flow of the dive, I flew forward by straightening out my legs, slouching my shoulders forward and bringing my arms back, a process called tracking. After travelling horizontally about a hundred feet, I threw a backflip and then settled back into a belly-to-earth fall. I couldn't contain myself; it was going to be another beautiful day of skydiving. I just had to shout.

"I fucking love this shit!"

The canopy ride down from four thousand feet was peaceful. For those of you who have never been jumping before, this tends to be the first thing that strikes you, apart from the force of air resistance on the way down. After the jarring shock of an opening parachute, which immediately ceases the noise of freefall, the silence is... well, deafening. Sounds will only begin to reach the jumper's ears again once he or she has passed through a thousand feet above ground.

At around fifteen hundred feet, I ran into a fairly heavy shear as the winds suddenly changed directions on me, but beyond the bumpiness, the descent to the DZ was eventless. Picking a spot on the ground, out of the way of the four-way which had exited the aircraft before me, I executed a careful and conservative approach, turning into the wind at two hundred feet and gently descending to an almost-perfect stand-up landing. Collapsing my canopy, I fought my parachute under control and then marched back to the packing area.

"So, how was it?"

With the canopy blocking my view, I couldn't see the speaker. "It was good -- winds aren't too heavy at altitude, although it's choppy as hell around fifteen hundred feet. The shears are something nasty, and hopefully they'll dissipate, otherwise it'll be an interesting day on landing patterns." When I found a free piece of packing carpet, I dropped my canopy, kicking the parachute bag and pilot chute ahead to make for an easier packing. Once done, I turned to greet the voice. "Oh, hey Omar... what's going on?"

"Not too much, man... hey, I want to introduce you to some of my guys." Omar then pointed to a wide-shouldered guy, probably around twenty-two years old with brown hair. "This is Jake; he's studying chemical engineering at the university. And the younger salt-and-peppered skinny guy is Spirit."

"Spirit?" I asked

"Yeah," the tall fellow answered, laughing slightly. "My old man's a Baptist minister, and I'm doing religious studies at Arizona, so I guess I got branded." He smiled fully, showing two rows of pearly whites.

"Nothing wrong with that," I said, pointing to my "Jesus" handle as I loosened the chest and leg straps, stepping out of my rig. "At least it's a better story than how I got my name."

"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask," Omar started, "how did you end up getting called 'Wraith?' "

"It just happened that one week I pretty much didn't sleep at all, and that weekend I showed up at the DZ in Pepperell looking like shit... I swear to God, death incarnate. My instructor took one look at me, and I kid you not, said 'Sweet Mary of Merciful Crap, you look like a fucking wraith.' " I shrugged, grinning. "It's kinda stuck with me since then, although when I tell the story to others I make it sound more badass than it really is."

The two of them hooted. "It's a good story," Spirit winked, "although I'm sure the version you tell the ladies is... well, not precisely truthful."

Omar laughed again, and held his hands three feet apart, saying, "The fish was this big, I swear!"

"So, are we gonna get some jumps in today?" I asked them as I started to pack my rig. The Caravan was presently up in the air, having taken a hot load from the ground, and by my calculations I still had about twenty minutes to pack my chute. I needed the practise.

"Sounds like a plan, man," Spirit said. "You manifested on the next load?"

"Nah, I haven't yet... Hey Kath!" I shouted as I squeezed the accumulated air out of my canopy. "Is there room for four on the next load?"

Katherine stuck her head out the manifest window and looked at me, saying, "Who's the four?"

"Us turkeys," Omar said.

"I got Omar, Jake and Spirit loaded already. There's a slot left for you. You want on?"

"Please."

"Done deal," she said. "Load Three -- fifteen minute call."

I started packing with a calculated fury. I'd never packed a chute in that small a timeframe before, but I figured I needed to get to that speed sooner rather than later. I must have started to rush things, because Omar stopped me and said, "Don't worry about it -- jump your other rig and have a packer do this one. The last thing you want is to do a sloppy job and end up with a line-over or slider lock."

He was right; I'd seen pictures and videos of people having both these types of canopy malfunctions, malfunctions which tended to ruin a jumper's day. A line-over is basically what it sounds like; if the parachute isn't packed properly, when it opens, a suspension line can cross over the top of the canopy skin instead of hanging underneath it. This most often results in a collapse, and every line-over has to be cut away from. A slider lock is somewhat different. The slider is a piece of fabric with four grommets, which serves to keep the line groups -- brake, and the long, medium, and short suspension lines -- separated. Slider lock can happen if the lines knot while packing, and when the fabric slider attempts to "slide down" the lines after deployment, it'll catch and cause a Top Gun-styled flat spin. Slider locks also have to be cut away from; it's impossible to fly the canopy.