When Pigs Fly

Excuse me while I kiss the sky

—Jimi Hendrix

 

It was Gifford’s idea. The usual assortment of contractors and constrictors had gathered at Kochevar’s, drinking heavily

and bemoaning our mundane lives that the pursuit of paychecks was responsible for, when suddenly Gifford’s eyes lit up like a two year old at Christmas. “Let’s go skydiving!” is what he said. A pregnant silence followed as this settled into his inebriated associates. “GOOD IDEA!!” rose the cheer from a dozen Bud-soaked threats. Good idea? Sliced bread, the swivel bar stool... these were good ideas. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane is considered, in most cutles, exactly the opposite of a good idea. “It’ll clear out the cobwebs, blow out the pipes, grab your attention,” Cifford went on to say and we all agreed this was probably true.

Now we have to wonder, restless reader, just why on earth a bunch of middle-aged, middle-income, mortgaged and married men would suddenly have the urge to kill themselves, just when things were finally going well. These same guys who had only this morning screamed like scalded apes upon the discovery of a gray hair, now thought it a “good idea” to chance being splattered across the earth like so many bugs on so many windshields.

Was it peer pressure? Maybe, but even sheep don’t jump out of planes. Was it the Budweiser? It was, of course, possible we were just slaves to our seemingly fearless mouths. But of course these are not the reasons, and I think we all know what is. That’s right, testosterone... the dreaded and often deadly testosterone buildup, that’s what.

According to Webster, testosterone is: “the male hormone responsible for stupid behavior in otherwise normal men.” Since the beginning of time it was testosterone that continually got men into dicey situations. Picture if you will, Neanderthal...

“Throg, darling?”

‘Yes, my little Musk Ox?”

“I’ve got my heart set on a stegosaurus steak tonight, love.”

“Uhhhh, my sweet, uhhhh, we’re out of mammoth?”

“Oh, you big silly baboon, that mammoth is a month old, I want something FRESH!!!.., sweet thing you, c’mere you big ape...”

Only a man high on testosterone will attack a stegosaurus with a rock.

Or the Middle Ages, if you will:

“Lancelot, darling, you are such a stud. I know this, but the girls are talking, they say you’re afraid to slay a dragon for me. Say it isn’t so, Lance?”

“Uhhhh, Gwenivere, my tender flower, speaktng of Lances, remember the one I just had removed last week, received while jousting for your honor?”

“Let me put it this way, Lance, you get me that dragon, or you’ll be sleeping with your horse.”

Feature this: a 60-foot, fire-breathing, man-hating lizard and you’ve got a two-foot sword. Kinda like fighting a Kuwait oil fire with a squirt gun. Only a man with testosterone stampeding through his brain like millions of tiny buffalo would consider such an encounter.

Or take the modern day Massi in Kenya. At age 14, a boy must kill a lion to become a man, with only a spear, without Budweiser. This is probably were cross-dressing originated.

There are some tribesmen, somewhere in Borneo...I think... (professional journalism here, folks) that actually tie vines to

their ankles and dive from 60-foot-tail towers. The guy whose nose comes closest to the ground is the bravest man. Not dumbest, mind you, bravest.

Now we have to wonder why women aren’t compelled into attacking lions, with kitchen utensils, or why they don’t feel the urge to leap from trees, betting on who can pop their faces inside out and still drink. No testosterone, that’s why. This tiny little hormone is responsible for most wars and virtually all tractor pull events.

So here we were, the supposed highest form on the evolutionary ladder, receivers of braces and bail money from confused parents, products of the finest educations student loans could buy, being swept along like so much flotsom on a sea of hormones and Budweiser. It was a timeless war, really, but this time ol’ Testosterone would take on one of its oldest and most feared opponents... GRAVITY!!!

Now most of you, like myself, probably thought that Sir Isaac Newton invented gravity, so it’ll come as some surprise when I tell you gravity has been here long before even testosterone, and you can take that to the bank. Webster defines gravity as such: a serious situation or problem... as if that wasn’t clear enough it goes on to say... the gravitational attraction of the mass of the earth for bodies at or near its surface... in other words, skydivers.

For an entertaining example of gravity, try this simple experiment. Get a cinder block and your average-weight house cat. Take them to the top floor of the Grande Butte Hotel and throw them over. Which will hit first? Simple, the cinder block. The housecat will be firmly attached to your face. Even a cat understands the physics of gravity.

But for us, like so many laboratory monkeys, our fate was sealed, the proverbial ball was rolling, like Lemmings to the sea, we were about to follow each other to Skydiver School.

 

To be continued

 

When pigs fly: utter consternation or paralysis

by Steve Church

 

“Boy, only two things fall from the sky, bird poop and fools.”

-Dad

 

The boys were bailing out like rats off a burning boat. As Jump Day got closer, all types of strange and exotic excuses arose. A few claimed that going skydiving would interfere with work, Work?? Were these the same guys that only last week admitted that work was the curse of the drinking class? A local bartender, who last week thought skydiving a “good idea” and begged to go, suddenly had to go to Alaska. No one suddenly goes to Alaska. Oue fellow even said his wife wouldn’t let him go. WHAT?? Mast relationships I know, the wife would gladly see her spouse leap into space. Might even help pack the chute.

Yep, they were backing out left and right. For a list of these spineless jellyfish, send $9.99 to “Wimps Among Us,” S. Church, Box 905.

A few guys were committed, though. Brock Smith would jump, but then so would you if you were Brock Smith. At 6 foot, 4 inches, 230 lbs., the man is indestructable and knows it. A little thing like a 4,000 foot fall doesn’t worry Brock Smith. Roy Kasining would also jump; Brock had promised to “kill Roy” if he didn’t jump. So KillRoy Kastning” was caught between Brock and a hard spot. The editor and chief himself, Mr. Lee Ervin, swore on a pile of Bud bottles. he would jumpalso. In his own words, “Why not? Live fast, die young, leave a million bills.”

The King of Kodachrome, Master of the Motordrive, Dab Brazell, would come to capture the sorrid event on film. Being a prudent man, Bob was vehemently opposed to leaping from a plane, but I was convinced once he witnessed the excitement on our faces, we’d be hard pressed to keep him on the ground. Myself, I had to go, I’d already published this stupid story... but I could always make it up... a distinct possibility.

There were, of course, other reasons than wives and work not to jump. One in particular, the one that keeps most people from skydiving: fear of dying. Fear of returning home in a pizza box. Let us examine fear. Fear, according to Webster to have a reverential awe of (I think a 4,000 foot fall fits into that description). It goes on to say: to cuase grave distress of mind, a startling quality that induces utter constrenation or paralysis.

“This pretty well sums it up. But fear is not a bad thing, some of the most frightening moments in life are also some of the most memorable. Said Rodney Dangerfield: “I’ll never forget the first time I made love, it was dark, I was scared, I was alone.”

Your second trip to the dentist was memorable, The first trip to the draft board (did your purse and shoes match?). How about the first bank loan, where you sat sweating bullets behind a pile of fabrications and forgeries that was your proposal, hoping thet if you didn’t get the loan, at best you wouldn’t get 5 to 10 years for lying. Fear is probably the only reason the species survived, what with testosterone running rampant and all.

But what did we actually have to fear? What exactly are your chances of surviving your first skydive? I decide to get it from the horse’s mouth.

“Hello, Marana Skydiving Center, this is Mark.”

I introduced myself and said, “Mark, I have two questions.”

“Shoot, Steve.”

“Will you take a post dated check?”

“No.”

“Second question and you probably get asked this a lot, what are my chances of survival?”

“We’d like to think that if you have a death wish you wouldn’t come to see us.”

“No, Mark, exactly the opposite, I am very much interested in living through this.”

“Then your chances are good.”

“How good, Mark? I want odds, figures ... follow me? JUST THE FACTS!!!”

“Well, Steve, we run 2,500 jumpers a year through here and have not had one ‘serious’ accident...”

I didn’t want to ask whether that had been in the last year or the last five min..

“Tell me, Mark, what is a ‘not serious’ accident in skydiving?”

“Oh, you know, broken ankles and the like.”

“Why heck, Mark, broken ankles?? Why, I break my ankles just for fun, why you hardly get your money’s worth out of a sport unless you break your ankles, ehh, Mark??” He could hear the strain in my voice, but he probably gets that a lot. “Okay, Mark, sign The Flying Swine, Crested Butte Chapter, for the 24th of October.” I hung up and immediately felt ill.

Who thought up this stupid sport anyway? How long has this been going on? I suddenly needed to justify this skydiving as more than just attempted suicide.

Well, it turns out that old devil Leonardo Da Vinci invented the first parachute in 1495. Leonardo, being nobody’s fool, did not try it, however, this being pre-Budweiser days, could not induce any friends or family to make history. Experts to this day contend, “We have every reason to believe da Vinci’s parachute will work.” But still no one wants to try it. By 1545 there were actual attempts with other designs and these usually gathered huge crowds, as the first attempt was frequently the last. Early parachute test pilots were 99% testosterone, 1% brain, real men’s men. A dying breed.

It was 1785 before someone actually survived the sport. Jean Pierre Blanchard is credited with the first parachute jump from a balloon. He broke his leg, but that’s nothing in this business.

Not until l9l9 a maniac by the name of Lester “Sky-High” Irvin was the first to free fall. He broke his ankle — the sport was progressing.

“Sky High” Irvin coined the ever-popular skydiver phrase, “It’s not the fell, it’s the sudden stop.” A real funny guy, this Irvin. He was killed by a bus in 1966.

I don’t know about you, but to me it seems every social function I attend lately there are two questions on everybody’s mind: How high was the highest free fall, they ask, and how low was the lowest? Here are some free free fall facts, no charge:

- 102,800 ft. (about 20 miles) was the highest survived jump. Captain Joe Kittinger took 13 minutes, 45 seconds and reached speeds of 614 mph in the thin air (closer to earth you fall “only” 120 mph).

-Nick Piantanida tried to break the sound barrier (750 mph) with a jump from 123,000 ft. His face mask blew out, he died of lack of oxygen 20 minutes before he hit the ground.

- The lowest jump goes to Lieutenant BD MacFarlane, whose jet lost power on takeoff fropt the aircraft carrier Albion. He crashed in front of the carrier, which promptly ran over him. He ejected somewhere under the ship and popped up in its wake, unhurt.

These survival stories were cheering me up; I investigated further.

- Ed Dickson from his Navy jet in 1964. Ed’s chute never opened in the 1,000 foot fall. He hit a snow drift and bounced 50 feet in the air, landing unhurt. Then, noticing the still-packed chute on his back he pulled it out and wrapped himself up in it to stay warm. The funny part? This being Ed’s first bail-out, he assumed this to be routine.

- Russian mechanic G. Ochepkov fell from a helicopter with no chute. He opened his trenchcoat, assumed the flying squirrel position and glided to a landing. The chopper landed, Ochepkov climbed back in unhurt.

- In WWII, Col. I.M. Chissov ejected from 23,000 feet, he passed out, his chute never opened. The Col. woke up lying on a snowbank unhurt. He was then captured by the Germans and shot ... just kidding, he’s actually still alive.

I was feeling better now, this was just like falling off a log, what could possibly go wrong???

 

(to be continued...)

 

When pigs fly: Part 4

by Steve Church

 

“If man were meant to fly, he’d have a first-dass ticket.”

—Jim Brophy

 

“Everybody want to go to heaven, but nobody want to die.”

— Bob Marley

 

I was fear flypaper, fear was on me like my hair. Part of me, the part that does the laundry and pays the bills, was saying, “You know, Steve, jumping from a plane is not exactly the smartest thing you’ve ever done...” while the other part, the evil anti-Steve, the part of me that set fire to the neighborhood at age eight, the part that drag-raced my father’s new truck at 15 (might have won, too, had I not shifted into reverse at 60mph) was now saying, “Capital idea, Steve! You’ll be such a richer person for the experience.” Anti-Steve was about to throw the rest of me right out of a perfectly good airplane.

Kill Roy Kasting felt pretty much the same way. Roy was fairly sure he would die. He had gone to see his folks for the last time, he’d sold his truck for $200 cash, he’d quit paying bills, he’d quit sleeping and he’d started drinking ... ardently. Roy is a gifted artist and a sensitive guy; he thought that by staring into the jaws of death, life would seem so much more vibrant.., or some weird artsy-fartsy thing like that...

Brock Smith, on the other hand, couldn’t wait. It was scary. Brock is the kind of guy you’d like to go through Vietnam with, or behind, actually, and now Brock was chomping at the bit to leap from a plane. He worried me.

The forth Swine, an old friend from Vail, Karl, would rent the car. Karl is a good faller. He fell off a train in Peru (facial lacerations), fell out of a palm tree in Mexico (two broken arms), dove into six inches of water in the Grand Canyon (cracked skull), fell from his balcony to the parking lot in Vail (smashed neighbor’s BMW) and fell through a picture window at a cocktail party .... backwards

naked ...(buttocks lacerations). Karl already had a lot of air time; he was a natural skydiver.

The Wimps had thrown us a going-away party the previous evening. They all brought pizza boxes for our return postage; each wimp had his own parachute disaster story to relate. It was a warm and special evening and when Roy willed his table saw to the waitress, it brought tears to our eyes.... I found out later Roy doesn’t even own a table saw.

We left the main office (Kochevar’s) Thursday afternoon and hurdled south. By midnight we were somewhere in the Navajo Reservation doing 100 m.p.h. The navigator, Karl, having personally consumed a bottle of Captain Morgan’s Rum, now hung from his seat belt like limp pasta. Roy and I crashed from side to side in the rear seat. Mile signs were flying by like a picket fence.

“We’re making good time behind this guy!” Brock yelled over Mick Jagger. He was clenched to the wheel and had a strange glint in his eye that I didn’t like.

“That’s because it’s an ambulance, Brock, that’s what those flashing red lights are!!!” We were so close you could see the gold fillings of the Native American on the gurney inside.

By morning we had reached the town of Globe, AZ, a burg of 5000 nestled at the base of a five-mile-long, 2000-foot-high pile of glowing tailings. Green and orange slime oozed from this mountain of toxic muck. A gusty wind kicked up a green dust that filled the air and covered the town. Abandoned buildings and dead trees added to an eerie post-nuclear holocaust atmosphere. Near the end of town at the entrance to the mammoth, open-pit mine, a huge sign swung in the green wind. Magma Copper, Building America’s Future, the sign said. We tore across the Apache Reservation. The Apaches seem to have done much better than the Navajos in terms of quality of land.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be buying any rubber tomahawks this trip?” Roy yelled over the screaming engine.

Finally, 12 miles from Tucson, a sign loomed on the right: Marana Skydiving Center next right. Roy and I looked at each other and screamed. I felt clammy, my hands started to sweat, like fire hydrants. The bottom of my feet tingled, the tops sweat. My knees went to jello. Roy looked like a Malaria victim. We pulled into a hangar-type building. Four paint-less ancient Cessna 182s squatted behind the building. What resembled a Beech 18 slumped in the corner. A tiny loudspeaker blasted rock and roll, while small children and huge dogs frolicked on the lawn. Parachutes dotted the sky and alighted about us. Then I looked up just in time to see three tiny forms fall from a speck of a Cessna. The infamous freefall. Hold the phone!! These guys were not in any sense of the imagination, soaring. They were plummeting to the earth like plucked mallards. Brophy was right, man cannot fly. Man soars like a cinder block. As they streaked towards the earth, my stomach went into a Cathy Rigby routine.

Their chutes popped open 1000 feet above a local tortilla factory.

“Far out!” yelled Brock, which would not exactly have been my choice of words. We entered the building. Four grown men in lycra lay on mechanics creepers (large skateboards) rolling around the floor into different freefall positions. They’d hold hands, then spin around and grab each other’s feet. I was starting to feel extremely uneasy about this sport. A group of pre-pubescent juvenile delinquents were busy repacking parachutes. I looked closely for signs of drug abuse. A Far Side cartoon said, “Although he was nervous about his first parachute jump, Roland knew nothing could go wrong as long as he had his lucky anvil.” We approached the head office and introduced ourselves as the Flying Swine, Crested Butte Chapter. He seemed unimpressed.

“Be here at 10:00 in the morn with $85 apiece ... cash,” he snapped. I had the feeling this was going to be a very special

vacation.         

to be continued

 

When pigs fly: Part 5

by Steve Church

 

“Going down, Mr. Church?”

- Stomach

It was a particularly beautiful morning, the sky was vibrant, birds chirped, the waitresses smiled. It was especially good to be alive, it was Jump Day.

The other Swine and myself were attacking the breakfast buffet on the Sheraton’s veranda when a malarial-looking Roy approached. “Did the Governor call?” Roy quavered. Brock then informed us that Roy had first gotten up at 4:00. Since that time, he had showered four times and shaved seven different times. KilIRoy Kastning could not wait much longer.

Then a funny thing happened on the way to the airstrip. The weather fell apart. An apocalyptic black cloud spewing sheets a rain and king fingers of lightening was charging its way across the desert, headed directly for the Marana School of Skydiving. Bad omen, I mumbled to myself.

The school was a beehive of activity birdpeople of every size and age jammed themselves into lycra jumpsuits and Marquis de Sade-type harnesses. My fellow Swine had opted for the full jump class, 5-10 static line jumps (the chute opens on its own in the event the student is paralyzed with fear), then a horrifying 10-second free-fall when one pulls his own ripcord.

I personally knew deep in my heart this was not a sport I would have a buming passion for. I chose what they call a tandem free-fall, an exciting little event whereby the hapless student dives from a plane at 12,000 feet without a parachute. As weird as this may sound, the student is wearing an instructor and he’s wearing the parachute. This way, the first-time jumper can experience the “thrill” of free fall without actually understanding anything about the sport. Perfect for me. I inquired whether I could just set in on my fellow Swines’ class, strictly journalistic interest. Not without coughing up another 85 bucks, they informed me. As this was about double what my editor was paying for the entire story, I declined.

The Swine entered class; I went outside to await my turn at the tandem free-fall. The desert storm had hit, turning the Marana School of Skydiving into a war zone. Rain pounded on the metal roof, 25-knot winds blasted sand and litter through the air. The wind socks stood straight out, as if dipped in epoxy. Student paratroopers, dangling like pork sausages, were being blown into the distance, diappearing in sheets of rain. Experienced jumpers were cavorting against the blackening clouds. Lightening bolts shattered the sky as they fought the wind, desperately trying to land at least north of the Mexican border. A terrified, librarian-looking woman landed 20 feet from me. A tremendous amount of relief had just crossed her face when suddenly her chute filled with wind and off she went, straight up in the air, diappearing into the dusty horizon. Other students were being dragged face down across the cactus-infested desert. A Cessna pilot’s voice was broadcasting over the loudspeakers: “Base!! BASE!! The Furs hitting the fan up here!! Should I release the jumpers?? SHOULD I RELEASE??” The radio man came streaking out of his office, looked at the chaotic scene and raced back to his radio,

“GO AROUND!! GO AROUND!!” blasted over the speakers.

It was then when I noticed a tandem jump land. The student, dangling in front, smashed into the

ground. His instructor, safely. perched on the student’s back, whooped in delight as they were dragged 50 feet on the student’s face. Suddenly someone slapped me on the back and screamed in my ear, “READY?”

“Isn’t it a bit breezy?” I asked the orangutan-sized instructor.

“Borderline,” he offered.

“I’m Leroy, your instructor. Follow me, you’ve gotta watch an introductory film before you jump,” he started off.

“Ah, Leroy, aren’t you kinda ...uh...small to be attached to a big fat guy like me?”

I knew immediately I’d made a horrible mistake. He spun around to face me and growled,

“We put ‘small’ guys like me on fat guys like you so there’s less weight. so the parachute doesn’t blow apart

“Good idea” ... this was a situation that hadn’t even occured to me.

Leroy, without a word, sat me in a locker roon, turned on a TV video and left. A stern-faced serial killer appeared on the screen.

“What you are about to do, the Tandem Parachute Jump, is not sanctioned by the American Parachute Association or the FAA or anyone else for that matter. Why? Because you’re out of a plane without a parachute on! That’s why.” For 20 minutes, he droned on about this sport resulting in injury and death and should not be taken lightly. By the end of the film, I’d pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I’d be killed.

Leroy then led me to an office where I was forced to sign approximately 25 different releases. No—I didn’t have a heart condition; no — I wasn’t high on drugs, or drunk; no — I would not sue no matter what. This was getting extremely discouraging. I was then led to a room and forced to hand over all valuables, watch, wallet, etc. They then jammed me into a jumpsuit and trussed me into a harness that went around the shoulders and between my legs.

“Make sure that’s tight,” offered Leroy. “We go from 200 m.p.h. to a dead stop, so it has to be comfortable.”

Comfortable is not a word that I would have used when describing a 200-m.p.h.-to-0 stop all absorbed by one’s crotch. A leather helmet and plastic goggles completed the ensemble. Looking in the mirror I looked as aerodynamic as a cucumber. The other Swine had emerged from class and were about to enter Phase 3, the phase in which they keep your money, the phase when they tell you about the 20-30 malfunctions that can occur — inconveniences, as they’re called. They laughed at me and offered words of discouragement I was led to an ancient Cessna. My mind could still not grasp the fact we were actually going through with this. Consequently, I was not responding well to my surroundings.

“NERVOUS?” the adolescent pilot yelled over the engine.

“BLFUNFTR,” I yelled back.

“Wait till I open the door, that’s when the butterflies come in!!” he howled.

Was that a joke? I couldn’t tell...It didn’t seem very funny...

Then I noticed the only gauge in the stripped Cessna — the gas gauge - vibrated violently on E. The kid saw me gaping at it ... “Fuel’s too much weight!!” he shouted. The fact that I was the only one in this flying bucket of bolts without a parachute seemed inconsequential by this time.

The earth dropped away; I triad to conjure up scenes from Little House on the Prairie. Finally, the 12-year-old pilot yelled, “HERE WE ARE!!” and threw open the door. A howling. freezing wind hitme in the face. Leroy pointed to the door. crawled to the shrieking opening. Leroy climbed onto by back and buckled himself on. “READY??” he screamed in my ear an incredibly stupid question given the situation.

“FLLHOIBTY!!” I yelled back, mesmerized by the earth 12,000 feet below. I shut my eyes and we dove into space.

As we hurtled toward earth, a pizza-sized drag chute deployed, causing a slight tug. This chute keeps the tandem jumpers flat and level and keeps their speed at a “reasonable” 200 mph; any faster the main chute would blow apart upon opening. I opened my eyes. The earth was spinning towards us, the wind was increasing rapidly from a howl to a jet engine scream. Within seconds, it would become unbearable. The goggles were being pressed into my face (it surely would take a plastic surgeon to remove them). My face was now taking on a splitting wedge effect, with cheeks pushed back below the ears and my two front teeth the leading edge of a 200-m.p.h., 350-pound hurtling mass of humanity. We had become a “meat”eorite. I was seconds away from blacking out — the noise, the pressure —when suddenly we stopped accelerating. It had taken 10 seconds to reach terminal velocity and we now were going so fast a cushion of air had formed under us; like lying on a waterbed, the air suddenly had texture! The monkey on my back locked arms and legs with me. We dipped our right arm and raised our left, swooping down and right like a jet fighter. Then to the left, screaming into a spiral towards the earth. WE WERE FLYING!!! Straight down mind you, but flying nevertheless. Now another dilemma surfaced; my ears were exploding every three seconds with the rapid change of altitude. Having broken both eardrums in prior fish pursuits, the thought of a reoccurence dismayed me. I opened my mouth to clear the ears; my cheeks inflated like Dizzy Gillespie’s. For 20 more long seconds we tore about the sky, my mind trying to cope with the rush. Suddenly another horrifying possibility arose: what if the chute opened and I just continued without it. After all, I knew Leroy wasn’t crazy about.... I felt a slight tug then... KABOOM!!! We came to a dead stop.

“AAYYIUYIA,” was knocked from me, a primal scream, an escaping rush of relief, a blowing out of cobwebs.

“How’d ya like that?” Leroy asked in the sudden silence.

“AYYIAIBLA.” It was no use, my mind had been blown... and so had my jumpsuit. It seemed that the stop had been so abrupt my stomach had continued on, blowing he suit’s zippers into shreds.

“I’m going to release a couple pins back here, don’t panic,” said Leroy I suddenly swung forward, connected only by the shoulders.