Pro Skydiver's First Ever Jump

When people visit Tsunami Skydivers in Oceanside, they might not realize that I too was a fearful first-time parachutist.

The year was 1980. I had been a fireman for almost a year and was having the time of my life. A 20-year-old with a great job filled with some amazing adventures—like running into burning buildings. What could be better?

One day we were all sitting around the coffee table and I mentioned that I always wanted to make a parachute jump since I was a little kid. Some of the other guys said they wanted to make a jump too, so it all began right there, at that moment, at the firehouse.

We found the only skydiving center close to us in the phone book (remember those?) and made the call. The drop zone owner said it would be $65 for all of the training, the gear and the jump. That sounded okay to the guys on my shift, so we posted a flyer on the firehouse bulletin board to see if guys on the other shifts wanted to join us.

Six brave firemen signed up to make the first jump course. We collected the cash up front from each guy, so no one had any wiggle room to back out on the big day. We carpooled up to the skydiving center and had some guys tag along just to watch. (Well, they mostly came along to heckle us.)

I’m not sure what I expected a drop zone to look like, but this wasn’t it! There was a rickety sign at the end of a country road that said “Parachute Center” with an arrow giving the direction. When we pulled in to the parking area it looked like we were at a farm with a grass runway. The office area was in a big old farmhouse and there was a duct taped up looking tiny little Cessna parked out by a falling down metal hangar. Dale, the owner and unbeknownst to us the most famous jumper in Ohio, came out to greet us. They were excited a group of firemen were going to jump with them and had everything ready to go. There were a few other folks that were going to hurl themselves out of this imperfectly good little Cessna also on that sunny Saturday afternoon. The peanut gallery that drove up with us to watch couldn’t believe we were going to go through with it.

We signed all of the legal “you can’t sue us if the parachute doesn’t work” paperwork and paid them the cash. I guess that was it; we were jumping out of an airplane over a cornfield in Ohio.

The class was intense. Dale walked us out to the hangar. That was going to be our “classroom” for the next couple of hours. He showed us all of the gear, how it worked, what handles did what and pictures of parachutes gone wrong so we would be able to save ourselves with a reserve parachute.

They had these hanging harnesses we all had to get into. The harnesses had handles in the right places and we had a “belly mount” reserve parachute hooked to us. Dale barked out orders to us while we were dangling from the ceiling.

“Mae West, what do you do”?

“Streamer! Cutaway! Look, Pull, Punch!”

He barked orders at us rapidly, yelling when we got something wrong or out of order. Yup, this was the closest thing to boot camp I had ever seen. And what the hell does Mae West have to do with a parachute? (Google it, kids.)

The moment of truth finally arrived. Dale was satisfied we all might just somehow remember what to do and save our lives on a jump.

Motorcycle helmet, check. Big goggles, check. Belly mount reserve, check. Main parachute, check. Dirty old coveralls for a jumpsuit, check.

The skinny 160-pound kid was ready to jump. We were going to do a static line jump. A long tether attached to the airplane would automatically open the main parachute, which was an old T-10 Army model. Old T-10’s, round, not very maneuverable and not very slowing.

I volunteered to go first. The excitement was building inside of me and I was more scared than ever before in my lifetime.

As I walked to the plane, the heat was relentless from the afternoon sun. The gear felt like a grand piano on my back and the belly mount reserve was pulling me over in the front. Dale led me out to the beat-up old airplane like a proud father. There was an older gentleman, not part of our fireman group that was going to jump on the same flight.

What the heck!

The pilot was Dale’s son Bob, a 19-year-old pimple faced kid skinnier than me. Right, I’m going to get into this flying hunk of junk, wearing all of this old gear, fly over this field and jump out at 2,700 feet.

All of a sudden this just didn’t seem like such a brilliant idea like it did at the firehouse coffee table long ago.

I reluctantly climbed into the plane, carefully protecting my gear from snagging it on anything. Then the older guy climbed in and the door shut and off we went. Rumbling down the grass runway was like driving an old truck over a bunch of potholes on a dirt road. We bounced and lurched and made a hell of a racket on takeoff.

Great, I’ll die in the plane before ever experiencing a jump.

Once we got airborne things were nice and smooth. However, all of Dale’s training was spinning around in my mind. Do I cutaway for a spinner or just pull the reserve? Do I throw the reserve into the direction of a spin or away from the direction of a spin?

Damn! I was so confused!

Everything I had just been taught was dribbled out of my brain on the ride to altitude! Bob the pilot yelled ‘DOOR!” door?

What the … and there it was!

He pushed open the flip up door of the plane and there was

that cornfield, humming by a few thousand feet below me. The older guy in front
of me hooked in his static line to a bolt on the floor and climbed gingerly out
onto the strut, like we were taught.  No I don’t know why I had always imagined that jumping off of the strut would be some slow motion, gentle looking act of free fall. Wrong. WHOOSH! He was gone. Instantly. Bob motioned to me to hook in and climb out onto the strut.

My hands were trembling and the sweat was pouring off of my head onto my gear.
I was never more scared in my life. As I climbed out onto the strut I had a
Kung-Fu death grip on the plane.

All of a sudden this didn’t seem like such a hunk of junk aircraft and maybe landing in it would be a pretty good idea.

Bob yelled out to me to jump.

I looked at him manipulating the controls so the plane wouldn’t stall.

“Jump!” he yelled.

What the hell. I looked at the ground, closed my eyes and flung myself off of that perfectly good airplane!

The parachute opened quickly. My arch was horrible and I did a back flip almost off of the strut. As I looked down at the ground I was filled with amazement. I just jumped out of an airplane and lived. I’m cool, oh yeah! No time for bragging rights now, the cornfield is rapidly rising up to greet me. Feet and knees together, parachute landing fall, get ready to flare.

Ready, set, WHAM! Ouch.

That Ohio soil is pretty tough stuff.

I hit the ground and kicked up a cloud of dirt.

I stood up and dusted myself off. I’m alive! At that moment I knew someday I would be a professional skydiver.

I love hearing about everyone's first jump. Tell us your first jump story in the comment section.

Rich Grimm is the owner of Tsunami Skydivers in Oceanside—San Diego’s County’s closest drop zone to the beach with a panoramic coastal view. He can be reached at 760-390-5867.