Most of us think people who jump out of aeroplanes for fun are a bit odd. They are probably right. I spent two years at it, and looking back I can’t help thinking it was a strange way to spend weekends.
My pal and I were interested in aerobatics. We used to turn up early at Biggin Hill and hope the weather would be clear enough for a couple of hours’ practice. We were often disappointed; this was south-east England and the airfield was 200 metres above sea-level. If there was any overcast around it would settle over Biggin and stay there.
On cloudy days we drove down the motorway to another World War II airfield at a lower elevation. Headcorn was paradise for anyone who liked aeroplanes: the hangars were full of Mustangs, Stampes and Zlins, it had a flying-club and an aviation museum full of relics from the Battle of Britain. It was also the main parachuting centre in south-east England.
One Saturday we watched the free-fall club diving out of their Cessna, dropping like stones for twenty seconds, snapping open their canopies and steering themselves down to land elegantly in front of the control tower. We looked at each other: we had to try this.
There was a two-day training course. We learnt how to climb out of the aeroplane, how to adopt the ‘spread’ position – arms and legs extended so as to make your centre of gravity lower - how to operate the reserve parachute mounted on your chest, and how to land. In those days the canopies were round and had hardly any steering ability, so the idea was to face into the wind as you were about to hit the grass and then roll on impact.
This was all good fun because we were still on the ground.
Then we were told to get ready for the next lift.
Cramming three parachutists, a jump-master and a pilot into a small aircraft is not easy. Your body and equipment are wedged between the fuselage and a companion, one leg entwined with theirs, your main parachute preventing backward movement and your reserve parachute preventing breathing. As the aircraft takes off you start to feel cold. It gets colder as you circle up to 1,000 metres. There is no door. The rush of air and the height chill your bones. By the time you reach jumping altitude you actually want to get out.
First the jumpmaster guides the pilot over the jumping zone and throws out a streamer. This tells him the direction of the wind. You try not to look too closely. You are freezing and cramped. Your brain is numb.
My first jump is still a vivid memory.
The jumpmaster tapped me on the arm and said: ‘Out!’ I hauled myself onto the step under the wing as I had been trained. My mind was disengaged: I was trying to remember the instructions. The rush of the wind took my breath away; I could hardly hold on. The jumpmaster leaned out next to me, then shouted: ‘Go!’ and I hopped backwards, counting one-two-three. All I could see through my goggles was the aircraft disappearing overhead.
My rig was attached to the aircraft by a ‘static line’ which operated it automatically, pulling the canopy up and open from my back; this is why the ‘spread’ position is important. Instead I curled into a ball. When the canopy opened it spun me round and one leg got caught in the lines.
But I didn’t care. I was alive! Above me the beautiful green canopy, below me my boots and a panorama of the airfield and the countryside, every house, field and animal bright and vivid in the clear air. I spent a long time contemplating the view... then the ground was rushing up towards me, and at the last moment I tried to turn the parachute into the wind.
I hit the ground in a tumble, tangled up in the chute and its cords. But I was jubilant. I cannot really describe the feeling: an adrenaline rush unlike anything I had experienced before. I bundled up my equipment and marched proudly back to the club-house.
‘That was without question the worst f---ing jump I have ever seen in my life, and I’ve seen thousands. Don’t try it again. Stick to f---ing flying!’
The jumpmaster was an ex-SAS man with an army vocabulary but a kind heart. I pleaded and he relented. It was obvious that I lacked natural talent, but bit by bit I got the hang of it. The great day came when I was allowed to start free-fall, pulling my own rip-cord after a short delay. From then on I didn’t make too many mistakes, though once I landed on a very surprised sheep.
Over the next two years we visited parachute clubs in England, France and Germany. Near Paris we jumped out of a Pilatus Porter, a powerful turbo-prop which took seconds to reach jump-height and had seats, a sliding door and heating. In the West Country we jumped out of a Wilga – a Polish monoplane with a giant engine and an open body like a grasshopper; it went up like a rocket and the pilot thought it would be fun to see if he could make us fall out by banking sharply.
At an American air-base near Mannheim we watched Easy Rider-type marines jumping in trainers with cigarettes in their mouths. Two of them got caught on power-lines and you could hear their laughter a mile away. In France we jumped in a 40 kph wind; the French thought nothing of it, but on landing we couldn’t deflate our canopies and were blown from one side of the airfield to the other, using plenty of army vocabulary.
A friend in the infantry let us jump out of a Wessex helicopter. When it reached the right height it hovered, so we were jumping off a stationary platform. To our surprise, this was much more scary than getting out of an aircraft doing 100 kph.
I suppose overcoming fear was part of the attraction in parachuting. Or perhaps it was just the price we paid for the incomparable thrill of floating down from one, two or three thousand metres. I think most of us dealt with it the same way I did: putting our minds in neutral and concentrating on the mechanical routines of preparing the rig, getting into the aircraft, getting out again, counting numbers and pulling the ripcord. The exhilaration starts when the canopy opens; there is simply nothing like the sensation of being suspended in a harness beneath a silent hemisphere of nylon. Then you land and feel like a million dollars. Later, the pub, and everyone has a story to tell.
Parachuting isn’t dangerous – at least, not compared with horse-riding or rock-climbing. But some people think it must be. One of them was my girlfriend, who gave me an ultimatum. So, after sixty-four jumps, I quit the club and sold my equipment. I wish I hadn’t. A year later she was gone, but so was my rig.