"What would Larry do?"

Everything was going pretty much according to plan. We left the motel at a reasonable hour, got stuck in traffic, which wasn't unexpected, arriving on the grounds of the World's Largest Air show around noon. Even being stuck in traffic wasn't a hardship, Diane kept us amused by sending us texts speculating on the reasons for the delay and pointing out the billboards for things like the World's Largest Sex Shop. We slathered on the sunscreen, grabbed our camera's and hats, and headed in the same general direction as the rest of the crowd. We hadn't covered 50 feet when Gerry said "We should have dumped some Gatorade out of the bottles and sweetened it up with the Grey Goose." He went on to say that he was just joking, but by then he was talking to himself as Diane and I were already on our way back to the truck. We "freshened" our Gatorade and headed back in, which is where the whole plan went bad. It seemed so simple, drive to Oshkosh, walk around, look at airplanes. I hadn't counted on the Grey Goose.

We made a beeline for the helicopters that were circling around with Gerry whistling the theme song from MASH, and declaring "I'm going to get a ride on one of those!" By the time we got to the loading area we had already drank most of the "Gatorade", and found out it was a 2 hour wait for the helicopter, so we weaved back to the truck for more supplies. We mixed some more drinks, stuffing some ice in the bottles so they would last longer in the heat, and pouring what was left into a water bottle so we could smuggle it past security. The new quart bottle of vodka was now empty, and we were ready to take Oshkosh by storm.

As soon as we cleared security we headed straight for the Warbirds section, that's where all the World War II aircraft were parked. Row upon row of P-51 Mustangs, Corsairs. Lightning's, a Mosquito, a Spitfire, the list could fill a page. Gerry and I were like kids in a candy store, running from one airplane to the next. Even Diane, who only came along because it was on her way home, was impressed. In the next couple of hours we only managed to cover a fraction of the place. We strolled through the homebuilt area, and some of those planes looked fancier than the ones that come from factories.

By then we were starving, so Gerry and I lined up for food, while Diane got us some strawberry smoothies. We sat at our table pouring the rest of the vodka into the smoothies and commenting about how they needed to be watered down as a guy at the end of the table did his best Sergeant Shultz impression. "I see nuffink! I know nuffink!" And we staggered off for more. As we stood and watched the mid-day air show Gerry declared that he was going back to get a ride on one of the helicopters, and disappeared into the crowd. He wasn't gone 10 minutes when he sent Diane a text saying "I have found cold beer"

Diane texted back: "WHERE?!?!"

Gerry: "Co-ordinates G-11"

We pulled out our map and it only took a moment to find the co-ordinates. The spiked smoothies were long gone, we had begun to develop a powerful thirst, so away we went. And promptly got lost. After a while Gerry sent another text: "Running low on US cash, where are you?" Diane replied that we were on our way, and would be there soon. A few minutes later Gerry sent: "I'm surrounded, all my US cash is gone, and I'm on my last beer. Send reinforcements!"

Diane: "Hold on soldier! The Cavalry is coming!"

We finally spotted a big yellow balloon with "Cold Beer" written on it floating above a huge tent filled with girls in bikini's serving up ice cold beer as fast as they could. We made a quick search but Gerry was nowhere to be found. We figured he was probably using the bathroom, so we got some drinks and found some chairs in a well shaded area to await his return. After a few minutes Diane sent a text saying we had arrived at the giant yellow balloon. Gerry looked around the bar, and then looked above the bar, and there was no balloon. We were in the wrong bar. We had  misread the text, and hustled right past the bar located at C-11, and found one instead at G-11.

Gerry arrived a few minutes later, still smiling, only annoyed because he'd been getting along so well with the waitresses in his bar, and hadn't wanted to leave them behind. And that's where we stayed until sundown, eating corn on the cob and cheeseburgers, washed down with copious amounts of beer, as we watched various bombers and fighter-bombers do carefully staged re-enactments of bombing runs complete with huge explosions, plenty of flames and smoke.

Then Gerry stood up and for the umpteenth time declared "I'm going to get a ride on one of those helicopters, and I'm going to moon you when we go past!" And away he went. Again. He was back fairly quickly, babbling about his ride, and how he had spent the whole flight trying to get the pilot to get closer to the big yellow balloon. He actually had started to loosen the belt on his shorts preparatory to undoing the seatbelt so he could hang his ass out the door, no doubt causing some concern to the uptight British gentleman he was belted in with. As soon he was down he ran over to the counter, pulled out some cash and said "I want to go again!" But they were shutting down for the day, he had caught his ride just in time.

A couple of beers after he returned he decided it would be a good idea to go over to the stage where the band was warming up, seize the microphone, and "Explain to all these Damn Americans just who it was that burned the White House! That's right!" he was practically shouting as he warmed to his theme, "We marched right in there and burned Washington to the ground!" For emphasis he held up both middle fingers well above his head. "That's why the White House is white!" Once we got him calmed down he decided that instead he would streak the food tent and started emptying his pockets of anything important in case he wasn't able to recover his clothing after he got arrested. "Don't worry! If the cops are behind me when I circle back here I'll just go on past, you two go home without me." It took even longer to talk him out of this than it took to convince him that a history lesson on the War of 1812 to a field full of drunken Americans wasn't a great idea. Eventually I told him he wasn't drunk enough for something like that yet. Maybe later. That made sense to him on some level, so as soon as I made the mistake of giving him back his wallet, he went and fetched more beer.

The band started to play, the party was just beginning. There were tens of thousands of people camped on the airport. I had imagined many times what it would be like to visit Oshkosh, Mecca for anyone who loves aviation. What I had imagined wasn't anything like this. This was so much better. Next time we're going to bring Camelbacks loaded with Grey Goose and strawberry smoothies so we can party along the whole flight line.

At sundown we finally returned to the parking lot, to bid a sad farewell to Diane Beer Girl, our constant companion and partner in crime over the last week, as she continued on to Winnipeg, and we left to catch our 1 AM ferry ride across Lake Michigan, the first leg of our trip home. "I love you Diane! You too Oshkosh!" Gerry shouted out the window as we drove away.

Gerry and Larry ride a Ferry.

We pulled into the lineup for the SS Badger a full hour ahead of our check in time, so when Gerry left in search of a bathroom, and since the crew would be driving the truck aboard for us, I opened the tailgate, pulled out a chair, popped open a beer, and settled down to wait. When Gerry returned he surveyed the scene for a moment then said "You know, I really like how your mind works. In the future, if I'm trying to decide how to proceed in a situation, I'll just ask myself 'What would Larry do?" He pulled out a chair, I handed him a beer, and the party began all over again.

People were wandering about killing time, and they all seemed to be attracted to the blue Toyota pickup truck with the loud music, and the louder Canadians. We started handing out beer, and once people found out we had spent the week skydiving, the questions started, and we were in our element. We talked about big-ways, little-ways, tandems, funnels, altitude and oxygen, and all the planes we'd jumped from. I pulled my laptop from the truck and we  gave the crowd an audio visual presentation complete with a couple of hilarious tandem video's, and video of my old 4-way team at the Nationals. When it came time to board some husbands and kids had to be dragged away by their wives or mothers.

I slept through most of the 4 hour ride while Gerry wandered the decks, and as soon as the truck was offloaded we were off, headed for home. It took 12 more hours of driving to get back to Gerry's house. I thought about suggesting we swing past Mile High, get in a jump before sunset, and join the party, but speaking only for myself, we have spent far too much time in this truck, and I'm looking forward to sleeping in my own comfy bed.


I'm sitting in my living room, having gone a whole 20 hours without alcohol, and it seems strange that only 24 hours earlier the 3 of us were in Oshkosh, feet up, drinking beer, watching vintage warbirds fly past, as Diane and I talked Gerry out of re-enacting the battle of Washington.

,

9 Days, 22 jumps, a few storms, an airshow, 3,200 kilometers, a bunch of half remembered parties, toga's, man eating fish, some bobbing, some weaving, a lot of laughs, a dent in the side of my truck I'd prefer to not go into here, and a great visit with some old friends I don't get to see anywhere near often enough. It's been 2 years since I did a road trip like this, that's far too long between parties. Gerry feels the same. I'll be putting together a gallery of some of the pictures from this trip and posting it in a few days. I accept no responsibility for any trauma caused by the viewing of those pictures, and keep them out of the reach of children.


One day a couple of years ago when I was up to my usual shenanigans an ex-girlfriend looked at me with a huge smile and said "You're such a kid!" It was just about the best compliment I have ever received. Kids have it all figured out. The whole world is their playground. We lose track of that somewhere along the way. If you do it right, adults are just kids with money, growing up is purely optional. For this year at least, and for many reasons, my skydiving is pretty much over, I'm going to look around the playground and see if something else shiny catches my eye. 


Until the next time
Crazy Larry

"Poor people are crazy...."

"Poor people are crazy, I'm eccentric." Dennis Hopper in the movie "Speed"

And like any other boogie, there are plenty of eccentric people kicking about this drop zone. A guy came walking into the hangar yesterday carrying a giant inflatable penis that was going to be ridden out the door by 9 bikini clad young ladies. I hear the dive went according to plan, with the girls winding up head down with the penis trapped above them by their crossed legs. The guy who was organizing it didn't warn them that the excess speed and aerodynamics of flying head down would cause their tops to get torn off, which was of course the intended result.

The heat and humidity have been brutal, with temperatures of 42-43 degrees everyday plus humidity. In 5 days I've only done 22 jumps. By mid-afternoon the thought of pulling on a jump suit and rig cancels out any possible positive medicinal effects of a skydive. Add in the fact that as soon as our jumps start to grow beyond our circle of friends the fact that half the people in the world are below average becomes all too apparent. It takes far too much effort to do a skydive under these conditions to spend 70 seconds chasing stuff around that doesn't build. We've split off several times from the larger groups to do very successful 4-way, including the last jump on Wednesday where Larry D, Diane, a guy named Chuck and I went out and did a fast moving, turning, spinning dive that left us all with huge grins. Chuck was especially impressed, he had met Diane and I just minutes before the jump and when we did the post-dive his comment was "Nobody warned me I was going to be jumping with a professional team!" I hadn't had a lot of compliments lately about my skydiving so I was happy to accept this one.

The heat proved to be too much, so we adjourned to the pond for the rest of the day. There were more people floating around in the pond than there had been in the hangar. We spent the hour bobbing about on pool noodles and drinking beer. And feeding the fish. But not intentionally, they were just helping themselves. I had been warned that the fish would nibble on you if you didn't keep moving. I pictured something like you see on the news where little guppies nibble on peoples feet and remove dead skin. No. Not even close. I'm bobbing along with 2 pool noodles trapped between my legs and my beer in my hand, peaceful, relaxed, minding my own business, with no idea I was being stalked by Jaws' baby brother. Suddenly I was nipped just below my right armpit. I let out a shriek and thrashed around so much I almost spilled my beer. Everyone around me started to laugh, and I was told I had just been introduced to Skydive Chicago's own Loch Ness monster. I calmed down after a couple of minutes, (and another beer). Every few minutes, somebody would let out a screech or a yelp, followed by drunken giggles, and you knew that "Nessie" had snuck up on another victim.

It's now Thursday afternoon, and we're in in a motel room in Beaver Dam Wisconsin. The forecast for the next couple of days is mostly crap, so after we drank a breakfast of half coffee and half Baileys this morning, we knocked down our soaking wet tents and headed to an airshow going on to our north. It's on her way home, so Diane has come along as well. It's being held in a town called "Osh" something.

I just got an email from Trevor back at Mile High checking to see if anybody was available for Tandems this weekend. I told Gerry to send Trev an email saying "Sorry Trevor, but Larry's not done with me yet."
There's still 4 days left of our vacations, nobody has to be back at work until Tuesday. We've got 2 coolers full of beer, a large bottle of Vodka, a whole bunch of cash, and time to kill. Summerfest may be behind us, but the party's not over yet.

"Tis better to give, than to receive."

Especially if you're talking about water balloons.

I decided I would watch the Hit N' Chug, rather than participate, as that would allow me to start drinking beer at the more civilized hour of 4 o'clock. Once Diane had the obstacle course explained to her, she decided she would give it a pass and start drinking with me, and since I wasn't going, Gerry said he wasn't going. Since I'd only had one beer when he informed me of that, and since it was an American beer, I changed my mind and said I would go. But Gerry's mind was already made up, he quickly had a beer in hand, and that was that. It was settled. We were going to be the people throwing the water balloons, rather than being thrown at.


This event is a combination of accuracy, speed, and beer chugging. The clock starts as soon as you land. You run to the beginning of the course, put your head on top of an upright baseball bat that you have to rotate around 5 times, weave through the pylons, climb a set of bleachers, throw yourself off the other side onto a large pad, roll off, and then run a stretch of open grass known as "The Gauntlet". It's lined with skydivers armed with water balloons and water pistols. Then you dive onto the water slide, and at the end of that they hand you a well shaken beer that has been left out in the sun all day. Guzzle that down, and when you're finished, the clock stops. Lowest time wins.

We grabbed our lawn chairs and joined the rapidly swelling crowd gathering in the spectator area. But when we got there, there wasn't a single water pistol or water balloon in sight. Somebody had forgotten to go to Walmart for supplies. Finally! I had a use for the balloons that went with the cylinder of helium I had dragged about most of North America all spring. Gerry and I were quickly in the bathroom making a god-awful mess as we filled the 50 balloons. There was somebody in one of the crappers behind us who turned out to be a participant in the contest, and in exchange for a promise of immunity he promised to not warn the rest of the contestants. As soon as he left the bathroom Gerry and I looked at each other and Gerry said " He's getting extra balloons for not warning his friends!" We gave it all away though when one of the bags we were carrying the balloons in gave away as we passed a group gearing up for the contest. I'm pretty sure a dozen balloons full of water didn't escape their attention, and that they weren't fooled by Gerry shouting "It's got nothing to do with you!"

We grabbed Kelly, Diane, Robyn, and another girl to throw the balloons, and stationed them along the length of the gauntlet. Since Phil is the trained Fireman I gave him the Super Soaker, and Bob went with him carrying a jug of water to help him reload. Gerry and I took up positions next to the water slide with my camera. We were ready for the first victims.

The first group of 6 started to land, and as soon as the first guys feet were on the ground he pulled his cutaway handle and took off at a run to get to the baseball bat. He ran the rest of the course and when he rolled off the mat he was treated to a hail of missiles, some of which actually found their mark. He finished the course just about the time the next guy started his run. The third guy was the kid who we had promised immunity to, and he'd been wise enough to not believe us and ran the course in a bathing suit. He got extra attention from the girls as he went past. He wasn't going to waste time waiting for it to pour out and shotgunned it, piercing a hole at the base and popping the top. It emptied in a couple of seconds.

It continued on with most of the contestants cutting away their main and running the course wearing their container rather wasting time undoing it. Then one guy landed, reached down, peeled and pulled his cutaway handle, and following the all the training and drills he'd been practicing for years, followed it by pulling his reserve handle. His reserve pilot chute was flung across the landing area as the crowd howled with laughter. One of the people who had been dragging the gear out of the way shouted "It's okay! We found the free bag!' as he waved it above his head and the crowd laughed louder.

The winning time was one minute seventeen seconds. Gerry is all wound up to come back next year and he is absolutely certain if he can land with any accuracy at all, cut that time in half.

If you obey all the rules...

"If you obey all the rules, you'll miss all the fun." Katherine Hepburn

Sunday morning I awoke to the sound of a distant rumble. At first I thought
it was a freight train, but when it went on for too long I started to think
it sounded more like someone was dragging a large garbage can down the
gravel road that runs through the trailer park. After a few more minutes I
stuck my head out of my tent to the sight of a solid wall of slate gray clouds just to the
north, the sound was definitely thunder, and it was getting louder. Deciding
that if I didn't get out of my tent real soon, I could be trapped in it for
hours, I decided to hit the showers. When I came out the winds were picking
up, the rain was just starting, and  I caught a lift back to the tent from
a blond with a fancy german sportscar. Suddenly the storm didn't seem so
bad, and the day seemed to be off to a pretty good start after all. Thinking
that Gerry would probably be asleep for a while yet, I took the truck and
headed for the hangar as the storm started to really hit. The rain was
hitting the truck like it was coming out of a fire hose, and the wind was
making it rock to and fro as I rolled through the trailer park.

I set myself up in a booth in the restaurant to surf the net and wait for them to open. After I had been there for about half an hour with the storm still going strong, Gerry walked up to the booth  and fixed me with a baleful glance as a pool of water spread out slowly from his feet. Oh. It seemed he was up when I left, and just missed getting my attention so he could get a lift with me. He finally got managed to get a ride to the hangar from Diane, but was soaked through.

It's now past noon, and they're trying to scare up enough people to do a hop n' pop load, but the landing areas are still soaked so I'm giving it a pass for now.

2:00 O'clock. We finally got up in the air around 1, doing a couple of disorganized loads with one of the organizers. His jumps have been pretty successful in past years but all the jumps we've done with him so far have turned into mystery dives. That's what you call it when you're tracking away saying to yourself "What the F*** was that?"

On one jump I was nose to nose with Mike Crow fro the entire dive. He had a GoPro camera mounted on the sude of his helmet so I slid off to that side, put my visor right up against the wide angle lens, and crossed my eyes as hard as I could. I can't figure out how the hell he could have missed what I was doing, but he did, because he when we went to debrief the dive he plugged the camera into the big screen TV, and all he had to show was 60 seconds of my crossed eyeballs filling the entire screen. He wasn't impressed, but judging by the laughter everybody else seemed to like it.

Gerry, Kelly, Joanne and I went up to do some 4-way so that we could actually have a chance to touch something, and we had a blast, cranking out points like crazy on a fast burner dive. Now that's the kind of skydiving I like. When Gerry, Joanne, Diane and I went to do a jump out of the Skyvan and we started to plan our exit, Diane piped up with "Bitch Toss me out the door, then come catch me!" When it was our turn to exit, she lay down on the floor, Gerry and I picked her up by her leg straps and shoulder yokes, started swinging her back and forth, then it was "Ready, Set, Go!" and we flung her headfirst out the door.    There was a group of girls leaving after us and as we dove out to chase Diane they were all shouting 'Me next! Me next!" Even with all the separation caused by our exit we still caught up in time to turn about 20 points.

We were on an Otter load that tucked in a little below and to the side of the Skyvan on jump run. Normally when you're formation flying you're leaving with everybody on the other plane so it was really neat to watch all the bodies pouring out of that tailgate and drop away. There wasn't a stable exit on the entire load.

I made a run to the liquor store to get some wine to go with the steak dinner we're planning at the swamp, and was reminded again why I could never move to the US. My liver just wouldn't be bale to take the abuse. Giant bottles of Grey Goose are almost half the price they are back home, and a 24 of beer costs 12 bucks. I only went in for a bottle of wine, but came out with all the booze I could carry. Beer, Wine, Bailey's, Vodka...... I just couldn't control myself.

Tuesday Morning
The flying HellFish Toga Party was last night, and people I don't remember having met keep coming up and telling me how much fun I had last night. I'll have to take their word for it, I don't remember much except arriving and starting in on the free Margarita's. But they're probably right, I woke up with a Flying HellFish tattoo on my chest. I don't remember getting it, but I'm sure that when I check my camera later there will be some evidence. Gerry fashioned a toga out of material he'd bought at Walmart. He was helped by a lady that he figured was at least 90 years old, and when he mentioned to her he was going to be turning it into a toga, she said "Oh, a skydiver! Let me think, how do you do that again?" Diane had brought a length of gauzy, see through material with a lacy fringe in virginal white, and when she hacked a bunch of it off, I gave up trying to fashion my flowered bed sheet into a toga and scooped up the part she had discarded. I think I actually looked pretty good in lace, especially with my straw cowboy hat to top it off.

The first 3 days have been typical Summerfest, bitchin' hot, humidity close to 90%, plenty of fun, pointless skydives, scantily clad women, and dirt cheap, ice cold beer. I've seen all the stupidity and nonsense so many times that it all seems normal now. A crop dusting school is operating from the airport so we get woken up every morning by the sound of a small airplane repeatedly buzzing the nearby runway and pulling up to turn right over us and miss the trees. But as soon as the sun is up the tent is too hot to stay in anyway. Every time there's any wind, Diane's tent has collapsed, usually with her in it. One morning she looked like she was a corpse in a crime scene, outlined beneath the wet nylon.

A DC3 painted in World War II military colors showed up late Sunday, took up 1 load, and landed with them 10 minutes later when one engine quit. The jumpers wanted out, but the loadmaster kept them on board, saying "We still have one engine left!" Sure, and it's just as old as the one that quit, built in the 40's. It's over at a hangar with a bunch of mechanics crawling all over it now, and will be leaving for the Oshkosh airshow as soon as it's fixed. That's fine with me, but Gerry had really been looking forward to jumping it.

The attendance seems to be off this year, but my friends are here, Larry and Joanne's World Famous Drive Thru Beer Window will be open in the parking lot as soon as they're done jumping today, and I intend to make a bee line for it as soon as I finish running the obstacle course in the Hit N' Chug this evening. All is good in my world.

"Definitely more dangerous!" Gerry Cluett

"Sell the house, my trailer, and everything I own, and send me a check, I'm not coming home!"


That was the text Gerry sent to Trevor a couple of hours after we arrived at Summerfest. We drove for 15 hours arriving well after dark, and when we pulled into the parking lot Larry and Joanne's "World Famous Drive Thru Beer Window" was open for business and doing a roaring trade. We were welcomed like the return of the Prodigal Sons. The party had already been going on for a couple of hours and we were greeted with an endless stream of ice cold beer from the seemingly bottomless coolers in the back of Larry and Joanne's truck. I mentioned that a friend from Winnipeg was supposed to be here by now and several people said "You mean Beer Girl?" Seems she's already made an impression. Kelly quickly arranged a couple of bunks for us in The Swamp so we wouldn't have to set up our tents in the dark, and could sleep in air conditioned comfort. When the band started up at the Tiki Hut we wandered over and I began searching the crowd for Diane. I was about to give up looking when she snuck up on me from behind, spun me around to grab my head and pull it down to bury it between her breasts and vigorously wriggle her chest back and forth across my face. When she pulled my head back up, I turned to introduce her to a wide-eyed, slack jawed Gerry, and she proceeded to grab his head and do the same thing to him that she had done to me. Yep, that girl always makes an impression all right. The party went on into the wee small hours of the morning, and we finally gave in to fatigue and alcohol shortly before the bar closed down.

We awoke to an overcast sky, the planes wouldn't be flying for a couple hours because of the low ceiling, but Phil had the coffee on in the Swamp, we were in Chicago, Summerfest was running, and all was good in my world.

When we finally did start jumping we quickly settled into the routine we'd settled into more than 10 years earlier at the Convention, a mix of good skydiving, bad skydiving, scary skydiving, and moments of pure farce. On one 20 way dive we built 5, 4-way diamonds, that we flew around and docked far more successfully than I ever thought we could for a group that was a walk up load. Then that was immediately followed by one guy dive bombing the formation and taking out one whole side as he went past. On one jump where were going to have video the pilot released the brakes just as the cameraman was climbing aboard, knocking him off the ladder to the ground. He knew enough to stay there while the tail swept over him, and while he was shaken up, he was more pissed off than injured.

Each day they have a Mystery Load. One of the sponsors picks up the price of the jump tickets for a random load of aircraft. We were sitting in the loading area when we heard over the P.A. that Load 112 had won that day's mystery dive. "Load 112? Isn't that our load? Asked Kelly. A minute later one of the girls came over from manifest to give us back our tickets. Sweet! Free Altitude! "Sponsored by Airtec, makers of the Cypres 2 AAD, over 1,500 Lives Saved!" Thanks guys!

By the end of the day I had only managed 5 jumps in between the 60-ways that had priority on the planes and caused us to be put on 40 and 50 minute calls. Nobody died, nobody lost an eye, a good start to a vacation. Gerry did a bunch of solo jumps, wearing shorts and sandals, just giving himself an air bath. But he is planning on joining us tomorrow for some smaller stuff.

Off and crawlin' like a herd of Turtles....

Skydive, Party, Collapse, Repeat. That's the motto of the Muff Brothers, and the plan for the next 9 days. I'm off to Ottawa Illinois, home of Skydive Chicago, and Summerfest 2011, the largest boogie in North America. For years Gerry Cluett has been threatening to come with me, but circumstances and life kept getting in the way and he was unable to make the trip. This year, having cleared his calendar and sidestepped various family and social obligations he is finally going to be my copilot. We will be partners in crime as we storm the Flying HellFish Toga Party, assault the obstacle course in the Hit N' Chug, and watch Rook set fire to his Drop Zone as part of the fireworks show. Diane Beer Girl is going to be arriving sometime Friday afternoon, after driving all the way from the Canadian Nationals in Alberta, stopping at home in Winnipeg only long enough to do laundry.

The truck is packed with the usual assortment of gear, beer, tents, coolers...... and the tank of helium I never got around to putting to use at Mission 100 in St. Esprit. I'm sure that the flying Hellfish will be able to come up with something suitably stupid to do with it. I purchased a Super Soaker water pistol so that when I run "The Gauntlet" as part of the Hit N' Chug, and they start throwing those water balloons at me I'd be able to return fire. But when I was testing it out earlier today by tormenting the 5 year old kid next door I over-pressurized it and it blew up in my hands. I'll see if I can pick up a new one at Walmart, but just in case I've packed my marshmallow gun. I know it sounds innocuous, but at close range, under enough pressure, even a marshmallow leaves a mark.

I wonder if having Gerry along will make me more dangerous, or less dangerous?

Mission 100, Day 5

The evening before we started the record attempts Martin Lemay told us that he would rather put all 100 of us up the air for a nearly completed formation than take the most qualified people and put them up simply to set a new record. A few people had been stood down, and he felt that everybody who was still on had the potential to make it work. We had committed to him, and he was committed to getting as many of us onto the record as possible. Normally at something like this the organizers would be going through the roster with a chainsaw by now cutting people right left and center to increase their chances of success. The "inclusive", rather than "exclusive" attitude was refreshing. It wasn't popular with everybody though, a lot of the participants here were in Perris Valley in the spring we made this years first attempt at a record.

We finally took our first injury today. Mish was trying not to be last for the dirt dive, running and getting geared up at the same time. He got caught up in
his rig with his arms trapped behind his back, tripped, and did a face plant
on the deck. He broke his nose and scraped all of the skin off his chin. He
had to stand down from the first load and was replaced by Richard Bisson. He
also had to pay a case of beer for the first injury, but he called that on
himself, so that's okay.

We met at 6:45 under mostly clear skies, and the group had so much energy we
could have run to altitude. In the dirt dive I did what I had been doing for the last 4 days, making faces at Amanda Hoff, my clone on the far side of the formation. We'd been crossing our eyes, flaring our nostrils, blowing kisses, licking our lips, and sometimes even doing as we were supposed to which was making eye contact and staring each other down. But mostly we were trying our best to break each others concentration.

After a thorough review of the plan, both groups
boarded their planes and we finally went up to do the 41-way skydive we'd
first dirt dived 2 days before. The point didn't build, there were a couple
of grips out, but everything was clean and calm. A bunch of us landed in a
field a couple of roads over from the DZ, and a very kind, very old lady who
reminded me of my grandmother slowed down in her very small car to gawk at
us as we walked out of the field. We quickly talked her into giving us a
ride back and we jammed 5 jumpers and gear into her car. She was so excited
I thought she was going to pee herself.

Traffic on the highway has slowed to a crawl, with spectators lining the
shoulders and set up in the fields on lawn chairs. The sight of 3 twin
Otters parked next to a highway is rare to begin with, and almost unheard of
in Canada. There's also the whole people dropping out of the sky in huge
numbers thing.

We geared up for the second jump, boarded our plane, and we taxied up and
out of the way. Angus Smith suddenly appeared, shoved the door up, shouted "Is
this the right right trail plane"? When we yelled no he slammed the door
shut and scurried away. How the hell do you lose your plane? Only Angus could pull that off. But a moment later, I watched Jean Aitken go running
from one aircraft over to another aircraft. Then she came running over to
our aircraft. Then she ran away and ran over to the third aircraft. By then
she'd been joined by Les from Aerodyne, who led her back to our aircraft,
and then finally over to the aircraft that she'd been at in the first place,
where they finally let her board. Turned out that 28 people had been told to
get on an Otter that on a good day can hold 23, and they had to redistribute
the load.

The second jump of the day, which was a 65-way, went very very well, and
came close to a completion.

While practicing the exit for the third jump of the day, Dave Gransden put
his foot down wrong and tore his Achilles tendon. Shortly after that, he
passed out from the pain, and got a free ride in a brightly painted van
covered with flashing lights. But that's again that's okay, because he called beer on
himself for having injured himself without actually skydiving, and we got a
twelve of beer out of it.

The third jump of the day was our first serious attempt at setting a new
record. It was supposed to be a 101-way. It went well but didn't complete.

My slot is pretty straightforward. I'm in the second row of divers coming out of the left trail aircraft, and even with 8 people in front of me and someone to either side I'm still close enough I could easily stick my hand outside the plane. When the 6-way Base launches out of the Sherpa, the 5 floaters clinging to the outside of the plane drop off, the first row of divers squatting and leaning on the floaters are right behind them, and my row is a split second behind them. My row turns to the left when we come out, and the base is dropping down at an angle directly in front of us. We have a straight in shot to our slots. We have to get there as quickly as possible so the rest of the people in our sectors can start filling in behind us. It's the same slot I've been in most of the week. I have Pierre DalcourtTK, with Martin and his bright orange suit to our right, and some poor guy who lost a bet wearing a neon pink Jump For The Cause jumpsuit across from us. There will be no excuse for us to get lost, everybody in the base is pretty distinctive.

Little Kim is in the middle of the floater line on my plane, sandwiched in between a couple of tall guys and all she can see once she's in position is the side of the plane above the door. As soon as anybody in her line moves she's going to drop off.

Joanne Chantigny from Mile High is flying a tough slot, docking in a whacker line several rows behind me. She's got to fly over from another airplane and has a lot of sky to cover. Cyr is in a similar slot across on the other side of the formation.

After the debrief, we were stood down because of clouds. Again.

I took advantage of the break to track down everybody who'd committed a sin
over the past five days to either collect beer or cash to buy beer.

Everybody paid up without protest and in most cases overpaid the amount of
their fine. I hit Angus up for a 12 pack for showing up at the dirt dive in shorts and a T shirt, without a suit. "But that is my suit!" he protested, pointing out that was what he had been wearing on all his jumps. But he paid anyway. I drafted Johannes boyfriend Steph to run and fetch the beer and ice.
He didn't seem to mind, he'd been hanging around all day and isn't a
jumper, there isn't much to do at a DZ if you don't skydive. By the time he
got back, they were calling us to show up for our next jump.

It didn't go anywhere near as well as the previous one. Full body contact,
combat RW. People diving at it, sliding under it, landing on it, collapsing whole sectors,
even crashing right into it--it wasn't pretty or fun. If nobody died or lost an eye. It
certainly wasn't through lack of trying.

Soon after we landed, everybody was digging into the free beer, including a
bunch of people whom nobody had seen before. When we were called to the barn
for the debrief, they picked up a cooler and started walking along the path
with us. When we came to the fork in the path that headed off to the parking
lot, they turned right, while the rest of us went straight. "NO, come this
way, come this way, you're going the wrong way." They looked over their
shoulders at us and started walking faster as they carried our huge cooler
full of beer towards the parking lot and their car with its tailgate open,
waiting for them to make their getaway. They were quickly surrounded by a
crowd of angry skydivers, and after a brief dispute that was settled by the
fact that we outnumbered them by about 10 to 1, we took our beer and headed
for the debrief.

Turned out they were part of the entertainment Donald had lined up, and part
of their payment was to be in beer. When they asked the girl who was running
the beer table for the "Free Beer" she pointed to our cooler, so they picked
it up and started on their way. Just a little miscommunication that came to
the verge of turning ugly. Don't come between a skydiver and his beer.

Mission 100, Day 6

This is it. We have the Sherpa until noon. If we hustle, we can get 3 jumps in. It has to happen before 12 o'clock today or it could be years before the necessary aircraft and talent can be assembled again.

We met in the field at 6:30 and lo and behold, T.K. Hayes, manager and part owner of Skydive City in Florida, also known as Base-o-matic, was late. He had the good manners to run when he finally pulled into the parking lot. Also late were three members of a 4-way team from the Prairies, but at least the team is
working in unison. After a very quick review, we were off for our first jump. TK had promised free jump tickets for everyone at his DZ if we made it on our first attempt.

A couple of people had been cut, and we were aiming for 98. It went very very well, and suddenly it seemed as if we could pull this off.

I landed out, along with most of the people on the load, and burned it in
downwind all alone into a muddy field as I followed the landing direction that had been designated before we took off. I slid to a stop on my right side, covering my suit from shoulder to waist, as well as my right arm, with mud. As I stood stowing my brakes, I looked ahead at the field across from me and watched
canopies landing from every direction, downwind, upwind, crosswind, and was glad I had landed all by myself in the muddy field.

When I walked out to the road, I thought that one of my lifelong fantasies had come true.
I was met by a tall, blond, spectacularly endowed Amazon. "I've come for
you", she said. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. But she was only
there to take me back to the drop zone. There was a fleet of vehicles
circling about, picking up skydivers from everywhere, including a tractor
drawn hay wagon that showed up with a dozen skydivers aboard looking like
animals at the zoo on display as they were returned to the drop zone. They got a round of applause and laughter from jumpers and spectators alike.

After a very fast debrief and an even faster brief, we went back up with
some changes to the lineup. Again, the dive went well, but didn't complete. When my canopy opened it snapped into a fast 360 degree turn before it settled smoothly on the heading I'd been on when I threw the
pilot chute. Not a good thing when there's that many canopies around but
seeing all those canopies go past made the momentary fear worth it. When I came in to the landing area there was nobody near me for the first time since I got here so I decided to take advantage of
that and do a front riser carve to dive and accelerate the canopy in for my
landing. As I came out of the swoop I realized the wind had picked up and I was now screaming in downwind. I tried to run it out on a downhill slope but it was hopeless. I finally tripped and landed on my left side, skidding to a stop in another patch of mud. At least now I was equally muddy
on both sides of my suit and gear. That turned out to be a typical landing
on that load with most people doing face plants, somersaults and butt slides.
The most popular piece of equipment on the drop zone after that was the Scrub
Brush of Shame. My rigger is going to be pissed at the mess he has to clean up.

We only have one shot left. But it seems that time after time these things come down to the last possible chance, the last load on the last day, that's when people dig deep, focus, and make it happen.

They made a couple more cuts, and 93 of us met in the field for one last dirt dive. Martin looked around, thanked us all for coming, for working so hard, said we didn't need to run through it all again, that we all knew our jobs, lets load the planes and go. We were all smiles as we split into our aircraft groups, and everybody seemed to know that this time, it was going to work.

Our airplane wasn't being used for ferry duty so we lounged about on the grass in the shade beneath the wing on the left side of our plane. The pilot damn near gave us a heart attack when he started up the right side engine without warning us first. There was a mad scramble as anybody close to the left engine crawled away from it in case it started as well.

We went to 20,000 feet, sitting calmly on the floor, sucking on our oxygen tubes. When it was time to get up and get ready, I knelt looking out a window on the right side of the plane in what was the best seat in the house. I had a perfect view of the other 3 aircraft, flying in a tight formation. My job was to watch the other planes, and in case we missed a warning light, to let people know when the other planes were opening their doors, and starting their climb out. When the right trail opened it's door, Stephane Lemay, our cameraman for the US nationals in 2010 could be plainly seen in his bright red suit. In the shadows on the tailgate of the Sherpa I could see Martin's orange suit moving about as he leaned out to check our spot.

Green Light. I could see the floaters on the other 2 trail planes starting to climb out. Time to go.

It's Ground Hog Day.

When the 8 people in front of me left, I dove out, and turned to see the base floating past, solid and stable.  I swept my arms back as far as I could and dove after Pierre as fast as I could. The faster I was where I was supposed to be, the faster the people who were lining up behind me could get to where they had to go. It was building fast, real fast, and clean, with no movement, no waves going through the formation as it grew. I was staring across the formation at Amanda, and her whole side was smoothly coming together, just as if this were simply another dirt dive. I snuck a quick look to my left.... and everybody was on grips!  Straight ahead behind Amanda, everyone was there, part of the formation, flying as a single person. I looked to the right..... and someone was low! It was Slade, about 5 feet underneath us! Fuck!!!!!!!!

I could see the look of fierce determination on his face as he stretched himself out as flat as he could to slow down, and popped up into his slot.

That was it! We had it!

But no. Ahead of me Martin had his neck craned up and twisted over so he could see the line behind me. He was jerking his head as if to say "Come on! Get in here!"

My Pro Trac started to beep in my helmet, it was time for the outer ring to track away, Mission 100 was over.

It was a quiet group that landed and began the walk back. I couldn't understand what could have gone wrong. We had done what Martin had asked, we had believed, we had faith, we had each other, and we were lead by one of the finest skydivers in the world.

In front of me, someone was pointing up, and after a moment of searching, I could see the tiny multicolored rectangle of a main parachute high in the sky, far higher than it should have been. Someone had had a premature deployment, and had never made their slot. His closing pin had been dislodged on exit, leaving him hanging under his main at 20,000 feet.

As bad as we all felt, I don't think it could have come anywhere near the pain that lone skydiver felt as he came in to land all by himself, long after everyone else had left the landing area. I knew him, I had been jumping with him all week long, joking in the dirt dives, and it was his girlfriend that had picked me up and brought me back after I had landed off the airport earlier that day. He's a great guy, and a good skydiver, someone I'd be happy to trust my life to.

I ran into Martin a few minutes later, stuck out my hand, and congratulated him on a very successful event, run under very trying conditions. He looked like he was about to burst into tears. It's good he didn't. I was fighting them back myself, and if he had started, I'd have lost it as well.

At the debrief we watched the video in silence. The formation built fast and clean, everybody lining up, and waiting their turn to take their grips. In between Stephan and me, Nick had taken our leg grips, but there was an empty hole where someone should have been on his leg grip. Everyone was lined up waiting, but the hole remained, the person who was to fill it was a couple of miles above.

There were a lot of nasty things said, but it would be impossible for anyone to beat up on the guy any more than he was beating up on himself right then. He is going to have to wear this until the day a new record is finally set. And when it is, I hope he comes, I'd jump with him anytime, anywhere.

Martin thanked us for our efforts, and we gave him, his family, and his coworkers, an ovation that went on for several minutes. When we were done, he said "You are released."

I've never liked big ways, way too much stress and effort just to make a single point. Until this one I'd always had to be pushed into doing them. I'd far rather grab 3 friends and do some smokin' hot 4-way.

But the next time Martin puts out the call, I'll answer it. I hate leaving a job unfinished.

3 Seconds of Pure Terror.........

3 Seconds of Pure Terror, followed by the 20 Second Canopy Ride from Hell

Our mothers have said it to every single one of us at least once, invariably after we’ve done something that is physically dangerous and patently stupid.  “And if your friend Timmy jumped off a bridge, would you?” To which most skydivers would immediately reply “How high is the bridge?”

In this case the bridge in question is the New River Gorge Bridge in Fayetteville West Virginia, 876 feet from railing to wave top. For one day every year, they shut the bridge down to vehicle traffic and turn it over to pedestrians, rappellers, and skydivers. A mountaineering club hangs ropes along one section to slide down, and there are a couple of platforms stuck over the side next to them for people to do BASE jumps from. Hundreds of thousands of people show up for the entertainment, or to just walk across the bridge that is normally closed to pedestrian traffic. There is a small landing area on the right hand shore about a hundred yards from the bridge. It’s an uphill dirt and gravel slope surrounded by trees. If you overshoot, you hit the cliff face at the back of the landing area. If you undershoot the water’s edge is strewn with boulders. The safest option, and the one I had decided to use, was to go for the freezing cold water. The rescue boats fish you out pretty quickly and drop you off on shore.

In spring of 2004 when Trevor booked us a bunch of the limited slots 5 months before, it seemed like a good idea. I had never done a BASE jump, had never been to Bridge Day, and many people said it was the safest place to do my first one because of the height. I was also assured that as long as you waited the required 2 seconds after jumping to toss your pilot chute that it was impossible to hit the superstructure of the bridge. But you wouldn’t want to wait too long, if you didn’t get a canopy out you only had 8 seconds until impact.

As we walked up the bridge in a light rain there was a pretty good street party/carnival going on. We ran into my friends Joanne and Larry Dewy from Pennsylvania. Joanne couldn’t jump because she had a walking cast on her leg, but Larry was registered and ready to go. Joanne wanted to get a picture of the two Larrys so she started hobbling ahead. As soon as her back was turned we sped up, slowing back to a walking pace as she began to turn around. Seeing we were still too close she turned around and started hop-skipping up the bridge again, and again we sped up. She turned around, we slowed down, she saw we were to close, she took off again along the bridge, and so on, and so on. We chased that poor crippled woman a good fifty yards before she finally got far enough ahead to get the picture she wanted. I made the mistake of telling her about it a few years later. I think she’s still a little pissed.

Then we pushed our way through the crowd to the railing to watch the jumpers going off. The first person I watched turned out to be a paraplegic BASE jumper who was launching from a hanging position beneath a specially built platform. He swung back and forth several times before letting go at the end of a back swing to put himself slightly face down. The problem was, he also added a slight back slide component, and at the last possible second, he clipped the superstructure with his feet. So much for “You can’t possibly hit the bridge.” Jeff talked with him later that night at the party in the lobby of the Holiday Inn and he said that although he had broken his leg, it wasn’t a big deal because he couldn’t feel it and used a wheelchair to get around anyway.

The next people to go were a couple of people who had decided that BASE jumping wasn’t inherently dangerous enough, and had decided to increase the entertainment level for the crowd by doing several stunts on the jump. They left simultaneously, from two different platforms, with their canopies completely out and held in one hand. When they jumped, they tossed the canopies out to opposite sides, and they immediately inflated. As they began to fly down the valley about fifty feet apart we could see there was a tether between them. They had strung a couple of pool noodles on it to make sure everybody saw the rope. When they were about a hundred feet from the bridge, one of them, to everybody’s surprise, cut away (released) his canopy, dropping to the end of the tether. When he reached what should have been the limit of extension for the rope, he kept going instead of coming to a sudden stop, and I realized it wasn’t a rope, but a large bungee cord. When the bungee had stretched out to its maximum length, just before it started pulling the jumper back up, he cut that away, and went into free fall. The pair of them had lost altitude when they left the bridge, the bungee guy had had lost some more when he cutaway his canopy and the line stretched out, and then he lost some more in the time it took him to deploy a second canopy after he released the bungee. The canopy barely had time to inflate before he disappeared into the trees next to the railroad tracks on the opposite bank of the river from the landing area. On the side we were supposed to land on crews had spent the previous day stringing ropes up into all the trees surrounding the landing area, and today they had people stationed in them to facilitate getting anybody who missed the landing area safely to the ground. There weren’t any ropes or rescue crews in the trees on the side he landed on. I heard he was there for a couple hours before they got him out.

What the hell had I gotten myself into? This was supposed to be a nice simple jump off a bridge. I had only watched 2 jumps and neither one had ended well. This was seeming less and less like a good idea. 

Despite my misgivings we got into line and pulled on our rigs. I had rented Base gear to increase my chances of success. I was in line with Gerry Cluett, Oleg, and Jeff. Jeff had promised me several months previously “I’ll see you safely off the Bridge, after that, you’re on your own.” Far too quickly we had moved up onto the platform and were next in line.

With a grin, Oleg took a couple of steps, threw himself forwards, and vanished.

Oh Crap. This is really happening. And seeming less and less like a good idea with every passing second. 

Gerry was up next, and just as Oleg had done before him, took a couple of steps, and was gone.

My turn. I stepped up to the edge, and made the mistake of looking over. Suddenly the water seemed a lot closer than 8 seconds, and 876 feet.  Below me I could see the rescue boats zipping around, and the word “rescue” seemed to get stuck in mind. They weren’t the only boats down there though, about a dozen white water rafts jammed with people were drifting by with their faces all turned up towards me. I looked to my left up the length of the bridge to a sea of faces all seemingly staring directly at ME! I looked to my right and saw the same thing. Great. One hundred thousand people watching and waiting for me to DIE!

I turned around to look at Jeff. He leaned forward, and radiating calm and confidence quietly said “I’m here for you buddy. Take your time, leave when you’re ready.” I turned to look at the gatekeeper who was controlling the traffic and recognizing my terror he said “Don’t look down, just look out at the horizon, take a deep breath, and jump”. I looked out at the horizon and that didn’t help. I’m supposed to see clouds when I look out, not trees on the far side of the valley.

I stood on the edge for another moment, contemplating the crowd, the boats, the rafts, the rain, the clouds drifting past below us, and my own mortality. Okay it’s official. This was definitely a bad idea. In fact, out of all the ideas I’ve ever had, all the stupid things I’ve ever done, this was without the slightest shadow of doubt the dumbest thing I have ever done in my entire life.

“If Timmy jumped off a bridge…..?”

I jumped.

I’ve been told that in moments of extreme stress, you revert to your training. That would explain why, when I jumped off, I started shouting “ARCH THOUSAND, TWO THOUSAND..” just like a first jump student. I didn’t even realize I’d done that until Jeff told me about it afterwards. He said it got quite a laugh from the people close to the platform who understood the joke.

Fueled by adrenaline, I leaped with too much energy and over rotated, quickly pitching head down in a slow somersault. Instead of seeing the horizon all I could see was the superstructure of the bridge tearing past mere feet away. All I could think about was that paraplegic jumper clipping the bridge. Screw the count! Pitch the pilot chute! I was snapped back upright by the opening shock of the canopy, but instead of finding myself looking up the valley I was facing the bridge. The canopy had probably twisted around in the slipstream behind my unstable body. That was the 3 seconds of terror.

Now I started the 20 second canopy ride from hell. I should have been flying away from the bridge to make room for the next guy but when I vanished from sight under the bridge the gatekeeper put everybody on hold. I reached up to release my brakes, and hauled down on the left hand toggle as far as could. This thing sure didn’t turn like my Stiletto, It was like going from a sports car to a dump truck. As I slowly turned around, instead of facing a large open space in the middle of the bridge arch I was now over on the side where the people were rapelling down the lines hanging from the bridge. The lucky ones were looking the other way, but a bunch of them had seen me coming and were frantically dropping down their ropes as quickly as they could in a futile attempt to get the hell out of my way. After wasting a few precious seconds trying to decide whether or not I could fit between a couple of the ropes and deciding I wouldn’t, I pulled down the right toggle to slowly turn away, circling back over to where I was supposed to be. A few seconds later I finally flew back out from beneath the bridge and started moving up the valley where I should have been all along.

I wasn’t any happier being out from beneath the bridge. I was hanging below the slowest most unresponsive canopy I have ever flown, bouncing along in the wind and rain above a flotilla of rafts, with a couple of rescue boats chasing me around as they tried to get lined up beneath me, getting ready to splash into freezing cold water dressed in clothes that were guaranteed to immediately become waterlogged and drag me under. I pictured the headline back home. “Man survives BASE jump but dies in drowning.”

That’s when Jeff finally jumped off the bridge and opened right behind me, just one more thing adding to my terror. What was I thinking? How did I wind up here? Alcohol wasn’t even involved in the decision to come do this. I usually make good decisions sober. A good result here would involve me getting fished out by a rescue boat. Why would I willingly choose to participate in something where being “Rescued” was considered a desirable result?

I should have listened to my mother.

As I bounced along in the turbulence I kept looking over at the tiny landing area, down to the cold water, across at the rescue boats, back to the tiny, but dry, landing area, the cold water, the boats……

And I could see that completely by accident, I was at the perfect height and angle to be able to make the landing area. There’s a picture taken of me from along the bank as I’m flying along with a great big grin on my face. It was taken just as I realized I might be able to land warm and dry after all. 

As I turned in I could see that everything was perfect, and I would touch down towards the rear of the small square in the trees. At least I would have if the headwind hadn’t dropped off as I came into the shelter of the trees. I realized I was going to overshoot and hit the cliff face at the rear of the landing area about the same time all the spectators and cameramen lined up at the base of the cliff did. The canopy that had seemed so slow as I flew around under the bridge now seemed to be tearing along at breakneck speed. The crowd scattered out of my way as I desperately searched for an alternative to smacking face first into the rocks. That’s when I noticed that most of the people were running to the supposed safety of the road that led back up to the parking area.  

For lack of any alternative, I turned to follow them, and wound up chasing the crowd of people up the road below the canopy of trees. They all seemed to be either old, infirm, on crutches, or dragging baby carriages and small children, as they desperately tried to outrun me. I don’t remember what I said, but I clearly recall shouting at them as loudly as I could. I hope it was something along the lines of “Excuse me! Beg your pardon! Coming through!” But I suspect I wasn’t being very polite as all those innocent bystanders threw themselves into the ditches on either side of the road as I overtook them.

I flared as hard as I could as the ground finally rose to meet me but still hit the ground like the proverbial sack of wet cement. I slid to a stop on my hands and knees on the road just inches short of a large rock, leaned over, and kissed it. I was never so happy to have survived a landing, let alone a jump. I got to my feet as quickly as I could, preparing to either begin immediate apologies or to flee for my life from the crowd I had forced off the road. I didn’t get the chance to do either one. The moment I was on my feet I was treated to a round of applause from everybody present, including the guy with crutches lying in the ditch. He must have been a BASE jumper.

Bridge Day. Been There. Done That. Got A T-Shirt. I Don’t Need To Prove Anything To Anybody 

Again. 

Ever.

Mission 100, Day 4.

The ringers are due to start arriving today. They're the high caliber skydivers with lots of big way experience who will fill out our numbers to the goal of 100. It's 6 o'clock in the morning, there's a light overcast, less cloud than we had at anytime yesterday, and it's already warmer today than it was in the middle of the afternoon yesterday. It's not perfect but it's promising.

Okay maybe not so promising. It's now almost 11, the clouds have thickened up, and we're standing by to stand by.

I was sitting with a group out on the patio, when somebody said "I'll be pissed if I took a week off work to just sit around another airport." Someone else said"I only had 1 week of vacation left and I'm spending it here." Brian looked around to say "I can't believe I took 2 weeks off from retirement to just sit around and do nothing all day, and then drink beer until the middle of the night." We all turned to look at him. After a long pause he admitted that was exactly what he would have been doing if he had been at home, but the rest of us were bitching and moaning and he just wanted to get in on it.

I've had so much free time I finally finished and posted a story on my trip to bridge day that I had started years ago.

A little after 6 with the cloud cover finally starting to break up, we were called to the dirt dive, did our run outs, the Sherpa load was ferried over to their airport, and we all headed up. But the hole we were aiming for wasn't there, and after circling around for several passes over the airport at 20,000 feet, we sat back down and did up our seat belts for the ride back down. At least most of us did. The passengers on one Otter and the Sherpa elected to make a hop and pop through the clouds. They made several passes with only a few people getting out each time, and it resulted in people being scattered across a couple of townships.

That's 2 days in a row without jumping. We're running out of practice time. Our window is closing. It must have been tough getting 4 aircraft together for this, getting qualified people signed up, doing all the logistics. The weather has to turn around soon, or it may have all been for naught.

Lead me not into Temptation

Lead me not into Temptation.
I can find it myself.

Mission 100, Day 3.

We're released until 1:30 this afternoon because of low clouds. Before they turned us loose we all met in the barn for an oxygen briefing. That led to Brian and I coming up with a way to put the cylinder of helium to good use. We're going to slip it into the oxygen bottles so that when we do the high altitude jumps everybody will be talking like Donald Duck. The balloons that came with the cylinder won't go to waste, we'll turn them into water bombs for the party.

At 2:30 we were released until 3:30, and it started to rain.

At 3;30 we were released until 4:30, and the rain stopped.

At 4:30 we did a dirt dive, and put on standby, even though the clouds hadn't changed.

I'm wearing all the warm clothing I brought, and this event is starting to seem more and more like the Great Perris P3 Camp-out of 2011. It's almost the end of the third day, and so far we only have 6 jumps.

At 5:30, Cyr asked in his thick french accent if I knew what the codes on the screen of his Cypres Automatic Activation Device meant. It's what puts your reserve out for you if you're incapacitated. He said  that after it finished the countdown it went through when you turned it on, it was showing the code "1160". I pulled out my laptop and started a search that lasted the next 20 minutes. It ended when Cyr walked back up and said that once he had put his glasses on and turned the Cypres right side up, it said "0911'. Turns out that's the date the battery is due to be changed. That's 20 minutes of my life I'll never get back, but the day was a complete loss anyway.

A little after 6 we were called out to the field with suits and full gear. There was a large hole in the clouds coming our way, and they wanted us to be ready. But it was not to be. We were eventually released for the day when it was decided the sky gods simply weren't on our side, and that the promised hole in the cloud would not appear.

Debbie Lovegrove organized a bunch of us for dinner, making a reservation for 17 at a place in St. Esprit that came highly recommended by the DZ staff. Robert and I were the first ones there, and we walked into a tastefully decorated restaurant complete with white tablecloths and classical music playing. Hmmm. My first thought was that the ambiance was about to be shattered by a herd of frustrated skydivers with way too much energy to burn. Maybe we were in the wrong place. The hostess approached us and when we said we had a reservation she asked "Skydivers?" Well, she can't complain later that she wasn't warned. As the rest of the group descended upon the place they immediately began the ritual of rearranging most of the tables in the place to accommodate us. By the time dinner was over the racket had chased all the rest of the patrons to the other side of the restaurant that was separated from us by a stairway that acted as a sound barrier.

Everybody was in bed early to be ready for a 7:15 start on Thursday.

"If I've learned nothing else..."

A Man and his Blog

Mission 100, Day 2

Standing by to stand by. The clouds have closed in, and the ceiling is too low to do any bigway skydives. We've been split into 2 groups of 41 each, we've done our dirt dive, practiced our exit, run it out on the field numerous times, and are ready to go as soon as the skies clear.

Mathieu managed to get himself a ride with Daniel Pacquette in his RV-7, a real slick looking 2 seat airplane. He was grinning like a kid at Christmas as they took the covers and tie downs off. Matt and I were looking at it earlier this morning and speculating about teaming up to buy a kit and build one. I probably won't be able to shut him up now, and should probably start clearing out the garage to have room for it.

As we came in from the landing area yesterday we were checked back in by a girl standing at the end of the path near the beer line. If you cross the line before coming to a stop after landing you owe beer. She's standing there anyway, she has everybody's names, so this morning in my role as Beer Cop I swore her in as a deputy. There were at least half a dozen people who busted the line yesterday, if they do it from now on it will cost them.

A little before noon Martin came up on the PA to page everyone into the barn for a briefing, ending with "Under The Beer Rules, Larry will be charging the last person to arrive with a minor infraction!" The fine for which is a six pack of beer. The goal was to get people to hustle, but as I stepped out of the building there was a veritable stampede of skydivers going at a dead run, headed for the barn. Never be the last for a briefing! Apparently Donald Poulin didn't feel the rules applied to him, as he strolled in dead last, munching on a sandwich. Beer Rules are Beer Rules, no exceptions for anyone.

We were called in so they could outline a plan to pick the entire operation up and move it to their sister operation on the ther side of Montreal where the weather was better. But by the time we were ready to move the ceiling had come down there as well so we stayed put.

A couple of hop and pop loads went up to check the altitude of the ceiling, and when one of them came down saying they had gotten to 13,000 feet we started to get back to our feet and pull on suits in anticipation of a call. We were soon up in the air, launching a mostly successful 41 way from 3 different aircraft. By the time we got back down and debriefed the ceiling had come back down, and it was back to standing by to stand by.

The other group was called to report to a dirt dive with "Full Gear". That means suits, rigs, and helmets. Unless a jump is imminent you normally only wear your jumpsuit so everybody can see your colors to enable them to figure out where they have to go once they get in the air. They were out in the field for 40 minutes in the heat and humidity, running back and forth, with Rob Laidlaw critiquing and detailing every part of the dive. By the time they came back they were tired but smiling, and a lot of the less experienced people felt they had a much better idea of how to do their job.

Late in the day, just as it seemed we would be released, Martin and Donald came out of the building, walked down the steps, looked up at the sky, and ran back into manifest. We didn't even wait for the call, everybody who had seen them run back in started pulling on suits and gear. As we went through the dirt dive before boarding Michel Lemay decided to put me in a different spot for the exit. I was moved from the first row of divers to the second row of divers. For the next run out he had me switch with a girl who wasn't comfortable at front float, and just before boarding he had me switch with somebody else and I wound up being the last diver. By the time we loaded I couldn't remember where the hell I was supposed to be, or figure out what I should see when I finally made it to the door.

On jump run, Michel opened the door when the red light came on, stuck out his head and looked down, and when he saw it was solid cloud below us he closed the door. I was looking out the window across to the other plane and saw they were climbing out! I started yelling at Michel, he grabbed the door and heaved it open, and there was a scramble as all discipline went out the window and people scrambled to get to their assigned exit position. I was so confused from being moved all around for the exit that when I dove out the door I took off in the wrong direction. It took me a few seconds to get sorted out and by then I had a lot more distance to cover to get to my slot. I managed to dock before the formation dropped into the cloud, and while the line I was part of stayed stable some people were distracted by the sudden white out and either floated or sank out.

"If I've learned nothing else, it's that time and practice equals achievement." Andre Agassi

That ended our second day, and at this point we only have 6 jumps in. On Wednesday the plan is to go higher and use oxygen, and the day after that we start the record attempts. 6 Jumps isn't very many to get the lower experienced people up to speed for something like this. There are a lot of good skydivers here, but it doesn't seem that many of them have a lot of big way experience. Everybody is trying, they're all doing their best, but if the weather doesn't cooperate it will be hard to get the needed practice jumps in. One thing that is a big concern at an event like this is the possibility of canopy collisions. That's when somebody flies a perfectly canopy into another one, usually caused by not paying enough attention to where everybody else around you is. Usually with disastrous results. So far everybody has done well under canopy, following the landing pattern, watching out for other canopies, but the sky will just keep getting more and more crowded.

A big storm blew through just after dark, the landing areas will be wet in the morning when we start doing 4 plane formations.

"I only have 2 things left to do today......

I hadn't even stepped completely into the building at Parachute Montreal and I heard someone calling my name. It was Alain Bard from GO Skydive, and standing next to him was Ben Stephenson from Skydive Gan. Ben was on the base 5 years ago in Burnaby, and spent a week going out the door with TK (tent killer) Hayes and the rest of the people in Base-o-matic. That was the nickname for the group of fast fallers that provided a stable target for the rest of us to dive on.

I talked to Martin Lemay, the main organizer for this party, and asked how many people they were expecting. I was surprised when he said "One hundred and ten." I thought they would have been doing well to get 80. He went on to say that only a week ago they had 90, and were looking everywhere they could to try and find qualified people to fill it out to the targeted 100. Suddenly all the people who had been either hanging back to see if enough people would register, or trying to get time off work, started to call. If we get enough people show up, Martin even talked about getting another plane to add to the fleet of 3 Otters and the Sherpa. He said he'd steal one if he had to. This is looking better and better all the time.

By late afternoon people had begun to trickle in, and tent city was quickly filling up. Gravel had been poured in a large part of the area that used to be for tents so they could park RV's and trailers. There's not a lot of room left so it's going to get pretty cozy.

Since I figured I'd spend enough time in the air over the next 6 days I felt no need to do a jump, and instead started handing out cold beer to anybody in tent city who was interested. I don't think anybody said no thank you. Kim and Mathieu arrived late in the afternoon, with the RV pulling a trailer with their car on it. Tiny little Kim was driving, perched atop a couple of cushions so she could see over the dashboard. It was an early night, and earplugs were in order to sleep through the noise of the traffic on the highway just across the parking lot.

Mission 100. Day 1

"I only have 2 things left to do today, and the second one is To Fuck Your Widow!" 

That's the greeting I called across the packing mat to Brian Forbes. He shouted the last part back in unison with me. It's the punch line to one of his favorite jokes. 

We had a 9 o'clock start, and as we met on the creeper pad (in jumpsuits, no exceptions, no excuses), it was like a joyous family reunion. Everybody was greeting all the old friends they hadn't crossed paths with lately, and we were all running about shaking hands, hugging, and shouting greetings. But Martin Lemay quickly got down to business. he laid out the plan for the week, then Mario Prevost delivered a safety briefing. It was all pretty standard, except for how they were going to handle loading the Sherpa.

A Shorts Sherpa is like a stretched Skyvan. It will hold 34 jumpers, and needs a runway longer than is available at Parachute Montreal. The plan was to ferry us over to another nearby paved airport with 2 twin Otters, which would drop us off to load the Sherpa, and then the Otters would return to to St. Esprit to pick up the load they would carry to altitude. Martin asked us to be patient while they worked the kinks out of the system.

At the end I stuck up my hand to ask what the beer rules were. Several infractions were outlined, and in light of the expertise I had gained in the subject at the P3 camp, Mario appointed me Beer Cop for the entire event.

We were separated into groups, and got to work. I was in a group led by Mario, and he explained we would be doing a series of one point skydives, building formations similar to what we would see later in the week. At this point they were probably evaluating a number of people to see what they could, or could not do. When he asked for people to fly base and be a target for the rest of them, I stepped forward figuring I'd have plenty of opportunity to dive later. One guy showed up at the dirt dive without a suit, and I gleefully imposed a fine of a twelve of beer. "Nobody told me to bring my suit!" he protested. Serge turned on him and said "Be on time for the dirt dive, with your suit, no exceptions, no excuses!" We did learn a few things in California this spring.

The first jump took a while to lay out, and we were the third group to be ferried over to ride the Sherpa. We left St. Esprit at 10:45. The Sherpa was just departing with a load when we arrived, so we found the only patch of shade on the airport to await it's return. When it got back, it had to refuel, and so began the slowest refueling I have ever seen of any aircraft. We waited so long it our patch of shade that we had started to speculate about whether the pilot even knew we were waiting for him. Finally somebody walked down to see what was going on, just as the process was completed. We finally boarded the plane at 12:30.    

But in the end, the ride was worth the wait. We took off with the huge rear door open, and when the pilot started down the runway we suddenly found ourselves sliding towards the opening as the slack was taken up on the belts securing us to the floor. I was at the very back and in a brief moment of panic as the aircraft lifted off I thought the pilot was trying to dump us out the back and pour us in a stream down the runway. As soon as we hit the ends of our belts I looked around to the wide eyes of the rest of the load, and I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one who had thought they were going to slide right out that door. The plane ride is usually pretty boring. After our heart rates returned to normal we enjoyed the view out the door as we climbed to altitude.

Our skydives went well, they quickly had the aircraft cycle and refueling problems worked out, and the rest of the day went smoothly. Except for when the guys who were exiting directly behind us flipped over and landed on the base shortly after an exit. But even that was a soft hit, and we almost flew through it before we dropped grips.

After the day end closeout, I wound up talking to Michel Lemay, and he explained the basic plan for the next few days. The 30 way base was pretty much set, and they would be jumping together as they locked in their mental pictures, and got used to dealing with any of the small problems that came up. The rest of us would be practicing building the helixes and the arms coming off of them. There would be a lot of repetition, and by the time we start the record attempts, "It will be like Groundhog Day." Instantly I knew what he meant. In the movie Groundhog Day, Bill Murray keeps repeating the same day over and over and over again, until he knows everything that could happen that day, and how all the events could influence each other. We'll be doing the same, repeating dives, sorting people into their perfect slots, and working out everything that could happen so everybody is ready to deal with any glitches in the air.

“High Expectations are the key to everything” Sam Walton

Canadian Record 2010. Take Two.

In March of this year a whole bunch of Canadians descended upon Perris Valley Skydiving in California in an attempt to set a new record for the largest all Canadian skydiving formation built in free fall. We spent 10 days proving to ourselves and anybody else who could be bothered to pay attention that we had the talent to pull it off. But talent is only a starting point. There simply weren’t enough people in attendance to break the previous Canadian record of 59 set on June 24^th 2006 in Burnaby Ontario. There were several reasons for that, but the fact is that even if 100 qualified people had shown up it’s extremely unlikely it would have had a successful outcome because of weather. We spent a lot of time sprawled on the packing mats napping and reading, or in my case, firmly ensconced in a booth at the Bomb Shelter Bar and Grill getting this Blog set up.

Which leads us to Canadian record 2.0, properly known as  Mission 100. Parachute Montreal in St. Esprit has organized another run at setting a new record, timed to coincide with Canada Day. We’ll be doing 3 days of practice jumps followed by 3 days of record attempts. I have no idea whether or not there will be any more people showing up for this attempt than there were for the one in California, nor do I care. For six days I won’t be at work, I’ll be hanging out with my friends, and skydiving my ass off.

Kim and Mathieu are bringing their RV, and Philippe and Josee will be staying in it as well. Kim, Matt and I shared a room in Perris valley for 2 weeks and it went well, but we each complained about the other two snoring, so five was starting to sound a little crowded. I’ll be staying in my tent but taking advantage of the cooking facilities in the RV. 

I’m also going to take full advantage of the fact that for the first time since I started skydiving there is going to be a major event held in my neighbourhood. St. Esprit is just a couple of hours away, and I don’t have to cross the US border to get to it. The truck will be loaded even more heavily than when I used to go to the World Free Fall Convention. I’ve got 2 coolers, 2 rigs, 3 cases of beer, 2 bottles of Vodka, 4 bottles of wine, a bottle of Baileys, fireworks, a portable gas bar-b-q, a bug zapper, and a canister of helium. I know what you’re thinking: that I’m not bringing anywhere near enough booze. But I’ll be in Quebec, where every grocery store, corner store, and gas station, sells booze. It’s easier to get your hands on alcohol in Quebec than it is to get food. 

The last record in Burnaby was the first big-way I attended, and the first time I was on anything bigger than a 20-way that was successful. I spent 3 days diving like hell and flying like fuck, following Christian out the door and trying my best to ignore the streams of skydivers coming out of the other two planes. Every time we took off I did the math to figure out just how much was being spent on each attempt. "Okay, this time we've got 62 people, times 38 dollars each, which comes to..... ! Holy Crap! Please Lord, don't let ME be the one to fuck this up!" In the end I did my part, I flew my slot, despite my terror on every jump I didn't get cut, and we set a new record. 

I formed friendships at that event with people from all across the country, and a lot of them will be in St. Esprit next week. The parties during the event were great, and the party the night we set the record was of epic proportions in it's drunken excess. Skydivers aren't known for their restraint, so you can probably see what's coming.

"The whole world is...."

"The whole world is about three drinks behind." Humphrey Bogart

A bunch of us went out to a high class restaurant for dinner Saturday night. This place had real tablecloths, napkins that weren't made from paper, and a 3 piece jazz band playing on a small stage. Johnny, Diane, and Brian had eaten there the last time they'd been in Perris so a couple of nights earlier we'd headed off down Interstate 215 while they tried to remember what the name was, where it was, and what it looked like. I had no doubt we were on a fools errand but after 15 minutes of following the confused and uncertain directions given by Johnny McNally we found the place and got a phone number so we could make reservations for Saturday night.

We booked a reservation for 9 of us, and on our best behavior, clad in our best bib and tucker, off we went. We were given a prime spot next to the huge fireplace. The meal was superb, the service was stellar, the ambiance was high class. We arrived drunk of course, so the best behavior didn't last long but we'd tried. Our waitresses name was Loma, who wasn't phased in the slightest by anything we did, including my repeatedly hitting on her all evening. Every time she came near a bunch of people would start singing Copa Cabana by Barry Manilow but substituting her name instead: "Her name was Loma, she was a showgirl....."

I'd been threatening to get the band to play it all night long and as we prepared to leave Diane threw down the gauntlet and dared me to follow up my words with action.

The guys in the band said they didn't know any modern stuff, but after I waved a twenty dollar bill around and hummed a few bars they started to pick it up. Which explains how I wound up dancing on the bar in a five star restaurant with our long suffering waitress, Loma.

Sunday. Our last day of what had ceased to be a camp, and had become a camp out.

When I stuck my head out the motel room door that morning it looked encouraging, and I thought we might get some jumps in. By the time we got to the airport the clouds had thickened up again, but we were still in good spirits when Doug led us out to the field to go through the dive again. He thanked us for our patience, pointed to the sky, shrugged, and then it was stand by to stand by......

I grabbed my laptop, ordered breakfast, and installed myself in a booth in the Bomb Shelter Bar and Grill. Which is where I remained for the next 7 1/2 hours, getting up only to fetch more coffee, food from the pick up window, or use the bathroom. We weren't called on all day long.

Finally, at 4 o'clock, Doug called us all to the creeper pad for one last time. I noticed he didn't say bring jumpsuits or gear, he just called us to the pad. Our release time was 5, which meant that even if the sky was clear, which it wasn't, we'd barely be able to squeeze in a jump. We were done. The record attempt that never was, was over. Doug said some heartfelt words, thanked us for our perseverance, and congratulated us on our improvement since the start of the camp.

When he was done Brian stood up, said a few words to Doug on our Behalf, and presented him with an event T-shirt that we had all signed.

We all got refunds for the jumps we didn't make, but we all would have rather been going home poorer, with more entries in our logbooks.

There was just one thing left to say, a question that needed to be asked, so egged on by Diane I mentally kissed away all hope of ever getting invited to one of Doug's events again and stuck up my hand. "Doug, have there been any beer fines levied today?" He shook his head no. "Well then Mr. Forth, I seem to recall you telling us back at the start of the camp that if we got to the end of a day and you hadn't fined anybody, that you would buy beer for everybody!" He gave me a withering look as other people in the crowd started
to chime in as well.

"I haven't released you yet!" he shouted back at me over the growing noise.

Refusing to give any ground and knowing that the crowd was on my side I shouted back "Two days ago we didn't jump, you still fined me and I paid it!"

"You got on the wrong plane! You deserved it"

Truth is, Doug was in the right, I did deserve that fine, I made a boneheaded mistake and knew going in that if I did anything stupid, I would owe Beer. And it was completely unreasonable to ask him to cough up beer for
us on a day we never even climbed into a plane.

I was about to let it drop when, with a huge grin on his face, Dan BC stepped away from the organizers over to our side, stuck up his hand, and said "Hey, I think the guy's got a point! He bought beer when we didn't
jump! I'm on his side!" Dan BC had MY back! The crowd roared in laughter, and Doug, knowing there was only one way out of this, looked at the ground, shook his head, and started digging cash out of his pocket.

I couldn't believe I got away with it the first time. But Twice?!

On his way out Dan BC shook my hand saying "Your children, your children's children, and your children's children's children, will be front float on every single skydive they make for their entire lives." There isn't anybody on that camp that will ever forget me.

I took up a collection from everybody and together with the $60 I got from Doug set off for Winco to fetch beer and munchies. Beer is cheap down here, so we wound up with an entire shopping cart load.

And that was that. A little anticlimactic, a lot of travelling and sitting around to have an excuse to drink way too much beer.

It was worth it.

Until next time.......
Crazy Larry

Behind every successful man....

We never did jump on Friday, we hung around doing the usual reading, napping, lying about our accomplishments, and speculating about who would be hooking up with who at the banquet scheduled for that night. We actually went so far as to get geared up late in the day as it started to clear, but blue sky lost the race against sunset, and just as it got clear enough to go, it got too dark to be putting 55 people up in the air. The banquet was the usual skydiver party. As we ate they played the videos from the jumps we
had been able to do. The party ended early so we could be on the creeper pad, at 8, in jumpsuits, no exceptions, no excuses.

The day was far from being a write-off as through the day people kept coming up to congratulate me on my performance during the morning dirt dive, and I got to hear the story being told and retold to any of the locals who had missed it. I'm looking forward to being sitting at a fire at a strange dropzone and hearing somebody tell the story of the nutcase that called out the organizers at the big way camp and got them to cough up beer.

When I got out of the shower on Saturday morning Matt asked me if I knew somebody named Tom from the states, and started trying to remember the name of his DZ. I reached into my drawer in the dresser and pulled out my "Endless Mountains Skydiving" T shirt. "That's it!" he said. He had just gotten off the phone with Tom as they discussed a Pilot 168 main that Matt was interested in. When Tom found out where Matt lived he asked "Do you know a guy named Larry?". Notable or notorious, I seem to be remembered everywhere I go. I wonder if Tom's heard the story about the guy at the big way camp yet?

A bunch of the local talent got added to the group Saturday to bring our total to 75. I'm flying the same slot I've been in for what seems like forever. It's at the point where I'd rather be at work, at least then I'd be
accomplishing something. One redeeming part is that my clone on the opposite side of the formation for all the endless dirt dives has been Monique. Apart from being quite nice to look at, we've been making faces at each other, crossing our eyes, and generally trying to make each other laugh and lose concentration. The other fun has been listening to Brian give Michel Lemay, former captain of Evolution, the 3rd ranked 4-way team in the world, advice on how to handle the front float slot. Brian did a great job in that slot the previous week and thought Michel could benefit from his experience in handling a physically demanding, and damn cold, slot. The people who don't know Brian's sense of humor were aghast that anybody would tell Michel how to skydive, with Brian milking it for all he can as he talked later about how he thought "The guy will probably be okay if he does as I told him"

When we went out to the driest field we could find to practice the exit people kept asking me if I was front float, quoting Dan BC's curse from the previous day "You will be front float for the rest of your life, and so will
your children, and your children's children".

It's almost noon, we are again standing by to stand by, wearing jumpsuits, eating, sleeping, napping. Brian has started a pool on what time the lead plane will leave the ground when (if) we finally take off. It's a fifty -
fifty draw at a dollar a head with the winner getting half, and the rest being spent on beer. He only started a short time ago and he's already up to 58 bucks.

Behind every successful man, there's a surprised woman. And if this skydive ever does get off the ground the surprised woman who will be behind me is Nesta Chapman. She was one of the late arrivals and hasn't jumped at all since she arrived. She claims the whole event is a conspiracy to draw patrons for the Bomb Shelter.