Luke Oliver

Note: If you haven’t read “Taken out” yet, you should; this tale relies upon it.

Alarm-Shower-CNN-Breakfast-Bus. By now, it’s a well established routine.

I walk through the lobby and check the whiteboard, which is the source of all updates and world team news. On the left hand side, in large letters, someone has written

“Dream. Believe. Create. Deploy.”

I’m clearly not the only person that has resonated with.

There are two days of jumping left on the schedule, three lifts each. Although this group has yet to achieve more than two attempts in a day, there’s a “now’ feeling amongst the crowd. Much solidarity, clasping of hands, and pats on the back as we board the bus for Wing 23. I think I spot Igor in the lobby - missing from yesterday’s activities with illness, he would certainly be welcomed back to Sector 4.

The bus barely pulls up before it leaves; after running nearly an hour late on one day, I get the feeling that will never happen again. Our Police Escort adds a siren to its flashing lights, and in a tight formation of five buses we ignore every traffic rule en route to the DZ.

I don’t know the history of the airport, but the miltary flavour is apparent. So is the slightly dilapidated look; a hangar large enough to house a galaxy transport now provides shelter for a fleet of buses and trucks. The airport is some 10,000 feet long, and even the gigantic C130s barely use a third of it. Is it big enough to be a Space Shuttle alternate? The entrance is graced by two fighter craft, a relatively modern jet and something that just screams “WW2″ to my untrained eyes. Evidence of small business surrounds the entrance, litter strewn along the public observation area where - I realise - crowds have come to the airport to watch skydiving.

Cool.

We snake our way to the old control tower, well short of the commercial facilities. The DZ encamps adjacent a fighter jet training operation, where we have been specifically asked not to use cameras; but with casual disregard, I notice many walking to the edge of the dirt dive area and snapping wildly whenever a fighter is taxiing. I muse and hope they have a better regard for the plan at breakoff.

I locate my rig in the lockup, Cypres on. Another alleged Vigil incident the other day, I muse, thinking about the logistics of getting 400 skydivers and their equipment to perform flawlessly just once. Each Hercules carries a spare rig: who knows what can happen on the way to height? If it were me with an equipment problem, I’d be embarrassed but grateful.

The English camp - the horrid but very funny Brits - are there early, seemingly molesting the giant bear mascot in the next sector once again. My precious Aussie flag went missing early in the piece, appearing in their camp folded into quarters with just the Union Jack showing. It’s funny now. But today they reward the camp for their patience - the bear is festooned with souvenirs, an official WT identity badge, and dozens of smaller bears - one per sector member. They stand back, waiting for the reaction, and fall about giggling shortly after.

All is forgiven.

By 0700, I can make a fifteen minute call. A commercial jet greases in a landing, putting the nosewheel down 500′ after the rear sends up its obligatory puff of tyre smoke. I ingest 120mg of PseudoEphedrine to dry my sinuses - by the sound of things, there are over 400 people here with some sort of similar problem.

There are photos to be taken this morning. Armed with our world team paraphenalia - a brace of t-shirts, helmets and accessories - we troop to the lineup of five Hercs, where camera people take an interminable time snapping photos of us in different regalia. And then, it’s time to go to work.

Full gear, suits, rigs, helmets. We take up grips in the formation - every dive has small changes now, replacements through illness, injury or poor form. It’s essential that we show the new players where they fit and how it works. Going back to our marks - strips of numbered tape adhered to the concrete to simulate our position after exit, the “Exit frame”. I hear that we’re emptying the planes in 11 seconds, and I start to calculate the horizontal distance between me and the last diver at 140 knots. But then we’re keyed, and we begin to walk to our slots.

Looks good.

A hat is thrown in the air to simulate the first pilot chute, and the outer whackers leave.
Another hat, another wave departs.
The third hat is my cue, and I turn and follow my tracking team leader for the requisite period before our tracking teams diverges. we were close yesterday, and a short discussion ensues.

“Back to your marks!”

Back we go, and I wait, and hear something incredible.

Nothing.

400 skydivers in a dirt dive. Camera staff. Organisers. Documentary team. Well wishers.

Silence.

Then BJ calls us in, and we dirt dive once more. We are seriously in the zone now.

The dirt dive finished, we retreat back to camp briefly. Along with about 80 other blokes, I pause at the designated-by-common-law urinal behind the sound barrier. We’re not so removed from dogs.

We take load one to 24500. I note yesterday’s big bank of clouds far on the horizon has grown somewhat. We shuffle back, our cascade of grips now supporting the camera flier on the ramp, and launch.

A review of the skydive shows 327 people in grips, and 70 waiting in line (or something like that, excuse the detail). The missing three are quickly tracked down, and something unpleasant happens. An Aussie, friend of mine and WT veteran, has been struggling for form all week. Confidence is a tricky thing, and his is down, in the grip of the vortex. He was the first World Team member I ever met, and a flawless skydiver to my upward gaze. Today, I still wear his old blue 300 way jumpsuit, mine still having not showed at lost property. And I wear it with substantial pride.

But at this point in proceedings, there can be no tolerance, and the hand on his shoulder appears. With outstanding grace and dignity, he encourages our sector to go one better. We welcome his replacement, and endeavour to do so.

Emplane. Off to 25000’ this time, the Hercules continuing to lumber relentlessly in the in the vapour. We launch, a massive red suited Russian crunching into my defensive forearms. We build, and I remember what that instructor behind me in the lineup said: the best formations become “quiet”. I now know what he means; flat and stable, we ride the journey down for an impossibly long time - my Neptune later reporting 130 seconds to deployment.

In review, I thought I caught a glimpse of white under the formation off to my right. Uh-oh, I think, although hopeful of a miracle. But I am right: after landing in a soccer field and being retrieved by the locals, we debrief the dive.

399.

My worst nightmare is, in fact, someone elses, the last touch coming as the first bridle is stretching. And in the chain of events, it creates two more: lovely Rhonda from Canada now has an ankle that requires medical attention, and a shoulder dislocation means another poor bastard won’t get to go again. So close, and yet…

Let’s call the Guinness Book of World Records anyway. Not now, but later. We’ve got another jump to do.

We gear up and prepare for a short dirt dive, with time promised to head back to the tents for “chill” before emplaning. Not trusting the expectation, I get ready to go - as, it turns out, almost all the formation did.

BJ grabs his megaphone to remind us again of what we’re here for. Two aircraft - one commercial, one military, make it impossible, and perhaps half the formation were able to process his speech.

But I don’t mind; I believe we all know what is required.

The giant planes arrive, taxiing in a line. We emplane in columns for the third time today, the ramp closes, and it takes twelve minutes to taxi to the other end of the runway.
About forty five minutes to go.

10,000…Twenty minutes…20,000…24,500…The ramp opens. Six minutes, and brilliant blue sky appears.

I change nothing in my routine to height; to line up, to deal with the oxy hoses on the tailgate, or following the exit cadence. But I take my one step back into the void, and a sudden realisation penetrated everything else I was doing. Something unique happened as I left the Hercules, and I did not get to process it until much later that night.

My visor didn’t fog on the ramp. I could see, and clearly.

…

Catholic but not religious, I remain a pragmatic person with a laissez-faire attitude. But here, I’m going to pause and wax metaphysical for a moment. Stick with me.

Nearly ten years ago, I was the front half of a tandem pair for my very first skydive. Coming out of what I know now to be sensory overload, my heart was filled with a new thing that filled the hole I didn’t even know it had. I’ve made my way in the sport since then, but not without the odd difficulty.

One such difficulty was apparent at about fifteen jumps. Having worn heavy glasses since the age of 7, I was having trouble seeing what was going on in freefall: instructor signals were being missed, and my peripheral vision was next to worthless. In the end, I jumped on the ‘net, and located rec.skydiving (or wreck.skydiving, bless you dropzone.com). I made a post to see how other, experienced people managed poor eyesight, and was peppered with responses: some useful, some not so. One stood out - a lady from the USA had a complete recipe for success, starting with a strap to hold things tighter; smaller goggles, the advantages of a full-face helmet, contact lenses and even laser surgery.

All solid advice: progressively it was followed, and at 70 jumps I found myself the owner of a precious black Factory Diver she arranged through a dealer friend. Several years later, and despite the reservations of my optician of fifteen years, a surgeon peeled back my corneas one at a time and applied his laser, leaving me with eyesight crisper and clearer than any corrective lenses - and suddenly peripheral vision as well. Even my optician begrudgingly nodded his head.

Outstanding advice. But that wasn’t all. We stayed in touch, regular email buddies.

I sought her counsel with the frustrations of obtaining a Star Crest. She had all the answers once again, and more - as a load organiser, she had seen it all before, and volunteered much of her knowledge to help me organise - not engineer, but organise it. Later, she would send me the occasional videotape of skydives she had worked on or in, making me late for work more than once. It was the genesis of the load organising I do today.

But she didn’t just talk the talk. Seemingly accomplished at everything, she had her own goals, and set off a couple of years later to a world record attempt - a three hundred way. I’d never seen more than eleven jumpers in a plane, and was agog: how? Where? When? with what? Duly she answered my questions once again, the day grew closer, and I watched the anticipation grow, online, from a distance.

I logged in one morning at work, full of excitement at getting the news from overnight in the US, to find news of a fatality at that record attempt. With growing discomfort, I clicked and clicked looking for a name. Then, reeling, I found it, and my world was rocked.

Sandy Wambach, my mentor and guide, was gone.

In one of the last contacts we had, I expressed a desire to one day watch a world record attempt, or even be in one. “If you put in the hard yards, /anything/ is possible!” she replied.

And now, I am here.
And for the only time in this slot in this campaign, I can see.

…

There is no cameraman on my back, no red or blue suits crashing into me. My part of the sky is mine, and I can see all five C130s disgorging their contents into the perfect blue. The puzzle is simpler this time: One of my wingmen has some work to do, and the Belgian giant - barely making the load because of stomach problems - is staying out of trouble. No sign of the anchor, but there are the others. Any time now that guy from the base will make his drive - there he goes - so I edge closer to the Belgian and we make our move.

The base seems a little further away than usual, but it may just be that I’ve picked it up more easily. Familiar rigs start to fill my vision in familiar places. With skydivers scattered over this vast expanse of sky, it’s as simple as shrinking that expanse to the perfect size.

Slowly - “better slow than low” - our line shrinks a little, and draws a little closer to the line in front, descending a little as we do so. A four way line in an adjacent sector is pre-built, and collectively the design of the skydive and our tolerance gives them a little “racing room”.

Like a childs construction toy, the base - the magnificent, 125mph seventy-way on-heading base completes, and the next line commences docking.

My visor is a sea of red, white and blue jumpsuits now. So many people in the red zone, so many, flying no contact, no collisions or incursions made obvious.

It’s our turn.

The Belgian stops, unflinching, and although I cannot see his grip, he stopped here and it will be good. I come to a complete stop as well, my forearm placed over his. I exhale, making sure I’ve stopped too, then close the grip.

I’m on.

Shortly thereafter, I feel a steely grip on my left wrist, and our whacker is complete. We push our chests out, point our booties behind us, and hold our ground.

The base hasn’t moved. At this speed, in this environment, large formations have the structural integrity of a butterfly wing; it takes so little to tear it asunder, and make it look like a dinner plate dropped from a second floor balcony. But this formation is designed to give people room, to counter minor disturbances without passing them relentlessly to everyone else in grips. It can still carry a wave - but not if everyone is doing their job.

Boosters now occupy most of my field of vision, and the sea of red white and blue is thinning. More people are docking, on level, and becoming invisible to me.

Now I can’t see anyone except the line directly in front of me. I want to check my alti, body clock is screaming, but I don’t need to, it’s not my job, and I don’t dare change a perfectly good body position anyway.

I keep the pressure on my toes, flying the best I can. So does everyone else. The formation is “quiet”, and now I understand exactly what he meant.

I wait.
And wait.
And wait.

First pilot chute. I count down to breakoff.
Second pilot chute.
…three thousand, four thousand, and the third pilot chute comes.

I turn left, trace the line with my tracking team leader, close enough to sneak a look at our height from the Neptune mounted in his helmet. We diverge, I finish my track with eyeballs swivelling, assume a good body position wave and throw.

Eyes straight ahead as I get stood up. Hand reach for the risers, locating the left and right, and then carefully selecting the rears in the snivel. The wing rolls left, towards trouble, and I correct with the harness; but this isn’t my little VX, and it takes some right riser to straighten.

My plan is fly a straight line away from the formation, then turn once onto base and once more onto final. Once again, my plans are hampered by an individual whose canopy swings sashays into my path as the owner fiddles with his boosters, both hands around his ankles. I take evasive action, and wonder once again about how hard it can really be to convince everyone to not just make a careful Star Crest dock but to stick to the rest of the plan.

I’ve survived the plane ride, the exit, the freefall, the opening. Let’s not !@#$ it up now.

I wind up relatively close to the radar tower, a small paranoia about high-power radio and the electronics in my Automatic Activation Device keeping me nervous all the way to the deck. Gently, the Safire puts me down once more, and I collapse my canopy quickly to make life easier for anyone in my blind spot.

The mood is different now.
“Great jump!” we congratulate any and everyone, but the record is not ours to claim yet.
Responsibility lies with the judges.

It seemed like an interminable wait. We pack, discuss, and grab some beers, whilst the judges engage in a really tough operation. 400 sets of grips to be judged; multiple cameras, tapes, photoshop, and a documentary team looking over their shoulder.

The ever unflappable BJ looks, for once, flappable.

The Sector Captains are finally called upstairs; closed doors, for who knows what. A wag on the microphone suggests that “white smoke from the control tower” will signify a record, but our judges are surely far quicker than a papal conclave.

We gather around the control tower, waiting for the word, blacked out windows revealing nothing.

A window opens. It’s not white smoke, but white foam - as Sector Captains shake their beer cans over the multitude.

It’s over - we’ve done it - and the party begins.

…

If you’d been in the right place at the right time - Udon Thani Province, in the wee hours of 8 Feb 2006, after the dinners and backslapping and barhopping - you might have caught a glimpse of one quarter of one percent of the recently completed World Record Formation Skydive taking stock, armed with a flask of Mekong Whisky and his thoughts. Thoughts leaning towards metaphysical, examing a miraculously clean visor, 20/20 vision and a mentor who helped steer his ship. Reflection on the simple rules we were asked to follow for World Team, and an understanding that her situation may have had a different outcome under these rules. We have learned; but we all need to keep listening. A moment for Sandy: and Simon, and Pete, and Calvin, and Gags, and Pauline, and Rob and Lee, and Timbo, and Josh: and what we have learned from them. Thoughts of a marriage, and a career, sacrificed on the altar of this thing that consumes him. Many a demon is laid to rest under a clear sky and half moon this World Record night.

Finally, a thought that sends him to wherever his home is. Four hundred individuals, national prejudices and petty differences put aside, combine to forge a united team - the same team, with no competition save unrelenting mother Earth herself.

And today, together, we won.

One load on the sked today - 0640 pickup for a 0900 wheels up. The planes remain the property of the King, and missions need to be run.

Up early. The kitchen was deserted, but coffee was up, so I wandered outside with two cups, thinking maybe today was the day that my digestive system would kick back into gear after applying the bowel equivalent of a thermonuclear war a couple of days ago (only one innocent capsule, but a promise from the nurse “…you’ll never poo again… probably explode…”)

The early light was in evidence, and so was the early (or late) action. A sex act between two unnamed people was taking place in a side street just over the road from the hotel: synthesised moaning in a foreign language, and instructions being offered in an English tongue. Whatever. I drank my coffee, praying that the caffeine would do its legendary thing to my lower intestine. A light breakfast, upstairs to change, and yes: blessed relief. I’m scared of the toilets at the dropzone. I don’t believe two functioning toilets for some 400 blokes is adequate. The early rise saved me, and had me at the DZ, on time, and with a sense of confidence about the day.

We missed the opportunity for an Aussie photo. Going to be tough from here: Igor, wife and kid are all decked with something, and Igor was forced to stand down from the load as a result. I bled for him.

The dirt dive went well, smoothly. We’re all into the routine now, I think it’s a total of four 400 way attempts. A small change in the lineup: I’m on the ramp, which rocks, a new cameraman behind me, and another camera inserted a few rows back. The camera fliers are wary of, and have problems with, condensation - the temperature ranges from 40C on the deck to below freezing, and we’ve been huddling with Will after the tailgate opens to try and help with his lenses. I alert the others in the lineup as we head back to our marks, and make a mental note to have a chat with the new guy before we go. The dirt dive finishes with a rousing round of applause, increasing in tempo and culminating is hollering and whooping.

It’s a good vibe.

Without the need for extra runouts to help the radio crew, we’re back at the tents for a short break before liftoff. Good: we’re getting organised. Hydrate, chill, and then the sound of the first of twenty massive props coming to life before we go.

Double check everything. Neptune. Helmet. Rig. Gear up. I apply extra gaffer tape to my hastily constructed booties, bless Terry for loaning me a suit. Alcohol wipe for my oxygen hose. I crack the visor on my helmet so the sweat from my head doesn’t condense, and hit the ramp with twenty lines of twenty five people.

I meet our new camera guy, and discuss with him the exit, oxygen hoses, count. He will not be on the lower step of the ramp, but back as far as he can with a hand on the yoke of my rig. Cool.

The five Hercules turn in towards the control briefly, and I think a photo is taken with five lineups and five aircraft ready to go. Then plane two stops at the front of our lineup, I plug my thumbs in my ears and my fingers on my helmet, and we enter the belly of the beast…

The packup towards the rear of the plane looks tight, cramped, but near the ramp it’s quite comfortable: as first off the ramp, I have room to stretch my legs in the cramped gaffer booties, and I can cradle my head in my heads for the long sortie ahead.

The ramp closes, and I turn on backlighting on the Neptune. Nice to have a watch, an altimeter, etc - it’s all you need, and being waterproof you don’t have to take it off to wash your hands. Sorry for the plug, but I like mine, and thank once again my skydiving friends who collectively gifted me last August.

We taxi for a few minutes, sorting out oxygen hoses. No call this time from a wannabe plane captain (NCOS) to pass along hoses that won’t reach people in any case. Seems to me that if we have (1) problems with hoses at the rear and (2) problems with the COG as we stack up and (3) problems with people being sore-arsed and tired at height, we’d do better to /not/ pack up the plane so tightly, but there’s too many Non Commissioned Plane Captains already, and once again I keep my trap shut. I knot my hose through my chest strap, in consideration that it may not be mine for the duration.

One billion mosquitos have invaded the Herc overnight. The great Aussie salute never came in so handy.

The sun peeks through a porthole, meaning we’ve turned base on the taxiway. We just need to wait for #1 to take off. Duly it does, and the engine note in our Herc climbs; a shudder as the brakes are released, and we cruise down this 10,000′ long runway at an ever increasing pace.

An ever so gentle rotation; our inclination changes, but not the noise. Hydraulics cram the landing gear into place, and at least one note changes a little.

I stow my sunglasses. It’s relatively dark in the cabin. The airconditioning has fired up, a mist visible from the vents in the plumbing overhead. There’s some very safe people here: practically everyone enters the plane fully ready to exit, and despite the probability of (1) a Herc crashing on takeoff with four props spinning or (2) anyone surviving such an incident unrestrained, most of the jumpers have helmets in place for takeoff. They stay for the first 1,000′, eight beeps indicating the warning that the first pilot chute (Tony D, at 7500′) is imminent, and if you’re not in formation there’s about to be people tracking. At home, we exit at 10,000’ – that’d give us some sixteen seconds in freefall before the breakoff. Here, we’ll have around two minutes.

Climb rate is not a problem. The routine I’ve developed suggests that we’ll be in excess of 20,000′ in a snip over fifteen minutes, and there’s a few things to do before then.

I take off my helmet, leaving it inverted to hopefully reduce the amount of moisture in the liner. Using an alcohol swab, I smear any germs on the hose around a little - at least giving it a shiny happy appearance - and pass said swab back to Dave, who is looking a little Howard Hughes about the situation. I claim the hose as mine, and note 4000′ already.

“Oxygen test!”

My hose works, so I do nothing. There’s lots of thumbs-up happening, which might make a problem hose difficult to detect: we’ve had at least two, where a hose twisted on a previous exit hasn’t transported properly, or has partially wound off the oxy line from the rear. Maybe if we took a thumbs up from the camera crew on the ramp - end of the line - and then a hand in the air to detect a problem, we might save a load one day. I take another poke the end of the hose through the chin vent in the helmet, and shut my trap

6,000′.

I close my eyes, and visualise the entire jump once more - from the two minute call to the beer in my hand. I’m rushing a little, and it only takes about four minutes.

11,000′

I sweep three mosquitos from the cavities in my helmet, and put the lid on. Oxygen feed isn’t far away, and no harm in being a little ahead of the game. Visor cracked open a little - although I’m a mouth breather by custom, it’s difficult to not exhale partially through your nose. I cradle my helmet on the yoke of my Talon, enjoying the flex harness and cut-in backpad (no more shameless plugs, but my Talons are lovely and comfortable and I paid for them I trace the hydraulic lines on the roof once again, looking for any drips like the one that ruined a rig earlier in the project.

Legstraps, check. Handles haven’t moved, check. Helmet velcro, check.

A Royal Thai Airforce member waves the placard for 10,000. The crew changes each flight, and he’s a little late this time.

14,000′

“Helmets on!” Just being a little ahead helps with “that calm feeling”. I recall that the instructor who asked me to capture that feeling - nearly ten years and nearly all my jumps ago - is behind me in the plane, last row of whackers. Cool.

15,000′

The dry, sweet taste of the oxygen feed crashes into my face, and I savour it. You can’t overdo oxygen unless you’re silly about it, and it instantly cures a range of ills. Including hangovers, although today that’s not an issue.

The 15,000 placard never gets displayed, but “20 minutes” appears a little later. Although the Hercs can scream to height, formation flying requires significant setup, and the line and echelon are all-important.
I spend the next fourteen minutes breathing, just breathing and enjoying. It’s actually a very important part of my life: solitude in my helmet, but teamwork around me. Life, with the threat of death. Training, versus luck. And so on. Reflect. Breathe. Live.

Or, as Mal once put it:
“Dream. Believe. Create. Deploy!”

Neptune says 12 minutes has elapsed since the 20min sign. Only a couple of mosquitos flit around in the ramp area now, and I’m not convinced any of them are awake at all. I wait, and sure enough the hydraulics kick into gear. RTAF crew left waits, then nods to RTAF crew right, who levers the switch to raise the tailgate into position. Glorious sunlight fills the cargo area once again, and dust, mosquitos, and small items of misplaced litter are evacuated instantly, never to be seen again.

The six minute signal is due, and sure enough, the RTAF hold up an open palm and a thumb, echoed through the cabin.

Game on.

Movement at my rear. We’ve been here thirty five minutes on the cold steel floor, so it’s understandable. I wait for it to stop, then check my handles. You never know.

We’re counting down now. It’s a pretty view out the back, and from position C1 - first line of floaters on the ramp - I get a kickass view of the sky behind us. No contrails, but I can make out five distinct exhaust plumes. I can see one other Herc - left trail trail - and no others, and that’s good. C4, a Russian on the opposite side of the plane, might be able to see right trail trail - but if I can’t, that means it’s in much better shape than yesterday.

Neptune says four minutes. Why not - a furtive check of my handles again. There’s been a little shuffling as camera moves off the ramp (1) to not be on a moving platform and (2) to help keep those lenses warm…

Any time now. I check my breathing. It’s good. A small line of condensation has appeared around the nose of my visor. Damn.

RTAF Left holds up two fingers. TWO MINUTES.

I do nothing. They always seem to be ahead of the internal radio system we’re using, and there’s three radioed people in my visual range. I can see the right trail trail Hercules now, its massive bulk wallowing around in the thin air at

24,000′.

Two minute call from a radio helmeted team member. There’s a rush to stand up, and I pace myself, respecting the energy demands on the body at this height. As I lever from my knees, our plane shifts appreciably, and I stumble. RTAF left offers a hand. I take it. I can’t see his face behind his oxygen mask, but I can see his eyes, and he can see the appreciation in mine. I arrange the three oxygen hoses I take responsibility for: mine, my wingman, and the camera guy, placing them all on in cradled hand over my outside shoulder. A hose around a deployment system means an instant canopy at high altitude - a hard opening in the thin air; a long ride down; and no chance of a record.

One finger in the air. One minute.

We begin to move back towards the ramp. Pressure from behind, pressure from in front. My oxygen hose is ripped from my hand by someone in front, and I dispose of the other two, unsure of what precipitated this.
My visor gets the cold air, and fogs from top to bottom instantly. The air on the ramp is tearing at my makeshift booties. There’s a giant Belgian between me and Carey, who is giving the key. I still haven’t seen a wave to dispense of oxygen hoses, nor a fist to indicate a countdown has started.

I do, vaguely, through the crazed mess that is my visor, see a chopping motion towards the back of the plane.

That’s the “Set!” in “Ready! Set! Go!”.(or something else in the count that goes EFS

Must be time to go.

I take one step backwards, keeping my hands in front of my face, and the relative quiet of the ramp is replaced with the shattering roar of twenty props clawing through the thin air and 140 knots of airspeed smashing into my body.

I can’t see shit.
I wish I had a radio. Maybe one day we’ll all have one for this.

There’s been a replacement in the lineup in front of me, so I have two black and orange backpacks to choose from. I track a little, still effectively in a standing position, and wait for movement. I sneak a look at the base; it’s a little deeper this time, and I relax my body position, not wanting to have to deal with traffic in Sector 3 - where I absolutely should not be.

Angled on the relative wind, I’m in a good position to watch the traffic build, and I pick up the two rigs in question. Another rig I recognise scoots under me, then another, and it’s time to go. I remember the run-out, and start “sheep dogging” my way towards my sector.

My peripheral vision tells me it’s looking good; more and more people are invading the space in my visor. Waves of red and white and blue, with no sudden downward spikes; it’s a damn fine start.

Our wave approaches the base.

The five way line docks.

We move a little closer.

Then I feel what Craig Giraud described as “a ghost walking under your body”, and instinctively I neg, trapping a little more air and using my “insurance”. Also instinctively, and regrettably, I also look down, and spot a white suit in a “distressed body position”. I check back with the base - it’s all good, and a couple more feet up and I’ll be back in echelon with the Belgian giant.

I edge up. Still over a minute of freefall to go.

Cautiously, we approach the base, in a wave.

So do 398 other people.

In and down.
Closer.
In and down.
Closer.
In and down.

I never saw the hit coming. This is a fine art, and close to the base with an ever decreasing relative fall rate there’s not a lot of room for error, everyone needs to be in control and and playing the game. The video showed a distressed body position sliding underneath a handful people in our sector, then stationing briefly under me, sucking me down and backwards, in a burble that had me crashing onto the other jumper and cascading us even further down.

Recovery from well under a formation, in perfect slot, without taking air from others is a VERY fine art. By the time I decelerated to neutral, I had an exceptionally pretty view of the underside of the formation. Well, pretty if you’re a camera flier with wings and stuff, not so pretty if that’s not part of your plan.

The rules say if you can’t quickly perform that very fine art, get the hell out of Dodge. From here, it was already way too late. I lit up and headed for my sector landing area.

Usually, I’m following my tracking leader for eight seconds - so closely I can read the Neptune embedded in his helmet, which is cool. No such luxury here. In this situation I need to be (1) further away and (2) lower than everyone else at opening time. I sneak a peek at my wrist. 12000′.
I’m going to be tracking for more than eight seconds.

I go as hard as I can, and in addition to checking the landing direction and my vector, I catch myself shouting into my helmet. There was some very bad language happening in there, and I made a note to be more polite to my helmet in future. Looking back between my legs, I see a cover shot for “Skydiving magazine” and three people underneath it. Remembering than Wendy Smith is underneath the formation, Henny is usually there as well, and someone was underneath me when this sh’t happened, I have this magnificent vision of what I could only take to be a magnificent 398 way above and behind me.

I’m well clear of everyone else when I open - no-one lands further away. I had to dodge a tee shot on the fourth fairway at the Udon Thani golf club after my flare was complete.

Nice exit though.

And the FAI judges put it at “only” 347 when you count the odd missing grips.

We’ll try again tomorrow.

(continues in “World Record Day“)