Luke Oliver

POPS are the “Parachutists Over Phorty Society”, which tends to be well represented at dropzones and boogies wherever they go. Criteria for membership is to have done one skydive - a tandem counts as a skydive, as always - and be over forty years of age.

Saturday, October 19 - at Toogoolawah, Queensland, for the Skydive Ramblers “Equinox” boogie - I was conducting a briefing for a couple of jumpers intent on completing their first nude skydive safely. Manifest used the PA to see if I could meet a video commitment at two waiting planes for a formation load.”Yes” is the only answer to that question… Archie Jamieson had his camera, and offered me a choice of plane - a generous man indeed. I elected to take the Skyvan, we discussed breakoff, the doors closed, and away we went.

For a big job like this, careful planning is my watchword. Pre-empt it with lots of careful considerations. Discuss it. Dirt dive, a lot, watching the formation build - who is on aircraft heading, where are the congested quadrants, where is the sun likely to be, etc. And I take /lots/ of ground footage, looking to make a production afterwards.But instead of this style of preparation, I assembled my camera helmet on the way up… The good news is that at least a ground shot was taken - by a lady POP who remains nameless to me, but I’d like to see her credited - and forwarded by Andrew Snow. Onya Snowy

It was a beautiful thing to film.

This is easily my biggest video commission - and I’ll take this opportunity to publicly thank Archie for making it so easy for me. And there’s definitely beer in it, but 32 doesn’t go nicely into a carton, and I’ve decided to do it individually. So: POPS on the load, I owe you a beer. Demand it from me next time the bar is open. And thanks for the skydive.

This is a “how” discussion, rather than a “why” discussion – I’ll assume you already have a good reason (or have decided you don’t need a good reason). To get the most out of a nude jump, you’ll want a “C” license and consistent stand-up landings. You might benefit from some of the things I’ve learned along the way, too.

Regulation

Before you do anything else, get your copy of OpRegs out and check out OR5.1.4 (then 5.1.1 if you don’t know exactly what “approved” means). Most of the people mentioned in 5.1.1 are amenable to the idea when approached; some will have specific concerns they wish to communicate; but if you don’t ask, you’re in danger of breaking an OpReg. Worst case, that may see you at OpReg 8.1, which is no fun at all. Anyway.

Emplaning

First of all, you’re getting your gear off – NOT your rig off. Taking your rig – or any part thereof – off in the plane is an invitation to disaster; you’re asking Murphy to demand an exit when you least expect it. Sufficiently terrified of this, for my first nude jump (made without the benefit of a mentor) I used my hook knife to cut off my clothes on the way up, rather than loosen anything – but nick the lift webbing with said knife, and throw the rig away. A better solution was required! Here’s the golden rule: Any clothing you plan on wearing in the plane – practice removing it on the ground.Jump runs and emergency exits are no place to find out that your system doesn’t work.

Thinking about Gear

1) Clothing – it is advisable to have some form of clothing handy when you land. Boxer shorts can be held in your hand through freefall and landing, but they have the potential to complicate steering, and they’re no good to you if you unclench a fist and abandon them 6,000′ above Koo Wee Rup Road. Also, putting them on under canopy is (a) surprisingly awkward and (b) a waste of time. I’ve successfully used a spare pilot chute pouch (such as the legstrap on a rig with BOC and legstrap fitted), or knotted them through the hip ring on the left hand side (and well clear of the reserve deployment handle). These days, I fold then roll them up, and secure them to my chest strap with a pair of rubber bands. Sorted. 2) Helmets – a great idea if you’re used to one, audible altimeters likewise. I regard them as essential for nude jumps at night (I’m not gaffer taping a torch to my skull, and there aren’t too many other places left to stow one). A full-face lid tends to remove much of the sensation, but the advice stands. 3) Shoes – Well, the wind through your toes is fun, until you have to walk through an uncomfortable crop to get home. Turf surfing in bare feet is not for me. Tevas, if approved, are a good compromise. 4) Goggles – “Jumping without goggles is like wearing your eyelids as a hat”, says Skud. 5) Legstraps: snug, please, ladies and gentlemen, without overtightening. Loose legstraps lead to chafing under canopy, and the possibly of trapping crucial items of tackle between leg and strap on deployment. Check prior to exit. You have been warned. Elect to put your rig on whilst naked, and place a pair of loose fitting shorts or boxers over your legstraps. Make sure ALL your handles are exposed. Ladies, you don’t want a t-shirt over your rig for obvious reasons – but a loose one underneath your rig can be removed by loosening your chest strap prior to jump run. You could consider wearing a bra - seems every female innately knows how to remove one from underneath clothing or a harness – and a bikini top is, well, just great (if you get stuck, I think most blokes on the load will offer to help out). If all else fails, be creative with a towel, two balloons, an inflatable raft, a pair of skyballs, your boyfriend – or just brazen it out. Which leads neatly to

Special Considerations

Nudity is not always embraced by DZ operators, or the public at large. I’ve also met a couple of Rel Princesses who think it’s “silly”; their loss. However, if you are a whuffo en route to height for your AFF skydive, it may add to your stress levels. If you are the tandem master, and your student is disoriented by a naked “idiot” (TM’s description), you may have valid cause for complaint. Here’s some food for thought. Body Odour – consider it, deal with it if necessary. Make the student’s experience memorable – not unpleasant. Seating – I like to sit near the pilot, behind the rest of the load. This gives a small amount of privacy, and generally somewhere to stow any clothing not needed for the descent. In colder weather, most pilots use heaters, and this can be handy. The late exit also means my group generally gets to pull high, not a bad thing. Pilots are your friends in this endeavour - if you’re trying to sneak a nude jump in without attention, they are the people who won’t radio down and tell the crowd you’re coming. Buy jump pilots beer. Especially Baz. Get a gear check prior to exit. Don’t skip this bit, it’s an unusual skydive. Yes, someone in the plane will see you naked. You’re doing a naked skydive though, remember?

“Door!”

Ready, set: Hang on though: two more thoughts.

Check the spot. Some loadmasters think there’s nothing funnier than spotting nude rel off the DZ (right, Slim?) A good general rule to have a pullup cord in your rig anyway, just in case you need to close your container away from the DZ. Camera Prior to exit, I also like to examine the front and rear float slots for camera people that watched a nudie way disrobe on climb, then climbed out and somehow “forget” to leave with their exit. In this instance, climb out and peel their fingers off the rails (trust me, this assertive approach works – naked people have a strange effect on the clothed). If you are videoed or photographed whilst skydiving nude, simply assume that the visuals will appear in one or more of the following: ASM, the World Wide Web, on the boogie tape, “Funniest Home Videos”, your bar mitzvah, pinned to the work noticeboard - it’s easier if you don’t kid yourself here. Even if you don’t take camera, unless you are very good at concealing your intentions there will undoubtedly be ground based footage which you have no control over.

Understood?

Go!

Seen what happens to faces in freefall? Don’t forget to look at what your whole body is doing. I’m always intrigued by the interference patterns that build on my forearms. You’ll probably discover things you didn’t know about the bits you normally keep covered – skydivers can generally be broken down into “pointers” or “flappers” (or “whistlers”, despite the fact that this appears to be simply an urban myth). Regardless, it’s an awesome feeling. Isn’t it cold? Heck, yeah. Particularly in winter in Victoria. The Seinfeld episode on “shrinkage” simply had no appreciation for a minus 10° exit - Ron Jeremy on the ground can be Mr Average on exit. Don’t let this stop you - for example, Lower Light on a 40° day can be a different and refreshing experience, and air at 0° is nowhere near as painful as water at the same temperature. Ask the pilot for a guide – most of them have thermometers and know how to use them. It’s the temperature at 3,000′ that’s significant – anything above that is only for a minute.

Flying your body

Everything works – but it feels different. Without a jumpsuit to moderate your fall rate, you’ll find levels can be an issue on RW loads, even with well matched and experienced people. Ladies seem to fall a little faster, men seem to fall a little slower; there’s probably my thesis in that discussion. You probably won’t be able to fly as efficiently as you do in a jumpsuit. Keep RW simple at first, and bear in mind that grippers are not found on arms and legs in freefall (which doesn’t mean there’s nothing to dock on, hmm, Sheeds?) Listen to what your body is telling you about the relative wind, but rely on muscle memory to tell you what’s right.

The business end of the jump

Tracking, in particular, feels quite different – but your track position will carry you away from the centre of the formation, so make sure you go with it. If you normally jump with boosters, well, you don’t have them here. Break off a little bit higher. Don’t be wearing gear you’re not familiar with. A safe skydive is a good skydive.

Under canopy

Take advantage of a few minutes out of visual range to get things warm enough to be “normal”, should you feel the need (don’t overdo it). If you’ve pitched high, leave your brakes set for a minute, and hold your hands behind your back to warm them up. I’ve also tried some nude Stiletto CRW, but have to say I no longer recommend it.

Landing

Be careful. And pick your day, too: if you aren’t into nil wind landings, landing nude in nil wind is unlikely to improve your technique. If you blow a high-speed landing without a jumpsuit to protect you, expect 8-12 weeks for the evidence to disappear. That’s 8-12 weeks of explaining how you got it, too…

Gearing down

Touchdown! You’ve attracted a crowd? Get your shorts on, or consider wrapping your canopy around yourself until you can gear down gracefully. If you have pants with you, consider landing a reasonable distance from spectators, and shuck off your legstraps first – this means you can walk back with your gear over your shoulder, and gear down modestly in the packing area. If not, you’re going to be briefly nude in that public spot – your call! Log your nude jump; have it signed; and spread the word. If you haven’t done a nude jump before, you have one more important duty when the bar opens.

Your nude jump…

That was great! But you’re five kilometres from the DZ, barefoot, no pants or pull up cord, found your main and freebag, but it’s getting dark and cars speed up rather than slowing down as they pass? You just haven’t been listening! Learn from my mistakes! Nude skydiving can be a great thing – personally, it’s a huge release, a celebration, and a dedication all in one. You’ll have to find your own reasons. Do it safely, and have fun doing it. Luke Oliver APF Nudie “B” XXX

Retired NSW ambulance. 5.7l V8, I swear when you tromped the accelerator you could see the fuel gauge move. Rear interior set up as a lounge room - double divan, TV/CD/Video suite, coffee table. Tequila party for 11 one night at Strathalbyn.

Livery matched that of the Skyvan (VH-IBS). So I had to set up the shot.

If you’ve spent any time at all at my site, you’ll notice that clouds feature prominently. Even the strip on my home page showing Vern and Mik performing an AFF stage 5 has clouds everywhere. But jumping through clouds is not something that is endorsed by the Civil Aviation Safety Authority (CASA) or the Australian Parachute Federation (APF). What’s going on here?

Well, a few things are happening.

Firstly, the operational regulations state that you need to be able to see the target prior to exit. They also state that the parachutist should not enter cloud during any part of the jump. That was the case for everything you see here. I may or may not have other images taken where that wasn’t the case: for the purpose of this exercise, that doesn’t matter.

Secondly, this particular regulation is ignored, seemingly at will, by various operators around the country. Enforcement of the law is by luck of the draw.

I’m certainly not saying I’ve never jumped through cloud. I have, and on a number of occasions I’ve done so willingly and deliberately. Once, I was punished by the DZSO of the day to the full extent of his jurisdiction. But that was a mistake on my part. More later.

I have also, at that same dropzone, been cautioned for a similar offence.

I have also, at that same dropzone, been part of a load/loads that did so deliberately without any comment being made.

At a different dropzone, I legitimately exited the plane through blanket cloud for a sixty person formation.

I later exited that same plane at a place where it was illegal, and almost all the Australian Parachute Federation staff in residence. Dozens of us jumped for hours, and again the next day, jumping and tracking through cloud, load after load after load. The APF allegedly made little comment, other than to say “we didn’t see any of that” well after the event.

When it got too wet to jump, we jumped in the rain out of a helicopter. It was fantastic. But that’s another story.

In my instructional role, I regularly show students how to perform AFF Stage 2. Part of this is the viewing of an official APF video, which I then discuss with the student(s). In this video, the student enters, then deploys in, a bloody big cloud.

Different circumstance; different people on duty. And a casual observation, backed up by evidence time and time again: money talks.

My point is, there’s next to no enforcement when it suits operations to do so; but it’s still illegal.

Why not jump through cloud?

You can’t judge how thick cloud is reliably. The incident I was punished for, I’d estimated the cloud was 1500′ thick on exit - it was nearly 4000′.

You can’t accurately triangulate a spot visually if you can’t see the ground nearby. GPS can, and very well: but the pilots need to know what they’re doing, and communications need to work. I’d never spot Mike Mullin’s King Air - he does a far better job than I could, rain or shine.The incident I was punished for, the pilot had a vague idea, but communications were poor: my manual spot had us all landing by the pit, but we were substantially deeper than I’d planned.

You can’t see other air users. I’ve seen enough casual airspace users putt-putting across the sky around deployment height to know that it’s dumb to take the chance. Skydivers can and have hit planes.It’s not healthy.

Finally, as a freefall photographer, I don’t like what all that moisture is doing to my camera equipment.

Anyway.

Enforcement

Self enforcement doesn’t work. Neither does the enforcement of the APF. Enforcement by CASA won’t work either, for the reasons detailed above. I don’t know the answer to enforcement.

I do know that protocols and procedures for jumping through cloud safely exist.

What is the problem?

People are electing to break the law regularly, and we haven’t distributed the practices for doing so safely - instead, we’re too busy mumbling about enforcement.Enforcement is so haphazard that we won’t stop people doing it.

What is the solution?

Don’t know. Maybe rapid deployment of these procedures will have miscreants doing so safely whilst we attend the bureaucratic aspects.

I think jumping through cloud will happen, legitimately and safely, if eventually. And as you can see, clouds creates fantastic visuals, and the experience of freefalling into cloud is a rare sensation. But I don’t think I’ll bother doing it deliberately again until it’s legally endorsed at the DZ I jump at.

Posted to rec.skydiving, 11 Feb 97

Well, all I’m getting from most of you in my mailbox - given the high content of USA based subscribers to r.s - is complaints about the weather. Snowing here, raining here, too cold to jump there.

Well, in South Australia, Strathalbyn is the place to be: the door on the Islander stays open to 7000 just to try and cool down some. Nobody wants to wear jumpsuits to dirt dive, it’s just too bloody hot. And when the sun eventually sets, and the 100F heat starts to fade, our three fridges and countless eskies keep the beer icy, icy cold.

To top it off, we’re getting some really cool jumps in. Let me tell you about one I was lucky enough to be on Saturday…

My jumping buddy Linnley has been working on his Australian Star Crest for the past few weeks - you need to enter an approved formation fifth or later three times on three jumps, and the points must be completed. Although the actual benefits of having one are a bit academic - technically it allows you on formations bigger than ten skydivers, but our plane only holds ten - it seems highly rated in the unwritten rulebook. I manifested by luck: a full load for hours, one of our number was forced to depart, and I pinched her slot without hesitation.

We dirt dived the jump and sorted out a couple of potential problems, eventually deciding three jumpers hanging on the outside rail was no big deal. This was to be Linnley’s third Star Crest Jump, which was going to cost him a carton of beer, so the dive was uncomplicated and had high provision for geeking.

I raced to finish packing (I’d been on another ten way the load before which turned to crap - with limited opportunity at this stage I’d yet to be on a ten way that turned a point. Despite flying a reasonable base and getting all my docks in bar one, some people were starting to view my name at manifest as some sort of big-way omen. It wasn’t all bad though: Big Pete bet me a beer he’d be on the formation before me, and he wasn’t - despite some vigorous body checking on exit…).

Anyway: Close, Jumpsuit, Factory Diver, Alti, go; and we raced the sun to 12000′.

I was lucky enough to get a seat up the back, which is great - much easier to geek in the plane with a helmet off - and you get a much better view of the surrounding countryside. At 3,000 feet we could see a huge bank of low cloud rolling in, and the sun descending above it. A huge orange fireball, the fierce sort of sun I’ve only seen in Australia, atop a rich grey carpet of cloud. The blue of the lake formed a perfect contrast, and the green of the irrigated paddocks below were stark and clear. Maybe a hint of whitecaps out on the lake.

10,000 feet, and my heart starts to race little, just like it always has. Helmet on, check my handles, check the pins. Matty spots the plane for us, pointing to the incoming cloud. I don’t get a good look: suddenly, it’s power off, Matty’s on the rail, and I’m out there with him. Laurie joins us, and I get another good look at the back of rig (handy, I’m to dock on her and Load Organiser Mick). Some fifteen hours later (or so it seems), the chunk in the door is ready, set, go…

Matty behind and Laurie in front leave on the “g” in go, which I file away for future reference. I try to remember to keep my head up, and it works: the air build up on my chest, and I watch the base funnel away from me…

Never mind, they’re back in shape quickly. Gently, gently I make my way over, careful not to jump on it too quickly in case (a) I get it someone’s way and screw it up or (b) accidentally be the fourth dock and miss my opportunity to start a Star Crest collection for myself. I was also keen to watch it build and see other more experienced skydivers dock (I think you learn more here than on creepers): eventually, five people docked in rapid succession, and I found myself out of position and last on.

Mind you, one point: the hoodoo was broken. It felt pretty good. And Linnley had his Star Crest - you could almost smell the beer…

The first transition went smoothly, and there was geeking a plenty. We broke the second point and turned it into a star. There was work to do yet, but no shit it was such a buzz just being there… We broke the star into two crescents and looped them round to another star - only problem, some blockhead in my slot and wearing my jumpsuit thought “right” and went left. By the time it turned, we were a little bit lower than we should’ve been, and looking at a two way and a three way instead of the other half of our star. 4500′, bye.

I sneaked a look around on my track, and saw that cloud was fog - by now, washing across the vineyards and paddocks adjacent the dropzone. Clear the air around me, wave, reach, pull, one thousand, two thousand, whoomph, and my best friend grabs me once again for a gentle descent.

I look around, counting canopies: the missing one is above me, of all places. Probably get some advice about breakoff and tracking when I get down. I look out, and there’s the sun, not far from the clouded horizon. This fog is LOW, like 1000′: I’m directly above the DZ, right in swoop country, and I don’t enjoy being in the thick of all that. My softest option is closer to the edge of the drop zone, and I take it.

The cloud is right on us now, gently rolling in. At 1000 feet, in half brakes, well clear of everyone else, and looking straight at the sun, I sink into the bank of cloud, timing it so the blazing sun sets as I immerse myself in the fog. The sky around me is illuminated by reds and oranges, then blues and iridescent greys, and finally whiteout.

Lord, take me now.

I wasn’t alone: according to those on the ground, a number of jumpers on the load almost simultaneously emerged from the greyness with slightly clammy canopies. Eventually, we were all down, and the hollering abated somewhat. Big Pete met me halfway to the hangar, and presented me with my hard-won beer - which, by some freak of nature, turned out to be easily the finest beer ever brewed by mankind.

I had more beer that night, and more fun times with my new found “family” at the drop zone. I terrorised some folks at the foos table, and spun skydiving stories to the wee hours in the wind tunnel. I awoke Sunday, and it rained for forty days and forty nights.

I guess that’s skydiving.

Half a summer to go. Yahooooo!

L.

I jump at a Dropzone about a three quarter hour drive from Adelaide in
Strathalbyn, South Australia. It’s a farming locality, but becomingly
increasingly famous for its wines, with the adjacent Langhornes Creek
Wineries encroaching and maybe one day becoming a landing hazard. But it’s
the nice thing about Adelaide: you can drive for forty five minutes in any
direction and be in the country (or very wet, if you head due West).

Last Saturday night, the club had organised night jumps. Being adjudged of
the requisite competence, commonsense and reliability, I put my name down;
and it came to pass that about 10:30 Saturday night I knelt in the door of
our Islander - VH-OBJ - at 3500 feet, twin torches taped to my factory
diver, reserve torch in my jumpsuit, my heart in my mouth, and runway
lights below. Five seconds later, I tossed my pilot chute into the space
on my right, and three seconds later I was under a good canopy, a full
moon, and able to see the lights of Strathalbyn, Mount Barker, Milang and
Goolwa. I looked up, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky anywhere: just
stars. The light from the moon was sufficient to read my alti - I didnÌt
bother with the light for it - and in nil wind, I parked my trusty
Cruislite about two metres from the floodlit pit.

Awesome. But it got better.

An hour later, I was off again, this time on a ten second delay. A
somersault out the door, stability, and time for a quick look around in
freefall. I circled once, then watched the Islander disappear into the
darkness, its blinking red lights showing the way as it climbed to 12 000
with a load of night rated jumpers. Another good look around under canopy:
with the sky to myself, I spiralled down and set up for the pit, my greed
for the sand earning howls of laughter, a smattering of applause and some
dented pride, plus a ten-minute cleaning session. Why I saved my messiest
landing ever for the grandstand on this particular night I’ll never know.
Oh well.

Totally awesome. But the night was still young.

Still buzzing, I packed furiously and prepared for my thirty second delay.
At eight thousand feet, suddenly the lights of Adelaide, 65km away, became
visible over the Mount Lofty ranges. I could almost make out my street,
although I think I was kidding myself. A sweeping 360 degree power climb
took us to my exit height, and I stopped in the door briefly to thank my
CI before scrambling out with power on. Stability being the over rated
inclination that it is, I fired up one of my torches in the orange “blink”
mode, and thrashed about in the air for fifteen of my allotted thirty
seconds, eyes open, madly seeing city lights, moon, stars and runway
alternately. If there’s not at least a handful of UFO sightings from that
jump, I’ll be sadly disappointed. When I eventually straightened up, I saw
just how far away the dropzone was, and instead of dumping then and there,
used my remaining freefall in a track. I’m learning good habits - I
remember instinctively flaring my track and waving before deployment,
despite having the sky to myself and insufficient light for anyone to see
it anyway. Wish I’d dumped a few hundred feet higher though - I eventually
made the airfield, but landed across what little wind there was and I’m
nursing a few bruises today. Never mind: At this point, I had religion.

I packed, and went seeking partners for some night rel to go with my new
rating. Well, a lot of the DZ had had enough by now, and even my other new
night rating partners thought that 2AM was grounds for a beer or two. With
sinking heart (and diminishing good attitude), I discovered that there
were nine night rated and sober people on the dropzone, including myself,
and the night’s last load had an eight way manifested. I certainly wasn’t
qualified to join them; but I watched the dirt dive and memorised the
slots, just in case there was a sudden attack of bubonic plague or an
absent minded beer; you’ve got to give yourself every opportunity in this
sport.

Eventually, the Islander took off, and I headed for the bar, already
wishing I’d manifested for solo instead of sulking. I finished half my
beer in one swallow and sat by the fire, waiting for the climb to height.
It was still a glorious night: stars everywhere, perfectly still, and you
could hear the odd drone of a car on the main road over a mile away. With
only a dozen spectators left, we sat and laughed and drank some more, and
soon enough, OBJ’s lights could be seen, and the drone of its engine
heard.

We watched the intracacies of the spot with rare clarity, and heard the
engine note change as they called power off. For a while, we could see and
hear nothing; then, we heard freefall. We didn’t just hear the roar of
freefall though: we could hear yahooing, hollering and screaming! Then,
abruptly, the yelling stopped, and I might have even seen a body in a
track directly over the DZ. Then, amidst the stillness of the night, came
the sound of eight canopies opening, like a muted peal of thunder; then
silence.

A minute later, the dark outline of a Stiletto blotted out stars over the
clubhouse roof; and Tony, first down as always, swooped the pit, tearing
the silence to pieces with a scream of “we got it!” Gradually, the
remaining canopies swooped in, and flushed and radiant faces shook hands
and high fived amongst the odd “someone stole my slot” and “no shit, there
we were”. They departed for the hangar, and I left them to share the high
amongst themselves.

Apparently the formation was finished by 7500. That meant, by my
calculations, a full fifteen seconds of holding grips and hollering,
turning the piece and watching the lights of the towns - while the birds
slept and those who have never jumped dreamed of … well, I don’t
remember what I used to dream of before I discovered freefall.

Fifteen seconds.

This Sunday morning at 3AM, I saw eight dudes who also know that magic
does exist, and that you find it in the strangest places. This sport is
filled with rites of passage, but it’s also filled with raw emotions, and
visuals that simply cannot be captured on film or video: scenes of beauty
and eloquence that are simply seared into your consciousness for ever. And
I had my fill of magic that night, but I’m hungry for more. And knowing
that it’s out there, and having been shown the way, I’ll find it, and I’ll
do my damndest to share it.

Blue skies, full moons,

L.

(APF B4119)

I’d first heard about naked skydives when I was going through AFF. I spoke to my instructor, and asked when I’d be able to jump without my helmet - 100 jumps or a “C” license, whichever came last. He then mentioned something about getting on a Nude Load, and my personal heavens suddenly opened with crazy new thoughts.

I’m not normally a nude sort of guy, but I always wear the bare minimum I can for skydiving - I love the feel of the wind on my face, or my hands, or my legs. I’d jump barefoot if the DZSO would allow it. And so through AFF, and my rels, and onto a “B” license I jumped, cursing the black Protec on every exit. Eventually, I bit the bullet and obtained a Factory Diver (thanks Sandy), and after seeing one of our eight-way team members collect a wheel on exit, I wear it religously for rel. But I’m getting distracted here.

Eventually, and after a long cold winter, I started to sneak up on my 100th jump. Now, I’d been pretty assertive about spotting and accuracy, so I had that “C” license in the bag - all I needed was the 100 jumps, and that helmet-free freefall was mine. At this point, my options started to get a bit cloudy. I’d done a lot of jumps in a short time, and hadn’t actually seen anyone do a hundredth jump before. I was pretty sure the club tradition was for a big way, but big ways had been a little thin on the ground and my experience was lacking - I was sure I could think of a better way to celebrate the 100 than by blowing up an 8 way under a camera… then, inspiration hit me.

I hadn’t seen a nude jump either at this point, so it was up to me to devise something. Well, I’m a man of meticulous detail and planning: the plan was good enough, and it worked. Here’s how it went.

Firstly, I hid my logbook for a few weeks, and snuck up on the target. Eventually, the day came where it was within reach. We have an Islander at the club, which seats eight - I needed to be at the back of the plane. No problem: manifested for a solo, and announced my intention to practice some canopy skills from 6k. That’ll get me out last, behind the tandems on the load. However, as we seated two abreast, I needed an accomplice so I could achieve my state of undress without alerting the paying passengers. Enter Stage Right, Linnley Wheatley, training partner and all round good guy - I briefed him, swore him to secrecy, and he manifested for the same jump, dumping at 6k. No, we assured the DZSO, independent exits: no sudden urge to do CRW, just enjoying ourselves… Cool.

…and away we went, the Islander climbing to height. We passed through 1000, and I removed the Factory Diver. So far, so good. Next: out came a hook knife, purchased from the Skydive Shop in Adelaide for just this purpose. Taking particular care to avoid the webbing, I cut away an old T-shirt - one vertical cut from neck to waist, then another from neck to forearm. It fell away pretty easily after that. One cut from waist to hip made removal of the shorts easy, and I sat there in my underpants, waiting for the last 2000′ to elapse.

To prevent the wreckage of my clothes flapping about the cabin when the door went up, I tucked them in the pocket behind the pilot: and there, to my everlasting joy, I found a pair of goggles. Wracked by the conflict of observing Operational Regulation 5.3.13.2 or jumping without a helmet, I debated the merits of both scenarios: briefly. You only get to do your hundredth jump once.

And so it came to pass that on jump run, I stood up and attached my helmet to a passenger restraint. I hacked off my underwear (those hook knifes are SHARP). The camera dudes had worked me out at this point, and I made sure they both left the plane - at least one of them considered hanging on outside until I did my thing. I despatched Linnley, with a handshake and a high five, and it was time to go - “Thanks for the ride!” I shouted to the pilot, who turned and waved in response, and tumbled out the door.

Naturally, I’d picked a day where Sylvia was our pilot. I think she’s out of therapy now.

Freed of my helmet, my jumpsuit, my shirt and shorts, I took a thirty second look around my favourite place, Strathalbyn, and South Australia’s Fleurieu Peninsula. A bright blue sky, green pastures, and brilliant sunshine and crisp, clean, air. I watched the others on the load, on an invisible hill between me and the dropzone. About 6000, I tossed my pilot chute into the air, and suddenly I was suspended in my harness beneath seven glorious cells: wide awake, invigorated, and ready for a cruise under canopy.

I had a great ride down, just soaking in the scenery and watching cars on the roads below, secure in the knowledge that only Linnley knew what I was up to. But all good things must come to an end, and eventually I set down - out by the student pit, and putting the refuelling station between me and the clubhouse. In my socks, I had a pair of silk boxer shorts that Kathy gave me for Christmas; and thus clad,it was back, to pack.

At some stage I had to explain myself (I think it was getting the signatures in my logbook and the “C” license application that gave me away); then I shaved off my beard (why not) and my “friends” at the club showered me with a bucket full of “gunge”: worst thing I’ve ever tasted. Still, it made the day complete. Lots of beer, lots of laughs. It’s a great sport for that.

There are apparently easier ways of doing nude jumps, although no-one at the club has yet seen fit to demonstrate. Ah well, necessity is the mother of invention, and all that. And no photos; just memories. But it was a great day: and my best jump so far. But this sport has a way of bettering itself, all the time. For example, if I ever master landing in nil winds, I’m a huge fan of night jumps…

Blue skies,

L.

I jump at a Dropzone about a three quarter hour drive from Adelaide in
Strathalbyn, South Australia. It’s a farming locality, but becomingly
increasingly famous for its wines, with the adjacent Langhornes Creek
Wineries encroaching and maybe one day becoming a landing hazard. But it’s
the nice thing about Adelaide: you can drive for forty five minutes in any
direction and be in the country (or very wet, if you head due West).

Last Saturday night, the club had organised night jumps. Being adjudged of
the requisite competence, commonsense and reliability, I put my name down;
and it came to pass that about 10:30 Saturday night I knelt in the door of
our Islander - VH-OBJ - at 3500 feet, twin torches taped to my factory
diver, reserve torch in my jumpsuit, my heart in my mouth, and runway
lights below. Five seconds later, I tossed my pilot chute into the space
on my right, and three seconds later I was under a good canopy, a full
moon, and able to see the lights of Strathalbyn, Mount Barker, Milang and
Goolwa. I looked up, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky anywhere: just
stars. The light from the moon was sufficient to read my alti - I didnÌt
bother with the light for it - and in nil wind, I parked my trusty
Cruislite about two metres from the floodlit pit.

Awesome. But it got better.

An hour later, I was off again, this time on a ten second delay. A
somersault out the door, stability, and time for a quick look around in
freefall. I circled once, then watched the Islander disappear into the
darkness, its blinking red lights showing the way as it climbed to 12 000
with a load of night rated jumpers. Another good look around under canopy:
with the sky to myself, I spiralled down and set up for the pit, my greed
for the sand earning howls of laughter, a smattering of applause and some
dented pride, plus a ten-minute cleaning session. Why I saved my messiest
landing ever for the grandstand on this particular night I’ll never know.
Oh well.

Totally awesome. But the night was still young.

Still buzzing, I packed furiously and prepared for my thirty second delay.
At eight thousand feet, suddenly the lights of Adelaide, 65km away, became
visible over the Mount Lofty ranges. I could almost make out my street,
although I think I was kidding myself. A sweeping 360 degree power climb
took us to my exit height, and I stopped in the door briefly to thank my
CI before scrambling out with power on. Stability being the over rated
inclination that it is, I fired up one of my torches in the orange “blink”
mode, and thrashed about in the air for fifteen of my allotted thirty
seconds, eyes open, madly seeing city lights, moon, stars and runway
alternately. If there’s not at least a handful of UFO sightings from that
jump, I’ll be sadly disappointed. When I eventually straightened up, I saw
just how far away the dropzone was, and instead of dumping then and there,
used my remaining freefall in a track. I’m learning good habits - I
remember instinctively flaring my track and waving before deployment,
despite having the sky to myself and insufficient light for anyone to see
it anyway. Wish I’d dumped a few hundred feet higher though - I eventually
made the airfield, but landed across what little wind there was and I’m
nursing a few bruises today. Never mind: At this point, I had religion.

I packed, and went seeking partners for some night rel to go with my new
rating. Well, a lot of the DZ had had enough by now, and even my other new
night rating partners thought that 2AM was grounds for a beer or two. With
sinking heart (and diminishing good attitude), I discovered that there
were nine night rated and sober people on the dropzone, including myself,
and the night’s last load had an eight way manifested. I certainly wasn’t
qualified to join them; but I watched the dirt dive and memorised the
slots, just in case there was a sudden attack of bubonic plague or an
absent minded beer; you’ve got to give yourself every opportunity in this
sport.

Eventually, the Islander took off, and I headed for the bar, already
wishing I’d manifested for solo instead of sulking. I finished half my
beer in one swallow and sat by the fire, waiting for the climb to height.
It was still a glorious night: stars everywhere, perfectly still, and you
could hear the odd drone of a car on the main road over a mile away. With
only a dozen spectators left, we sat and laughed and drank some more, and
soon enough, OBJ’s lights could be seen, and the drone of its engine
heard.

We watched the intracacies of the spot with rare clarity, and heard the
engine note change as they called power off. For a while, we could see and
hear nothing; then, we heard freefall. We didn’t just hear the roar of
freefall though: we could hear yahooing, hollering and screaming! Then,
abruptly, the yelling stopped, and I might have even seen a body in a
track directly over the DZ. Then, amidst the stillness of the night, came
the sound of eight canopies opening, like a muted peal of thunder; then
silence.

A minute later, the dark outline of a Stiletto blotted out stars over the
clubhouse roof; and Tony, first down as always, swooped the pit, tearing
the silence to pieces with a scream of “we got it!” Gradually, the
remaining canopies swooped in, and flushed and radiant faces shook hands
and high fived amongst the odd “someone stole my slot” and “no shit, there
we were”. They departed for the hangar, and I left them to share the high
amongst themselves.

Apparently the formation was finished by 7500. That meant, by my
calculations, a full fifteen seconds of holding grips and hollering,
turning the piece and watching the lights of the towns - while the birds
slept and those who have never jumped dreamed of … well, I don’t
remember what I used to dream of before I discovered freefall.

Fifteen seconds.

This Sunday morning at 3AM, I saw eight dudes who also know that magic
does exist, and that you find it in the strangest places. This sport is
filled with rites of passage, but it’s also filled with raw emotions, and
visuals that simply cannot be captured on film or video: scenes of beauty
and eloquence that are simply seared into your consciousness for ever. And
I had my fill of magic that night, but I’m hungry for more. And knowing
that it’s out there, and having been shown the way, I’ll find it, and I’ll
do my damndest to share it.

Blue skies, full moons,

L.

(APF B4119)