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“)

First published in ASM, 4 May 2005

The plan was simple – a one point skydive.

To set a world record, you need the place, the time and the people. Of all the people in the world who could do the jump, World Team 2006 assembled enough of them in one place at one time to have a go. 441 applicants were selected; the dates were set, and the place was Udorn Thani in Thailand.

Simply getting there was an exercise. With Americans forming the bulk of the 38 countries represented and having to travel literally halfway around the world, Bangkok was the meeting place. Registration, and collection of the uniform and accessories took two days. World Team likes to look like a team – and having distributed hundreds of Royal Blue helmets, warmup outfits, gloves, bags, we all started to look like it.

Getting from Bangkok to Udorn Thani took the better part of a day. Whilst jumpers took the King’s Airbus in shifts, our baggage traveled by road the night before; everything made it, we rolled into town on time, and settled in for the campaign. A day “in the classroom” at our destination outlined the detail – and if you thought you knew it all, this was a good day to shut up.

World Team

World Team does more than meet every so often and have a crack at a world record. The loose coalition of participants stay in touch, and have more than a passing interest in world events – and an outstanding relationship with the gentle people of Thailand. Indeed, World Team 2006 was dedicated to the benevolent King Bhumibol Adulyadej, sixty years after his ascension to the royal throne. It came to light that after the horrific Tsunami that afflicted Thailand and nearby countries, World Team members made a contribution that built eighteen houses and a fish farm for afflicted Thais.

That said, when World Team does meet to jump, they skydive – and skydive well. Organiser and Dive Director BJ Worth – former IPC chief, four way world champion, and Bond movie stuntman amongst other things – did not assemble this team to have some fun jumps and a few cold ones at the end of the day. Safety was the stated priority – and it was more than a casual reference. And two world records to add to World Team’s already impressive record were second on the list.

Aircraft

Hercules C-130 transports. 80 jumpers plus camera and support in each plane. Far more comfortable than 100 or 120 in each plane… 24,000’+ exit height. Spare rigs in each plane – who knows when a minor gear problem might scrub an attempt? Having AAD equipped spare rigs in each aircraft may have made the difference.

You couldn’t ask King Bhumibol or Air Marshall Bunchauy for much more.

Oxygen

A simple system: medical grade oxygen, medical hose, a constant pressure delivery of about twice what we needed, and a helmet fitting to ensure it stays connected for the ride to height. These fittings were promptly discarded after the first few jumps in the interest of simplifying proceedings – whip-style injuries from stray hoses occurred, hoses trailing upwards from people in formation were common, and a stray oxygen hose coiled around a deployment system on exit resulted in an instant canopy at 24000 for one participant. Better management of hoses by individuals proved the successful formula.

Radio

For the first time, exit control is in the hands of the skydivers. A super floater still leaves early in case of radio failure; otherwise, a full twenty-five radio-helmet equipped jumpers in the formation hear the exit count from Craig Gerard, and synchronise their exits accordingly. Gerard is also using his mic to call in waves of skydivers - ensuring the base is at the correct fall rate, it builds sequentially, and picks up speed before the next wave gets called.

Breakoff plan

“Every man for himself” is not a high-percentage strategy in this game. Some clever thinking and computer graphics revealed the plan: waves of skydivers, departing at regular intervals, commencing at 8500’ with the option to lower that to 7500 if required. The first waves tracked longest and lowest; the later waves tracking shorter and higher to give the completed break-off plan a “wedding cake” type effect.

The first wave left at the sign of pilot chute extraction from the centre, and did not track as we know it: rather, a “tracking team leader” assumed a flat and angled body position which all members of that team could follow in close company; not too steep, not too flat. The outer persons on the tracking team pulled – in this body position – halfway through their journey, providing a little extra space for that team to fan out and find their own space. The fifteen camera fliers had their part of the plan. Effective it was, without incident throughout the event, although camera flier Wendy Smith could argue that point.

If, during the course of the skydive, you wound up under the formation with no chance of recovering, you were to dive below the formation and track away. Many of us thus subsequently experienced the rare pleasure of tracking from 16,000’ without really wanting to.

Landing

The airport itself – a 10,000’ strip – formed the centerpiece of our landing area. Whilst congested at times, there were very few problems finding clean air for an approach. The handful of folks who executed high performance landings generally only got to do so once.

AAD

Wearing an AAD is compulsory on World Team, and every AAD manual will warn you of the dangers of using one in a pressurised aircraft. In spite of all the precautions, one of the Hercules did get pressurised for descent after a load was called down – the flight crew correctly assuming that their talking cargo required oxygen – but then rapidly depressurised as knowledgeable skydivers discussed this with the flight crew.

As a result, four Vigil units promptly fired in the plane, and over thirty early model Cypres 1 units shut themselves down, demanding a trip to the factory to be checked for impossible pressure sensor readings. Airtec promptly dispatched a suitcase full of Cypres2 units with an engineer, and everyone with an AAD problem received the loan of a Cypres2 until the issue was resolved. The next night, some forty reserve containers were opened and closed in the hotel lobby and the problem put to rest.

Titan

Roger Allen from Alti-2 brought along a truly special piece of kit: Titan. This evolution of the altimeter is modular, comprising a processing unit, pressure sensor, GPS – and as well as audible warnings, a heads-up display that can be commanded to relay height, location and fall rate amongst other things.

Its primary use through the attempts was to provide an instantaneous readout of fall rate to Craig Girard, who could then sequence the key docks within and on the base. Despite his confession that on at least one occasion he forgot to reference it, it proved invaluable in co-ordinating the attempts. Girard’s radio was also connected to the audio track of freefall photographer Henny Wiggins, and the resulting audio/video is compelling viewing.
Skydive Design

A seventy way base, with rows and rows of “whackers” chained to them has formed the model for recent world record attempts – and now, we were just making a bigger one.

The plan was brilliantly summarised late in the presentation:

1. Get on
2. Get out
3. Get in
4. Get a record
5. Land safely
6. Party til dawn
7. Go home

Alpha team

World Team does not put its best foot forward. No-one expects to build the record at the first attempt – although a good proportion of believers on World Team think it can and should be done. Instead, the best of the best of the best sit on the bench, waiting for injury, tardiness or poor form to provide them with an opportunity – often getting a two-minute description of their job prior to a 45 minute plane ride. Finding their new slot amongst the 400 with appropriate timing and precision is demanded. Forty of the Alpha team had over ten thousand skydives: to be an Alpha is to be amongst the elite: and they did their job.

As Girard said: “If we give everyone a second chance, will we build a record?”
And then, we went skydiving…

Natural fall rate earned me a slot on the outer edge of the base for the warmup jumps, where we dirt dived the first test of the combined technology – a one hundred and thirty something way. No choice but to put disbelief aside and get out and get on. Three jumps after that “warmup”, our “drill” dive was 220. Less than a week later, we put four hundred skydivers out of the planes on two occasions – no plans to complete the formation, but drills to ensure we all understood the plan.

The PA system gets a continual workout, and deadlines are met with casual professionalism. One exception – a base member, five minutes late to dirt dive a 178 way – redeems himself by shouting 177 beers at the end of the day. But it is the sound of the first Hercules spooling engine number one that raises the heartbeat and puts relaxation aside. The 415 players move to the concrete apron; five lineups for five planes, twenty rows of twenty skydivers in exit slots. As the Hercules pull up, tailgates gaping wide, we plug our ears and scramble for our cold, hard steel seat for the ride to height.

Depending on the wind direction, it can take ten minutes to taxi. The Hercules take off sequentially, and become a precise echelon: the Thai Air Force has a job to do, flying tight formation for the next hour and keeping us close enough to do our job whilst their propellers whirl raggedly in the thin air. This has not been done before; not at this height, this formation, this many skydivers.

In the belly of the beasts, we wait; noise and helmets keeping communication non-verbal at best. Those with radio helmets – five per plane - enjoy the odd giggle as the system remains in test all the way to height. The solitude, amongst the usually gregarious crowd, helps us focus – and heartrates rest until the tailgates open once more, in formation, at height and twenty five kilometers from the spot.

The skydives themselves were fabulous. Two minute freefalls, outstanding performance pressure, an ocean of suits and the edginess that comes from being where no team has been before. Slowly, the dives got better and better as everyone got used to finding their place in the sky before they got to their grips; the video reviews changing from a swarm to a cohesive mass that shrank to the correct size.

There comes a point in every project when the job needs to be done. On February 8, it felt like everyone woke up and said to themselves “Crap! We’ve only got a couple of days left! We’re missing valuable party time!”. With that in everyone’s minds, and without deviating from the usual routine, World Team 2006 attended the airport that day and smashed the existing Guinness World Record three times. 370 skydivers in formation on load one, 399 on load 2 – with the 400th grip coming as the first pilot chute reached bridle stretch – and then, despite a slightly lower exit height, the magical FAI Record of 400: held officially for 4.25 seconds.

The party which followed the judge’s announcement lasted roughly three days, hangovers barely clearing before we joined every other skydiver in Thailand for a safe and fun 960 way mass drop over Bangkok’s new and unpronounceable international airport, Suvarnabhumi.

In the end, the plan was good. The formation remained structurally unchanged, there were no collisions under canopy, and whilst there were a disproportionate number of injuries – shoulders from exits, turned ankles, and one broken pelvis from a power line collision - everyone came home.

We turned one point, and claimed two world records. Cool.

What next?

Amongst the magical numbers, there’s substantial interest in a 420 way, but no-one really knows yet. The technology in the formation can be extended, but there are other issues. Without bailout oxygen – and the substantially increased risk of fire as a result – formation loads can’t go much higher. With square canopies, breakoff can’t be much lower. More, smaller aircraft would get everyone out of the plane quicker – but increase the risk of aircraft trouble preventing a full attempt. Statistically, it is hard to make it safer. And it would be difficult indeed to surpass the efforts of the organising team and their legion of assistants.

But there remains a lot of room for the skydivers to get better;

and this record will, in due course, fall like all those before it…

Australian Representatives

Gary Nemirovsky

“To say that World Team is an experience, would be an understatement, but it’s not until some time after the event that you get to appreciate it for what it is. In the midst of extreme length of time spent waiting around aimlessly on the ground, you do get to hang out with some cool people and experience things that some folks only dream to….”

Michael Vaughan

“A truly amazing and unique experience in many ways - A Dream come true!”

Luke Oliver

“What the !@#$ was I thinking”

Ian “Igor” Flack

The 400way World Record is without doubt a highlight in my skydiving carreer.World Team ‘06 conglomerated in Thailand to build a 400way, however the World Team is by far & away much larger than those people flying in formation. World Team is the greatest gathering of incredible individuals (from staff, skydivers, airforce, camera crew, volunteers, supporting people, the list goes on…..) all with brilliant attitudes & a constantly wonderful smile, all together in the same place, at the same time. The team spirit & camaraderie was second to none! The 400way World Record was (but) one fantastic part of World Team ‘06 & I thank everyone involved in the whole incredible adventure.

Grant and Julie Nichol

For Grant and I, this was our 5th World Team, and once again it was an unforgettable experience. Catching up with old friends, making new, and combining the talents of skydivers from 30 different countries. All considered, it was pretty amazing that we made the World Record in so few jumps. The opportunity to jump out of 5 x C130 Hercules in formation could well have been a “once in a lifetime experience”. It was made possible by the Royal Thai Airforce, who allowed us to take skydiving to another level.

Jon McWilliam, Dave Loncasty, Sas DiSciascio, Geoffro Abrahams and Terry Murphy also represented Australia at World Team 2006 but have seemingly lost the ability to write.
Sidebar:

“Comfort Eagle” (Cake)

Lyrics

“She says, do you believe
In the one true edge
By fastening your safety belts
And stepping towards the ledge…

“We are building a religion
We are building it bigger
We are widening the corridors
And adding more lanes…

“We are building a religion
A limited edition…

Sidebar: the ’00 jumps

The first 100 way 1986

The 200 way 1992

300 took some getting; 2003

In 2006, 552 skydivers, officials and support staff combined to build a 400way

49 people have been on five World Teams; a small handful have been on the 100, 200, 300 and 400 way records.

Sidebar: Statistically speaking

441 skydiver registered

15 camera fliers

3 documentary team

21 support staff

71 accompanying persons

76 females

9,310 years in the sport

20 years in sport average (44 max, 3 least)

2,222,850 jumps between us

4,800 jump average