Luke Oliver

Low mileage Diablo I think. Not one, but two half-naked schoolgirls in the co-pilot seat. Sucks to be him, I guess.

Our finest moment. Other than that gold medal.

It’s the Australian National Championships in four-way skydiving - and “Who’s Ya Daddy” are there. The most experienced person in the team is Paul, and he flies camera; other competitors are well used to us asking for advice about how things are done. We asked about this jump; the advice was “just dive it out”. This is apparently not how it’s done, but it was fun anyway.

’tis better to have loved and lost…

 

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“)

Two mates through parallel circumstance, we measured our life by the minute; from four kilometers over the earth, smoothly sliding from the side of a perfectly good airplane into the open air, cameras rolling and capturing the exultation of our friends. Sixty seconds later, the cacophony of freefall became the serenity of parachute flight, and with attempted poise and grace we would carve a brilliant scythe through the air to the ground; pack, emplane, repeat. Always one precious minute; years of practice, thousands of repetitions.

Times change, and my passion took me interstate to new adventures. But we looked for opportunities to savour our interests together, once sharing accommodation as we competed against each other and our compatriots. This competition over, and with time on our hands, we shared a leisurely drive to the airport.

Noting a shakiness in his voice and mindful of his diabetes, we agreed to stop for some cheap carbohydrates and soft drink. A minute later, I’d paid for the soft drink and returned – but he had involuntarily abandoned the search for his Insulin, and was writhing by the car in a full-blown “hypo” – a diabetic seizure. Heart pounding, I did the best my first aid allowed; eventually, the hastily summonsed paramedics releasing us to go about our business.

Time still on our side, we pulled up early in the departures lane at the airport, grabbed his luggage and we shared a few moments together on the pavement. Suddenly, a security guard emerged from the shadows of the lonely terminal and demanded we move on – quoting a new “three minute” security rule. We simultaneously looked to one end of the vacant car park; then the other, even breaking into laughter as one. But seldom troublemakers, we hugged, and separated.

Weeks later, he was gone. His cranky pancreas failed him for the last time, and he died alone from the malaise which brought such fright to our last trip together.

For an age afterwards, I cursed in anguish at our last stop together being abbreviated by the seemingly senseless enforcement of security policy. But time has assuaged my grief, and those memories now span our lives together, not the crudely shortened moment by the departure terminal together.

And in that world where we chose to risk our lives one minute at a time, I know now that our last meeting spanned three lifetimes.

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

Many folks have been keeping their eyes on digital photography with a view to skydiving for some time. Historically, Digital Cameras have suffered from four problems – the relatively low resolution available, an inability to fire the shutter remotely, latency in processing the image and getting it to a memory card – and, of course, lenses.

At the APF conference in Cairns, I outlined a goal for digital photography in a skydiving situation. Six to twelve megapixel resolution, a remote release, able to burst several shots in a short timeframe and a choice of lenses – or at least one wide one! We are much closer to these ambitions now – although several other considerations, such as cost and weight, moved into the spotlight. Several manufacturers, including Canon, Nikon, Olympus and Minolta have all shipped cameras that meet the grade.

I bit the bullet and purchased a Canon 300D – a “sweet spot” in the marketplace for just this job.

Megapixels

The Canon 300D has a six megapixel (6MP) resolution. Describing megapixels is like comparing apples with bedheads – each manufacturer has a different way of puffing up the number to suit their marketing. In this instance, the 300D has some 6.5 million pixels, of which maybe 6.3 are used in producing a high resolution photo.

Sounds good. However, even ordinary 35mm has a greater resolution. Measuring images in terms of the number of horizontal lines that can be resolved, simple negative film offers about half as many lines again – and nearly four times the information that the 6MP shot contains. Slide film (colour positive) is higher again.

There are a multitude of other factors involved – the sharpening algorithms within the camera, recording into JPEG format loses quality immediately and so on – so good rule of thumb is that this 6MP product will shoot images that compare favourably with 35mm negative reprints at about 4×5 (100mm x 125mm). Want really high quality? Matching quality with a large-film camera (4×5) will require 210 (yes, two hundred and ten) megapixels. Depending on the manufacturer’s discussion of megapixels, somewhere in the 12 to 20MP range lies the camera which will outrun traditional 35mm film.

At the other end of the scale, compare the technique of lifting stills from MiniDV. Worth noting that the cameras which claim “megapixel stills” may well do that – but they don’t do so when recording to video. Performing the mathematics – capture size, video interlacing and so on – a digital video grab has about 0.6MP, and horrid colour saturation. It’s just not in the hunt.

Canon EOS300D Digital Still

Image lifted from MiniDV

Canon EOS300D Digital Still, detail

Image lifted from MiniDV, detail

Getting shots off in a hurry

Firing a traditional 35mm camera is easy. Exit and lean on the switch – it’ll keep rolling until you’re out of film. Digital is different – at some stage, it has to commit the image electronically – and this takes time. This latency is our major bugbear.

Although the 300D can fire 2.5 shots per second, it can’t maintain the rate. Nonetheless, it does much better than compact digital cameras by employing a “buffer” – a small cache of very high speed memory which holds around four shots. Once this buffer is full, there’s an enforced delay whilst it writes it to the memory card. The trick to getting lots of shots? Don’t fill the buffer!

Having a high speed memory card is the other part of the puzzle. Size is not everything; speed is. I purchased a SanDisk UltraII card, which my research indicated to be the fastest available – although leadership here is a moving target. 256MB will hold around 70 shots.

In terms of quality, the highest quality possible is called “RAW”. It’s uncompressed, and there’s an incredibly sexy piece of software (Adobe Photoshop RAW) for manipulating it. It’s also slow, largely because of the image size. It’s only suitable for Skydiving if you know you’re doing shot selection – RAW is completely unsuited to “spray and pray” burst photography.

So, most of us will use a high-speed Compact Flash card (“CF Card”) and the highest resolution JPEG quality in freefall – and once you understand the “take four shots and wait” rule, you can do very nicely. 33 shots in a seventy second freefall is my personal best.

Lenses

Good news: the 300D uses “All* Canon EF lenses”. If you have an investment in existing Canon lenses, you should be in good shape – match the red dots on the lens and body, and away you go. The asterisk, of course, indicates not all – there are numerous issues with non-Canon EF lenses, such as those made by Sigma, so don’t assume your collection will be immediately compatible.

The Canon EOS 300D is also marketed in a package form, including an 18-55 lens. This is the first of a new generation of digital-friendly lenses – branded as “EF-S”, I kid you not – and indicated by the presence of a white square as well as the red dot. General feel of the quality of this lens is not high, and it was in fact described to me as “a $25 lens” by a photographic professional.

Bad news: these lenses won’t give you the same shot that an 18mm lens will on a traditional SLR…

Because of the smaller size of the sensor (analogous to the film in a traditional camera), lenses need to put the information in a smaller package. This results in a specification called the “Focus multiplier”, and it will remain until someone builds a sensor comparable in size to 35mm film. Canon are in the same boat as most manufacturers here.

Equivalent lens sizes

Digital lens Traditional lens

16mm 26mm
18mm 29mm
22mm 35mm
24mm 38mm
28mm 45mm

To get the equivalent of a 17mm traditional lens for a Digital SLR, you’d need a 10mm lense. The Canon EF-S 10-22mm ships later this year, budget an extra $1,000 or so – because I think we’re all going to want one.

Image Captured using EOS300D

Image taken from MiniDV video, Sony PC101, 0.3x Diamond Lens

Getting ready to Skydive

Mounting

If you’re already using a Canon EOS for stills, it’s a straight swap – and you already know how to use most of the SLR features. You’ll sigh in relief when you see the rechargeable battery pack - although it contributes to the digital being some 50% heavier than the traditional EOS300. Nervous about your investment? An additional bungee might help.

The Electronic Shutter release

Unlike most other digital manufacturers – and indeed other pro models in the Canon range - the 300D utilises the standard 2.5mm stereo jack popular in the EOS range. Your existing stereo switch should work - Full marks to Canon.

Focus

Most digital cameras have a two-step switch – get focus, take shot. Given that our bite or tongue switch only takes the shot, locking off a manual focus with a rubber band or the ubiquitous gaffer tape does the job.

Away you go. It really is that simple.

Workflow

At the end of your skydive, you have a series of digital photos. You can’t simply give the customer your memory card as you would give them a can of film - What to do next?

Your options include:

1) Budget time for reading the images into a computer and writing a CD-ROM.

2) Put them into a computer and manipulate them using Adobe Photoshop or similar. Print them on your own inkjet printer, using the expensive paper.

3) Take the memory card to a Fuji Image Plaza or similar, where they have a self-serve machine for selecting shots and printing them on their half-million-dollar imaging printer.

4) Use an online service to image your photos and have them returned by post.

There are opportunities for retaining some more of the customer spend here. Images can be previewed on a TV or computer screen, and then printed in-house or shipped out to a processing house. If the customer elects to purchase just video not stills, it may be an opportunity to capture the stills sale after the fact. Some online services allow you to post photos against your account and a customer-specific PIN, so they can log on and make purchases later.

Want more? look at the EOS10D – higher price, weighs as much as three traditional camera bodies, but a nine shot burst. Still hungry? The EOS20D has 8.5MP, five frames per second, and a 23 shot burst. It’s heavier again. And costs more, of course. And don’t forget to check out the Nikon D70 – similar features, but similar limitations and an infra-red remote instead of a simple switch.

All that said: results indicate the 300D is good enough.

If you’re jumping for fun or with other skydivers, digital photography may now be for you – but if your camera flying is mainly Tandem video, you’ll need to come up with a workflow as simple for you as changing a can of film. The camera itself is fast, simple, and instant gratification. And yes, it will be obsolete by next year. So what!

Disclaimer: This article is published in the interests of education, and does not constitute a recommendation. Buyers should perform their own research before making a purchasing decision.

I do. I’ve always believed that freefallers and canopy pilots should be afforded the same treatment as rock stars and Formula One drivers. 100 extremely fortunate people had the opportunity to live like one, for one precious week, in Bali, August 2004 – as with a frenzy of last-minute activity, jumpers from 17 countries converged on Bali for “100 Ways over Bali” (locally, “Seratus Citra Bangsa”).

It’s been thirteen years since the last Bali Boogie – which one Edy Christiono regarded as far too long. Edy – with nearly 3,000 jumps, thirty years in the sport, and a member of the current Indonesian FS record – set to the task. With Bali’s tourism industry in the doldrums, it was his dream to make a spectacle no-one would ever forget – a one hundred person skydiving formation, unheard of in the Asia/South Pacific region, and set in Bali itself - revitalising the Boogie along the way.

His work breaking ground with the government, airlines and local business was continuing when a tragic plane crash claimed the lives of all six people on board – pilot Johann, and five jumpers - including Edy. A man of boundless energy and enthusiasm, Edy left behind his students, competitors and club members in addition to Nina and two children. To his compatriots in Bali, the Hundred Way suddenly became the impossible dream.

Businesses rallied, Jibut and the rest of the organising committee stepped into the breach, BJ Worth paid a flying visit to garner commitment, details were thrashed out and incentives provided. It is to their credit that the evening before the official start, the front bar of the Bali Hilton was stacked with Skydivers. The numbers, and the talent, was there to make the 100 way a success – but by no means a certainty. The success of the event now depended on us.

Culture shock

This was not ordinary skydiving. Ordinary skydiving is not out of a military Hercules C-130 transport. It does not include oxygen for exits over 20,000 feet. It does not include a hundred and sixty officials lining the airport boundary. And it certainly does not include shutting down an international airport so skydivers can land safely on it. And my version of skydiving does not include a 5:30am wakeup call. Despite these departures from standard practice, we had a go.

After safety briefings and dropzone inspection, we split into 30ish way groups to familiarise ourselves with the aircraft, drill our exits, and practice our docks. Gearing up, we took to the “Herc” for the first time…

The battery cart to start the Hercules is the size of a 4WD. The Auxiliary Power Unit has more power than most dropzone aircraft. And with all four engines running as we emplane, the heat and noise is overwhelming – the event would not have made it to the end of the taxiway without the onboard airconditioning. Over 100 skydivers emplane, take their seats on the uncomfortable steel floor, lower tailgate raises into position – and the upper portion of the tailgate slowly cranks into place, closing with a Thunderbirds-like “clang”.

It’s not hard to liken the Hercules to a Submarine. A small handful of portholes offer very limited vision to a select few able to rise and inspect. In terms of driving the Herc, it can’t be hard – with only three settings (“OFF”, “TAXI” and “FLY”) it seems that actual flight is engaged with the aid of the trim lever alone. Only movement on the altimeter provides actual evidence of flight. There’s certainly no accounting for seven crew on the upstairs flight deck, seemingly all doing something. Flying well within its limitations, a steady 1500fpm climb tops out at height, and the tailgate reopens, like the dawn of the new day.
Designation Shorts CS-7 “Skyvan” General C-130E “Hercules”
Crew 2 5 to 9
Passengers 22 92+
Engine: 2 x Garrett TPE331-2-201A 4 x Allison T56-A-T5
Engine Type: Turboprop Turboprop
Engine Thrust: 535 3,200 kw
Thrust, total 1,070 12,800 kw
Weight, empty 3,355 36,363 kg
Weight, Max 6,577 70,500 kg
Cruise Speed (Max) 324 600 kmh
Length 12 30 m
Height 5 12 m
Wing Span 20 40 m
Climb rate, initial 1,530 1,900 fpm
Range, max 1,075 8,320 km

The views from the plane were stupendous. A massive dormant volcano provided a flight hazard at seemingly any height – and an active volcano provided a spectacular backdrop to jumprun. The cloud formations, an international airport directly below us, and up to twenty five rows of skydivers sprinting four abreast from the belly of the beast… Skydiving doesn’t get much better than this.

A couple of big thirty-odd ways later, it was time for our first presentation to the public. Before takeoff, we were advised we’d be landing at a massive park in the city – impossible to miss, a large, grassed area with a huge spire in the middle. Sounded like fun! After sneaking a look at around 9000’, I changed my mind. Distinguishing between parks, rice paddies and proposed landing areas suddenly took on a higher difficulty factor. Not much we could do now, however – and although the Herc was visually spotted, no-one could complain about the spot all week. Odds on that the park would be large, obvious, and downwind once open.

What I hadn’t counted on was a large black bird, directly in my flight path away from the formation. And at 1800’! And massive! As I got closer, I could see it was nearly 3m across, and hovering there. A little bit closer, and Paul Osborne and myself could see it more clearly. And the string, tethering it to the ground. They love their kites, the Balinese. The bigger and higher the better.

It would be nice to say the demo was without incident, but these were not ordinary skydives. Several people clipped the trees at the edge of the arena having set up too deep for what was, in fact, a massive arena. A Russian Lady was hung a tree briefly before falling nearly 3m onto a collection of motor scooters, a fall drawing massive “ahhs” from the crowd and requiring hospitalisation. And the Indonesian Flag Jumper had a bad day, his flag on display but upside down.

Time for our first official engagement: presented at the Governor’s mansion to a range of officials. One of the most lavish dinner spreads I’ve seen was on offer, as well as a taste of exotic Balinese dancing. In one of the most bizarre cultural clashes I’ve ever seen, some hundred-plus skydivers were treated to a spectacular meal – and not a beer in sight. This would clearly have helped as the head of the Indonesian Air Force took to the stage and belted a few tunes in a manner which brought a tear to Dave McEvoy’s eye.

Standing in the food selection arena, I was approached by a gentleman whom I did not recognise – but his dress indicated that he sat at the head table, and was possibly one of the public speakers. Friendly, he offered excellent English descriptions of the meals on offer, and then:

Him: “Where are you from?”
Me: “Byron Bay, in Australia”
Him: “Oh. I’m Sorry.”

For a moment, I was taken aback. What sort of humour is this? Then I realised. He WAS sorry. For the infamous bombing, and the Australian fatalities that occurred there. And he was secure enough to freely apologise, on behalf of his country, in a simple fashion, for the sins of a crime he did not commit.

Aussie ingenuity solved the “dry” evening back at the Hilton – and shaking off a massive hangover, we fired up the next morning. Another day of sector jumps, refining our skydiving, and trialling Dr Ben Massey’s Oxygen system. The hard floor of the plane was the equivalent of an epidural block on every load, and if you bump into Randy please buy him a beer - noting my discomfort, he hook-knifed his stealthily acquired cushion in half and donated it to my tender backside, thus earning a permanent space in my list of all-time skydiving greats. A good day, but conditions required that we brought the last load down. I don’t like landing in aircraft at the best of times – but when your altimeter has read 19,000’ at one stage and the dirt dive is a 102 way, it’s a little harder to take.

One of my Sydney friends books a wakeup call – and, as insurance, sets the alarm on his phone and gets an early night. Body clock akimbo, he rises to his phone alarm, showers, grabs his gear and heads to the lobby. It’s still dark when arrives – although probably not in Sydney, where his phone is set! He headed back to his room with two hours to kill – and started by cancelling his wakeup call…

By now, the locals had integrated their revenue opportunities into our security area. A food stall appeared, a range of skydiving t-shirts and accessories, and Bintang – precious Bintang – was suddenly on ice ready for the last load. Most of the locals knew little English – but by now, they had learned to wish us “Blue skies” and “safe landings”. It was also time to assemble a serious attempt at a big way.

A good dirt dive, and good exit rehearsal. The vibe was good – and at just over 20,000’ we pumped out another 130knot exit. Making good time to my sector, I had astounding visuals of the base dipping and turning – and so many others turning with it, in a whirlpool of red and blue. BJ later described this as “the biggest big way zoo” he’d ever seen – although, thankfully, he withheld that description until later in the week, and instead asked us to expunge the dive from our minds. It was not without some trepidation we took to the air again – this time, a 99 way, the symbolism of Edy’s dream coming true without him

It was about this time we realised just how important the 100 Way was to the Indonesian people. Not 99, not 101 – they were all hoping for a 100 way to fulfil the dream. And the beginnings of performance pressure were there – there was time up our sleeve, but so many skydiving dreams have been foiled by weather, aircraft or beer. And we knew it was difficult – no-one could recall a 100 way being built from a single aircraft.

Another attempt then. This form of skydiving is not about heroics: it’s about 100 people being 100% for one minute. On this occasion, we were not; and I had the rare experience of flying unattached in my slot, matching fall rate and hover control for over 10,000’ of freefall. I’m ready for the wind tunnel; and the team are building to 76… 78… closer.

With weather frustrating our efforts, we were fortunate enough to have the last load “off” and split into large groups for a “conventional” 14000’ exit. The dropzone once again: Kuta Beach. High tide, complex rotors aided by an offshore breeze, and thousands of spectators complicated the landing, but we all made it home – except for the flag jumper, who landed in the water despite chopping his flag. The poor folks retailing at the airport were left with warming Bintang – and the retailers at the beach cleaned up. We did not; a blue light escort led our busses through traffic to our next formal dinner.

Dinner tonight was at the Hilton itself – the ballroom was thrown open for us, the marriage of cocktail dresses and Tevas was complete, and another spectacular dancing display. Breaking into country groups for an impromptu stage presentation, Jason Cooke (XLR8, Force) led a rousing rendition of “Waltzing Matilda” which did Australia proud. Deciding to get an early night, I completely missed the “sleep in” call.

There were four people at breakfast at the regular hour next morning, including BJ Worth, who graciously and freely spoke at length. With a couple of hours up his sleeve, BJ then disappeared to pursue his new passion: armed with 3CCD camera and long lens, he stalked the confines of the Hilton pursuing the wildlife. BJ Worth: Extreme Bird Watcher!

Refreshed and confident, we dirt dived a 99 way in good spirits. And built it, if only momentarily. Now, for a hundred way attempt. Diving the plan, we exiting the Herc, built it, and held it for fourteen seconds. A testament to everyone’s work was that no-one could confirm it was complete until the video review; usually, someone will break visuals and scan to sense completion – but no-one seemed to know for sure. The video told the story; the photos suddenly match the raft of promotional t-shirts and clothing, the windblades showing the formation plan are now accurate. Three TV networks and countless reporters grabbed their scooters and raced back to their offices, with the tidbit that only four countries had previously hosted a 100 way or better.

Accomplishment, relief, satisfaction; I’ll add cockiness to that. We could have done anything. Talk of three points, three figures began to circulate. The military began preparations for their presentations; A full Bird Colonel was evidenced making preparations for the arrival of the Generals. Rumours of champagne. Certainly no time for a beach demo tonight – but time for one victory jump back onto the airport. I don’t need to phone a friend - Herc jumps don’t come along every day!

Twenty odd white sector and red sector players dirt dive a giant zipper, offering Hazel Black (Hong Kong) the opportunity to unzip it (not my idea, I assure you). Setting up in a two way base next to me, Theo Mendagi – a mustachioed Indonesian skydiver since the seventies with a tragic family history. In 1986, three of his brothers – skydivers Robby, Alfred and Chris – were amongst eleven killed when a jump plane crashed. Theo continued jumping, against the advice of his two remaining brothers, and with his skydiving wife sired two more jumpers in daughter Pingkan and son Petre, Petre performing freefall video during the week.

Ready, set, go, and we’re back into that 130 knot rush. I dock on Theo’s leg, we build the zipper easily, and Hazel unzips it in style. The next segment of the zipper flies through the line, and the next, and the next… and before we know it, it’s breakoff time. I release the grip, have a good track towards the beach in a gorgeous sunset, I deploy safely, and ten seconds later, the sweet scent of champagne turned to ashes in our mouths.

I recall scanning for canopies, and spotting a malfunction further upfield – my roommate Sas, as it turned out, being repaid for the praise he heaped upon his main the previous night without touching wood. I saw the blue flashing lights underneath me as I headed back over the runway, thinking that if that’s the response to a malfunction I should chop this and get a lift back. But they weren’t investigating a simple malfunction. The headcount showed our missing man, confirmed our fears, and no amount of waving away would deter the TV cameras.

Despite the Indonesian’s best efforts, dinner was flat. And there would be no jumping the next day.

Things moved quickly. Next morning, Theo’s memorial service was a well-attended affair – not least by the media – and the grief of his family and friends was evident. Pallbearers slowly walked his coffin to the emplaning area where the Air Force provided a guard of honour; and then, to the interior of a waiting Hercules, where Theo and his family were flown to his home island for the burial.

The newly formed Cookie’s Surfing Tours opened for business around 10, which gave us just enough time to convince the Hard Rock Hotel to open the bar briefly. A fabulous afternoon of swimming, massage and surfing followed – it was great to catch up with so many old friends and make some new ones.

A sensational dinner – now, we are being served complimentary Bintang with dinner! But too much Bintang is barely enough, so we cajole the bus driver into stopping at convenience stores for more. A 50/50 choice: I head for the right hand store, and do well; the Russian crew, never keen to heed advice, take their rupiah to the store on the left. A Muslim store. No alcohol. Well, “Bintang Zero”, which I’ve never tried and am unlikely to. They work it out eventually.

At the request of the Indonesian Aerosport Federation (FASI), we recommenced jumping. The challenge was accepted and won, and the Indonesian community were indeed proud and thankful. Theo’s family provided a wish that we would remember him always, but move onwards and upwards, taking solace in Theo’s own prophetic words – “jumping is something I love, and dying jumping is not a tragedy”. There was clearly no point leaving the Hercules idle.

The Indonesian jumpers withdrew from the big ways, joining the local boogie jumpers and seeking to set a new Indonesian formation record in Theo’s memory. Ears, shoulders, and Bali Belly robbed us of some of our participants, leaving us with numbers in the 80s – sequential big ways, anyone?

These dives were a lot of fun. A little less pressure, a high degree of confidence, and the promise of some special pictures engaged us all. It led to some humour, too – building 17 way lines from the base, we were intrigued by our Russian base anchor’s angry assertions that his next in line was placing too much tension on him. How he could tell that the other 16 of us were doing a perfect job we couldn’t work out!

Sixteen of us shed jumpsuits and donned our favourite shorts and shirts for a beach jump. I would have gone with a lot less, but considerations for local customs and values took precedence; I treated the jump as a “Dressed rehearsal”.

You would travel to Bali for this jump alone. The pilots once again found some extra height, a tailgate exit – and I joined a not-so-exclusive crew of people who screwed the exit count during the week Despite the lack of jumpsuits we styled; third point a magnificent round right over the beach, high and handsome, followed by an extreme swoop onto the sand and Bintang.

The First Lady of Lombok had also put in a request, and we ferried the Herc to that beautiful island. With the plan slightly confused, we wound up

(1) Landing at Lombok
(2) Immediately taking off from Lombok
(3) Dirt dive in the plane
(4) Exit, achieve dirt dived goals
(5) Pack
(6) Presentation to dignitaries, gifts, lunch
(7) Return to Bali
(8) Land in plane
(9) Take off
(10) Next jump…

It was weird; but it didn’t matter.

Dinner at the Hard Rock Hotel - Bintang, night clubbing and a fabulous series of parties back at the hotel.

The camp finished with a three-point 82 way, and one last jump onto the beach. Last out, last pass, high fives from the flight crew on the way out, and diving to the formation. Didn’t get there; we broke off high. Mick Hardy is taking pictures, Ebone is leading a three way gaggle out to sea, and I’m trying to put some pants on before we land.

The last night was at the Kartika plaza. A spectacular Balinese dance and pantomime, all you could eat, and the last formal outing as a group. The Chief of Police spoke warmly and bluntly – Bali is peaceful, multicultural and a great tourist destination – and they kicked the butts of all the bombers inside twelve months.

To close out the night, the windblades were auctioned – many of which are headed for Australian dropzones – and raised enough cash to fund the purchase of two AADs for the Mendagi siblings.

It would be understating the cause to call the event professional. The Indonesian Olympic Committee, the local Harley Davidson Owners Association, The Hard Rock Hotel, The Hilton Hotel, The Police (FKKPI)… the effort that went into the event was incredible.

We came looking for a slice of paradise; the people of Bali fed us the whole cake.

Thank you: BJ and Bobbie Worth, Grant and Julie Nichol, Daniel Lee, Craig Trimble, Cheryl Robertson

The author, with one million rupiah:

It took a nasty cancer two tries to get him.
A really, really nice guy.