Luke Oliver

At Nagambie DZ this morning, Pete “Gags” Gagliardi impacted the ground in a turn, and did not survive the impact.

Gags was a mature age jumper, who found skydiving after a highly successful representation in competitive martial arts. With some 1300 jumps in under two years, he completed six jumps yesterday in addition to his freefall video work in the Open competition at the recent Australian Nationals. He bought his family to the sport as well, and quickly carved a niche for himself; his professionalism and methodical nature touched everything he did, whether it be cooking bacon and eggs, welding frameworks at the DZ, or instructing students.

Behind a seemingly gruff exterior, Gags hid an inquisitive mind and a highly developed sense of right and wrong - scratch the surface, and you would quickly discover a heart of gold. A participant in virtually anything, he would quickly rise to the challenge if competition arose - and usually excel.

Gags is survived by wife Sherene (100 jumps), and sons Clinton (D license) and Nigel (A licence).

There will be no more breakfast barbecues lit because he could see the hangover in your eyes.
No more pom-pom dances at the foosball table.
No more wide-ass smiles in freefall.

Vale, Pete Gagliardi.

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

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

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

It was a beautiful thing to film.

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

’tis better to have loved and lost…

(Statute of limitations has well expired on this one. Photography performed in controlled circumstances. Just one gear to go…)

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

Regulation

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

Emplaning

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

Thinking about Gear

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

Special Considerations

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

“Door!”

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

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

Understood?

Go!

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

Flying your body

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

The business end of the jump

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

Under canopy

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

Landing

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

Gearing down

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

Your nude jump…

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

That’s the right colour, too.

Shown here with the lovely Emily.

- 22 Oct 2001

The Landshark. V8 rear wheel drive. Still lustful after all these years.

In which I discover a susceptibility to bee stings and get a chance to manage it.

It’s Friday, June 1, 2001. I was driving to Bendigo to visit on business. I’d already stopped once to get a coffee on the outskirts of the city, which did its legendary thing and demanded a trip to a “comfort station” about 20kms from Bendigo proper.

Having availed myself of the facilities, I walked back to the car, noticing an untied shoelace on the way. I leant on the door sill to tie up the shoelace, and straightened up. An excited buzzing noise greeted the movement, and I froze - feeling movement on the back of my neck.

I did nothing - yet the buzzing intensified. Then came the sting. That pissed me off, because last time I was stung (when I was about 10) my foot swelled a little - getting hit in the neck might give me some grief Saturday. I watched the bee circle away to the ground - probably equally pissed off, and doomed having left its barbed sting in my neck. Annoyed, I figured I’d get some ice on it in Bendigo.

I started the car, drove off, and checked the time; habit. It was 11:36AM. I drove about sixty seconds further down the road to the edge of town when I realised there was a really nasty taste in my mouth - a dryness and a sour tone - and my tongue felt BIG. My toes were tingling, so were my fingers, and as I took my left hand off the wheel to flex it I saw some red splotches on it.

I did a first aid course eighteen months ago. I figured it was time for some first aid.

I turned the car around. I drove back into the heart of Axedale - which is not a big town at all. Didn’t spot a doctor, but my breathing was now getting difficult - I did another U-turn, and drove to the police station.

11:38AM.

Exited the car; phone, keys. Went to the door, knocked, no answer.

Knocked again, no answer.

I felt the onset of panic; the taste was no better, my breath was getting shorter, and I really wasn’t feeling well; the body intrinsically knows when it is threatened, and it had run a large flag up the flagpole with “Threat” written on it. Whatever the bee sting had done, it had also pushed my body’s button for “Asthma”, and years of practice have taught me that panic doesn’t help asthma. Remaining calm is paramount.

Calmly, then, I rang the number for the police listed on the sign in front of me. I can still read the number - this is a good sign, tiredness or intoxication sometimes affect things a little.

The phone has no network signal, and beeps away cheerily.

With some dread, and knowing the result, I dial “000″. Same result.

I could hear myself struggling to breathe, and was nearly overcome by the desire to take my shoes off and scratch my seemingly swollen feet. Some of my calm deserted me. Whatever it is in my system, it was FAST and it was EFFECTIVE.

Perhaps stupidly, I forget the car phone kit, usually good for extra range - and indeed, the silent phone I keep in my briefcase which operates on a far better network for country travel.

However, next to the “threat” flag is now another one labelled “urgent”; and someone was rapidly unfurling the one labelled “panic now”.

11:39AM.

There are no humans to be seen anywhere. But back towards the public toilets is a hall, perhaps a kindergarten, where I thought I heard kiddie’s voices earlier.

Pretending to be calm, I walk slowly and in some haste the 50m across the park to the hall; feeling a little like the walk home from the Adelaide Oval hill after a full day of cheer.

Knock, no answer.
Rattle the doors, no answer.

The pins and needles have spread to my face; my cheeks and tongue feel numb. I am no longer calm, or in control; I desperately crave the company of another human being, preferably one with some first-aid knowledge.

The takeaway is only 40m away, across the road. There will definitely be someone there. I stumble to the road, and pause, leaning on a post that is ill-suited to the purpose but very convenient.

Look left.
Look right.
Look left again.

There’s nothing coming, which is almost sad; waving down a car might save me a few metres of stumbling.

I set off, straight across the road. Halfway, good…

About three quarters of the way across the road, my legs stopped working properly. I told them to walk forward, but they would not.
Could not.
Did not.
They were busy doing their own thing, in a rubbery sort of fashion.

With sinking recognition, I realised that this failing coincided with my ability to keep my eyes open, and think.

Having never doubted I would get help - having decided to do so - all I felt was sorrow.

What a dumbass way to die.

…

Someone is patting my cheek. “You OK mate? You OK?” I hear.

Man, what a stupid question.

I can’t breathe, I’m too tired to open my eyes, I’m sweating by the gallon, and lying in the middle of a country road in an expensive and now ruined suit.

But I am aware again. And I am breathing, although every intake is an exercise in discipline and effort. Asthma was never this bad.

Some good Samaritans moved me to the side of the road and called an ambulance. Someone knew the coma position, and placed me in it; this was bad, because it made breathing more difficult, but good, because seemingly they knew what they were doing. I went with it. I could hear, but it was too hard to do things like communicate.

The ten minutes that the ambulance took to drive the 21kms from Bendigo was an eternity, and I guess I kept drifting in and out of consciousness; it’s not clear at all. Someone did offer a Ventolin puffer; I assume I asked for it. I had a go at it, but it didn’t help. Someone took my car key from my hand, also; I didn’t want to let them have it, but I wasn’t in any shape to argue.

Never has an ambulance siren sounded so sweet.

The paramedics arrived, gave me a fat hypodermic filled with adrenaline and an oxygen mask. They waited for things to settle down a little; and from the needle, I had the feeling that things would improve. Eventually, they drove me to hospital. I think I threw up, unprompted, in the ambulance, in some sort of bizarre gratitude for services rendered.

The afternoon is a haze of hypodermics (which I hate), electronic monitors, oxygen and sleep. They shaved bits of my chest to attach electrodes, and left a cuff attached to manage my low blood pressure. Imagine my joy when they woke me up to ask when I last had a tetanus shot - and then gave me a booster for the scrapes and abrasions I collected when I fell.

Once, on awakening, it took me a few seconds to work out where I was; two friends swam into focus, smiling and caring. It was a rich feeling indeed. I vaguely remember my first appointment came to visit, too; business ain’t all business some days.

An overnight stay was probable, but in the evening, I was released into the care of a doctor friend (also a skydiver) who works in the Bendigo hospital. I slept about ten hours that night, eleven the next, and remained groggy for the next few days.

I now have to carry a single-shot Adrenaline syringe (EpiPen) around with me, and will live in terror of bees for the rest of my life. The reaction should I get stung again will probably be even quicker. It has a evil partner in my occasional asthma, and the reaction itself (”Anaphylactic Shock”) kills within the hour.

I’m a bit grateful to the people of Axedale, and I’m a lucky boy. It’s a bizarre world we live in.

- 29 Apr 2001

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

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