HOME

No More Monkeys Jumpin’ from the Plane

Gary Hill

   We’re in the plane, flying at fifteen hundred feet, and I was nervous as a dog on the fourth of July, sinking as far into my seat as possible, trying to disappear.  The Cessna roared through the heavens, then became quiet as it slowed and my instructor slapped me on the shoulder which was the universal signal that told me it was my turn to get ready to jump.  I shrunk back into nothing.

Three hours earlier, Jeff Farley, a Saluki friend from Southern Illinois University, called me and asked if I would like to make a parachute jump with him during Spring Break.  He said he’d been jumping outa airplanes for about six weeks, and I told him I wasn’t thinking about jumping anywhere, but he started in on me, clucking like somebody’s plastic chicken, and I was young and pretty dumb.  I told him, “Okay, you black lipped Dogboy, I’ll do it if you do it.”

So he picked me up in his rattletrap of a car half an hour later and we were on our way.  We drove south of East St. Louis near the City of Columbia, right next to the bacterial loaded but still sunlight golden, Mississippi River; the only river, according to Mark Twain, that you “could sink your teeth into.”

It was a crisp, early spring morning, no frost, just enough warmth to make you wanna hit a baseball.  I figured we were going jump from an airplane, and I expected an airfield, maybe the one at Parks Air College, so I was surprised when Jeff pulled off the highway into an open area on a farm. The area, surrounded by green cornfields, had a little airstrip cut between the rows of corn, one plane, and maybe fifteen people doing some low morning talking while they drank their Pepsi or coffee.  The people gathered in little groups; some were folding up their safety chutes, others were just looky-loos, kibitzers with nothing better to do.

Jeff introduced me to his instructor.  I’ve forgotten the guy’s name, Putz something, wasn’t important anyway.  He was short and kinda looked like a poor man’s Leonardo Dicaprio, with a strange looking pencil mustache.  The instructor looked at me.  I guess he wanted to see if I had all my fingers and toes.  He asked me, “Are you the guy with the seriously bad heart?”

I smiled a little and answered, “No, my heart’s fine.”

That was my physical examination.  The mental examination was more involved.  He asked, “Why do you want to do this?”

I had to think about that.  I couldn’t tell him I was doing it because my friend Jeff dared me, so I told him, “I guess I’m just stupid.”

“Well,” he said, “we all have a right to be stupid, once.  But seriously?”

I said, “It seems like fun.”

So I passed my mental test.  The next thing on the agenda was training.  We walked out to the side of an old falling apart, sun-bleached barn that hadn’t seen paint or any repair in thirty years or so.  There was a shaky little footstool next to a woodbin that was near five feet high.  That was the training equipment.  The instructor told me to climb up on top of the woodbin and wait for further instructions.  So I did. 

I was standing on top of the woodbin next to the barn with my hands on my hips, trying to look like Yul Brynner in the King and I.  He then told me, “You’re gonna jump now.”

So I did.  “No,” he yelled as I hit the ground.  “You did that too quickly.  Seriously man, get back up there.”

So I did.  I was on the woodbin, hands on hips, looking around, ready to jump.  I couldn’t figure out what I did wrong.  He said jump and I jumped.  What was wrong with that?  He then told me, as I stood on the woodbin looking down on him as if he were insignificant, “When you jump, land with your knees bent, and go immediately into a shoulder roll.  Now, do you know what a shoulder roll is?”

“Of course,” I answered.  “We learned that in grade school.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” 

“Okay,” he said, “do it.”

“Do what,” I asked?

“Jump,” he said, “land with your knees bent, and go into a shoulder roll.”

“Right now?”

“Yes,” he yelled – kinda unpleasant.

I jumped, landed okay, and rolled over, did it right, came up into a standing position, and got up pretty proud of myself.  That was my training, and I passed – barely.  If I was getting a grade, it would probably be a ‘C+’ or maybe a ‘B’.  But he obviously graded on the curve because he told me that I was ‘A’ material and ready, just as soon as I paid my skyjumping fee, which included the thorough medical exam and the extensive training.  God was good.

The next step was the fitting of the parachutes.  First, he put the main parachute on my back, putting the straps under my legs.  It was kinda like a backpack loaded with 12^th Grade books – heavy but manageable.  Then he strapped the safety chute on me.  It was like a fanny pack strapped around my waist.  He said, “If your main chute doesn’t open, pull this open and pull out the safety chute, seriously man.”

Once all three of us were strapped and wrapped with parachutes, my friend Jeff, the bold instructor, and I walked over to the little Cessna, and climbed in.  Before I situated myself in my seat, the insane pilot started bumping down the cleared area, quick, like something was biting his butt. 

So we’re in the plane, right?  And we’re flying at fifteen hundred feet, and the pilot, who looks stupid as a tomato, stalls the engine and my friend Jeff climbs out on the strut of the plane, holding onto the wing.  He looks back and smiles at me; it was one of those, you’re-next-fool smiles.  The instructor slaps him on the shoulder and he mule-kicks off the airplane, spreads his arms and legs, yelling like Crazy Horse at Little Big Horn charging the enemy.  I settle back into the back seat, trying to be very, very small.

The instructor leans over to me and yells against the wind, “Get out on the strut, and hold on to the wing, just like Jeff did.”

I ignore him and look out the other window.  He hits me on the shoulder and yells the same stupid thing again.  The idiot pilot turns around, looks at me and smirks like some Uriah Heap that just cheated someone out of their inheritance.  I see there is no escape, so I climb out of the safety of the plane and onto the strut.  The wind is rushing past me, forceful as a 300 pound linebacker.  I got a steel grip on the wing, and my feet are solid, planted like an oak.  I am totally braced.  I mean this plane could crash and they would find me still holding on.  So I’m out there, gotta grip that won’t quit, and I hear the instructor, who now looks like the Phantom of the Opera without his mask, and he’s yelling, “Go.”

I’m looking straight ahead, like I didn’t hear anything.  He yells again, “Go!”

I am steady ignoring the sucker, hoping the wing doesn’t cave in under the pressure from my vise-like grip, so he comes out onto the strut, slaps me on the back, and yells again, his tiresome, repetitious, unwelcome, boring command.  I look at him, my eyes pleading like Clarence Darrow or somebody, but the vicious dog has no sympathy.  Okay, I think.  I got no choice, I gotta do this.  I let go and kick off, as good a back-kick as The Rock could do, and all at once I’m flying, wind rushing up, me rushing down, arms and legs spread-eagled, and I’m thinking, Oh my god, I’m dead.  Over and over, that’s all I could think of – Oh my god, I’m dead. 

I Couldn’t yell Geronimo, couldn’t yell anything, all I could think was what Custer must have thought when Crazy Horse came at him, Oh my god, I’m dead.        Then, better than a Miracle on 32^nd Street, the parachute opened up, and I was one upright sucker.  The open chute jerked me the way God wants every person to be; upright, forthright, downright feet down and head up.  I was reborn, and I don’t mean something as trite as a reborn Christian.  I mean, I came back from Death, and I was euphoric, feeling like Dr. Frankenstein.  “He’s alive, he’s alive!”

I wanted to climb up the cords of my parachute and kiss it, fold it in my arms and hug it.  I loved the parachute, my gorgeous, wonderful, multicolored, patriotic, embraceable, magnificent savior.  I was just safe, drifting slow, beautiful as Hedy Lamar – the 40s movie star.  All the world was magical with love and warmth and beauty. 

I looked all over, everywhere, entranced with the floating peace and wonder of life, enjoying the magnificent sight of earth, enamored with turning and viewing the earth, the rolling golden Mississippi flowing, the corn growing, the small people, the highway, and cars; I was in love with all of life.  I kept pulling the guide cords this way and that way, like a laddie on his first visit to Edinburgh.  I was eager to see everything, and in my rampant enthusiasm, I forgot to face the target. 

About halfway down, I saw what appeared to be a small lake, close by the makeshift airfield.  I kept looking at it – facing it – drifting towards it, and there I went, landing in the center of it.  I went under, swallowing quite a bit.  Fortunately, it wasn’t very deep, about a half of a foot of black sludge, and dark green, turbid water up to my chest.  I came up like a World War II airman behind enemy lines, sputtering and laughing, covered with the parachute, but that wasn’t a problem.  I uncovered my head and began trudging through the sludge and water, pulling the heavy, wet parachute behind me.  That was hard work.  I was one sweatin’ monkey.  I was almost to the edge of the lake when some guys from the airfield roared up in somebody’s old car to see if I was alive, and drive me back to the field. 

I reached the edge of the pond, and they held out a tree branch to help me up the slippery slope.  I thought they could have just given me a hand instead of a tree branch.  They acted like they didn’t want to touch me.  I pulled up the chute after me.  It was heavy, but no one offered to help me.  They made me do it all myself, but I did it, I got it out.  Then, instead of me getting in the car, they made me sit on the hood of the car while they drove slow back to the field.  That was it.  They disappeared into various groups.  I took off the chute and the safety chute still buckled round my waist.  The instructor was, in his own words, “seriously upset,” but I thought – so what.  The parachute’s wet, dry it out sucker.  What’s the big deal?

The parachutists and the looky-loos gathered in little groups of three or five, either waiting for their turn to skydive, or watching their friends free-fall.  I went to one group, and they smiled and then seemed to just evaporate.  Another group I walked over to also disassembled like they were knocked-down Legos or something.  And another group that I went to did the same thing.  I mean it was like a Diaspora, with me left behind.  If I was English, I would be in Coventry.  Finally Jeff came over to where I was sitting alone on a log like I was somebody’s ugly frog or something, and asked if I was ready to go home.  I said yes and we were off. 

It was a bit chilly so I closed the window.  Jeff said, “Do you mind leaving the window open?”

“It’s cold,” I said.

Jeff looked at me, one of those – you’re so stupid looks – and asked me, “Do you know where you landed?”

“Of course,” I said.  “The middle of the pond.”

“That was no pond,” he answered.  “That was the Columbia City Cesspool.”

I got home and took two big ampicillin tablets, and didn’t get at all sick.  Now, I know everybody and his sister are going to say I’m retarded, I’m stupid, there’s a blank space between my ears, I forgot more than I knew, and didn’t know much to begin with, but the feeling of that first jump was so euphoric, I just had to try it again.  I had swallowed the hook in my mouth.  So the following weekend, I was back at the airfield with Jeff, and I was ready to jump again.  The Little Lord Fauntleroy instructor wasn’t too happy to see me, but I guess he needed my twenty-five bucks.  The only thing he told me this time was, “Remember – Face the Target – seriously, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” I said with attitude.  He strapped the parachute on my back, straps between my legs, and the safety chute around my waist like a Las Vegas fanny pack on old women.  We were up in the plane in no time, gliding across the vault of heaven.  I was first to jump this time, and I was ready.  I went out on the strut and grabbed the wing of the plane.  I was in what karate people call a horse-stance but with my arms elevated and holding on.  I was one ready sucker.  I looked at the poor imitation of Captain Blood instructor and smiled like I just got caught stealing cookies and didn’t care at all.  He yelled, “Go.”  And I kicked off.

I jumped up, mule kicked with both legs, let go of the wing, and I was flying like Rodan, squawking, “Geronimo.”  But the feeling of –oh my god I’m dead – and euphoria wasn’t there.  It was beautiful as a banana split to a man on a diet, but there was no comparison with the feeling I had in the first jump.  Then, I felt the strap under my leg.  It wasn’t right.  If the parachute jerked me up then, I would’ve been qualified for a job in a Saudi Arabian Harem.  I scrambled, trying to fix the strap, bending, tumbling through the air, legs kicking in spasms, like I was having a fit.  I got it almost right, and then, like a shot in the middle of a peaceful night, the parachute opened up.  Bam!  And from a tumbling, spasmodic fool, I was an upright, down tight man.  Talk about your New York minutes.  This was a Columbia City second.  Whomp, and from a frightened, almost dead, wiggling, free-falling, wind blasted potential eunuch, I was transformed to one softly drifting, righteous dreamer.  Talk about a narrow escape from lions and tigers and bears, oh my.  I adjusted the family jewels, and started to look around.  “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day...”  I was singing at the top of my voice.

I looked at Old Man Mississippi, and sang Paul Robeson’s song, “River, stay away from my door.”  I turned and looked at the evil Columbia City Cesspool, and thought oh no, then sang, “Cesspool, stay away from my fall.”

At last, I spied the large red circle on the ground, in the center of the cleared area of the cornfield – that was my target.  Okay, I thought.  I am facing my target.  It was a big, and I mean atomic bomb big, Japanese Flag spread out on the ground.  That was my target, and I was coming in.  Some of the girls and guys landed smack dab on the target, bull’s-eye, and I was thinking I could do this; I could hit the target, but no, not then.  It just wasn’t gonna happen. 

The problem was I spent too much time already looking at the magnificent river, the cornfield, the cesspool, the highway, the little people below, and just enjoying the drifting beauty of my fall.  I sailed right past the target, whoosh, and I was too stupid and excited to pull the cord and try to turn.  I could hear everyone below shouting at me as I passed over them, waving their arms, and yelling instructions.  I waved back at them and smiled as I flew right over their heads, feeling as superior as a stupid crow must feel about us walking animals.

I went right past the target, but so what I thought – I didn’t want to put my feet on the flag of Japan anyway.  That would be disrespectful.  I drifted over the ugly cornfield, over the polluted river, the potholed highway next to it, and into the half dead trees, and that’s where I came down from heaven, bumping and banging against dark, unforgiving limbs as I fell down through a jungle of nit-picking trees. 

The parachute got stuck in one of the trees and brought me to an abrupt halt.  The angry tree limbs poked and bruised me, but didn’t do any real damage.  I was hanging like a piñata, swinging in the breeze about ten feet off the ground, and that’s when I heard the Voice of God. 

He said, “Don’t ever do this again, ...stupid.”