Thanksgiving 2021 by Don Taco

 Thanksgiving 2021

Something vitally cool happened this weekend.

But I have to dive back into my history to set up a proper appreciation of it.

In 1976, I joined a band. That's a gross oversimplification, but I've told that story elsewhere. In 1980, one of the guitarists left our little college ghetto for graduate studies in Oregon. The erratic mandolin player, fresh in the throes of sobriety, for inexplicable reasons moved to the same Oregon town. The remaining guitarist and I dove into the country music we loved, and played less of the reggae and rock'n'roll we were famous for torturing in an acoustic hypergrass fashion. But the two of us, and a carload of our closest friends, drove to Oregon to visit, and play again. We did a few shows, met a few folks, joined a few jams, and went up to Portland to see the Grateful Dead. During that show, Mt. St. Helens blew her top. Monumental trip. I had wanted out of Southern California, specifically Orange County, all my life, and the Santa Barbara area was a sinkhole for folks who didn't already have money, and I decided this was the time, and chance, to move to Oregon myself. So I did. The only regret I've ever had was that the remaining guitarist wasn't inclined to leave the Southland, and we had so few chances to continue to play together. As time went on, the mandolin player went off to the big city to study helicopter repair, eventually leading to an international career, and the lead guitarist graduated and found work in Palo Alto. Leaving me in Oregon. But by then I knew lots of musicians, had fallen in with old-time fiddle players, and ran into, against all odds, another mandolin thrasher who could sing, one who had a background in theater, a wicked sense of humor, and could play straight man to my wackiest story-telling without ever breaking character. We put together a wickedly funny vaudeville act and played the Northwest for eight years, beloved of our fans, but without anything resembling getting rich. Time, careers, marriages, and divorces, eventually split up the act, but we never lost contact. His path didn't allow him the time to keep up with the music, but he did become decently wealthy. I have no claim to wealth, but a week never went by that I didn't play music. Time passed.

Fast forward thirty years. The people who never left the Isla Vista and Santa Barbara area got it into their heads to stage a reunion of sorts. It was a very volatile, political time, and there were more people our age then than at any time in human history, and the ties bertween us all were very close. Maybe every generation feels that way, but I do believe that these were special times and made special connections. The word went out. Friends invited friends invited friends. The advances in internet connectivity made easily what would have been impossible connections even five years earlier. Plans were made. Hundreds responded. 

The guitarist in Palo Alto had retired from a successful career and bought a home in both Santa Barbara and in Oregon. He and I, his wife, and a keyboard player I knew from local theater, had a band together. We came. The mandolin player lived in Germany. He came. The rhythm guitarist had never left that area. He was there. We played the same music that we had played thirty years earlier, standing on the same stage, in the same places, in front of the same crowd, after a thirty year gap in time. And, we didn't suck, and the crowd couldn't get enough of it. It was glorious.

The thing is, for me, this was the first music I had ever played, and I owed my very existence as a musician to being accepted by these three, and to those volatile and intense performances we did. And, after thirty years, I never expected to hear that music again. I never expected to play that music again. There was no possibility of duplicating that music with any other group of musicians. And there we were, playing exactly that music again, with all the verve and abandon of our youth, with the enthusiastic acceptance of the audience of our youth. I cannot find the words to express this. I can only hint at the joy.

This weekend, I went to Tacoma to spend Thanksgiving with Michael and his family, something I sometimes do. Covid and their internship in Minnesota really screwed up last year, but it also has given him time to dabble with the mandolin and guitar again, something he left behind along the career path. We picked up the instruments and played about half an hour for the small family crowd. To an enthusiastic response. We were sloppy, carelessly remembering the old arrangements, introductions, comedy, and banter, laughing at ourselves as we went, enthusiastic and exuberant, and clearly demonstrated why our old audiences laughed and applauded.

We haven't played those songs together in thirty years. I never thought I'd hear us play those songs again. 

I can only hint at the joy.

 In an effort to draw the reader into the moment I have revised "The Decision" again:

The decision (revised 2)

--rickiT

The twin turbine Otter roars down the runway.

Wheels up and we are flying.

Lake Elsinore fades away into a blue green pool as the Ortega mountains rush down.

The airplane stabs through cumulous clouds and breaks out into a pure blue sky.

1500 feet.

My wife Paula opens the door. Fresh air washes over us.

I look forward to the pilot as he reaches up and adjusts the throttle. The airplane begins its steady climb to altitude.

6000 feet

The airplane door is closed against the cold wind.

My group of four is quiet, thinking of the skydive.

I close my eyes and review our planned manuevers.

Exit, star, open accordion, spin pieces, re-dock, zig zag, star… open accordion, spin pieces, re-dock, zig zag, star… 

Just behind the cockpit the tandem students chat in short sentences with their instructors. Their camera fliers film their nervousness.

The students sense the danger while the skydivers mitigate their risks.

12,000 feet.

I smile, anticipating free fall, as I do a final gear check.

… three buckles, three handles, three accessories.

The pilot yells “THREE MINUTES.”

The three minute warning is passed back through the plane.

12,500 feet.

The airplane turns on jump run.

 

The red light comes on at the door.

“DOOR!” yells Paula. The door is flung open. Cold air rushes in.

Her seven teammates stand.

The benches are lifted and Paula’s team pushes toward the door.

Paula spots, looking down for air traffic and to assure that we are over the Drop Zone.

The green light comes on.

Paula continues to spot. Waits for the right moment.

Someone  yells “EXIT, EXIT, EXIT.” 

Paula takes one more careful look and climbs out clutching the hang bar on the outside of the airplane.

Two others from her group climb out, hang next to Paula in the floating position.

The other five of her group, still inside the airplane, press themselves into the floaters.

With a shake and a bob Paula yells, “READY. SET. GO!”

All eight are gone in a moment.

I look out the door just in time to see Paula’s group falling away.

Billy and I climb out, floating.

The other two of our team take grips on us from the inside.

Billy chants, “READY. SET. GO!” and we are gone.

The roar of the wind in free fall accents our skydiving dance.

…star, open accordion, spin pieces, re-dock, zig zag, star… repeat, repeat.

My grin is large.

At 4,000 feet my audio altimeter beeps, we four turn in free fall and track away from each other.

At 3,000 feet I pull out my pilot chute and throw it into the wind.

My parachute opens.

The sudden quiet is punctuated with my laughter.

I look around for my fellow parachutists.

There they all are.

I look down and see Paula’s group already under canopies.

I spot her bright pink parachute.

That is unmistakably Paula.

Paula makes her turn to final approach of landing.

Brian, a teammate, makes a parallel approach.

A parachute appears out of nowhere on a collision course with Paula.

At the last second the parachutist cuts in front of her.

Out of the corner of Paula’s eye is a flash of parachute fabric.

Someone flies in front of her cutting her off.

She pulls down hard on her steering toggle swerving to avoid a collision. 

In that moment Paula sees Brian, but it is too late.

She flies through his parachute lines.

His lines wrap around her neck.

She cannot breathe.

Instinctively she slips the fingers of both hands between the lines and her neck.

Paula considers removing one hand and cutting away her main.

I can’t breathe, she thinks, I can’t breathe.

I just have to breathe.

The spiral continues.

Brian looks up at Paula.

He sees the entanglement.

His parachute is partially collapsed.

Paula’s parachute is also partially collapsed.

He considers cutting away his main canopy and deploying his reserve.

We are too low. No time to cut away. Nothing to do. Nothing to do. Nothing to do.

They continue their violent spiral.

As I watch Paula fly through Brian’s canopy lines the entanglement causes both parachutes to collapse.

They spiral down toward the ground.

There is a cloud of dust when they hit.

Oh Paula…

I cannot look, but I must.

They are not moving.

I want to land quickly, but what will I find?

Paula…

I see the DZ truck racing out to them.

Dozens of people are also running out to the scene.

I bury a steering toggle to initiate a hard spiraling descent.

Moments later I land near my wife.

A skydiver friend who is a nurse is attending to her.

Her neck is bleeding.

“Are you OK?” I ask her.

She moans.

She is alive.

“Don’t move,” says the nurse.

Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, holding me back.

Brian is laying nearby, coherent but in pain.

Someone is speaking quietly to him.

I hear the sound of an ambulance siren approaching.

The ambulance arrives and puts both Paula and Brian on stretchers, loads them in the back and drives them away.

I am left standing alone, watching the ambulance disappear.

I drive to the hospital.

At the hospital I am ushered into the emergency room.

There are Paula and Brian in side by side beds.

Paula is awake and Brian is sleeping.

“Are you OK?”

Paula looks up at me and says, “Yes.”

I hug her.

“How are you?”

“My ankle hurts, but my neck is OK. I have a broken ankle.”

I look over at Brian.

“He has a compressed vertebra, but he will be OK,” says Paula.

Paula continues, “When I hit the ground I heard a loud BOOM. It was the loudest sound I have ever heard. It was sound of my body hitting the ground.”

“You’re OK? You are really OK. I love you so much.”

“I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t take my hands from my neck. Brian couldn’t cut away or I would have strangled and we were too low.”

“You made the right decisions. You did nothing and you are both alive.”

I hold my wife in my arms and sob.

Where's the Dead Mouse? Don Taco

 Where's the dead mouse?

My mother was fond of saying this. It's a whimsical take on the indisputable fact that every problem is more than likely to have another problem hiding in it that you weren't anticipating. A short while after I went off to college there was some issue that involved my next younger brother grabbing some tools and heading into the broken concrete, hard-packed river clay, and other rubble in the crawl space under the house. He came back out after quite a short trip, and told our mother that there was a dead cat under the house. And she calmly looked at him and said, "Well, now you have two problems." Many years later, as an adult, I was at her place tearing out the rotten cabinet floor under the kitchen sink, and as I exposed the subfloor, I found the corpse of a small rodent, desiccated and well-adorned with molds. "Hey, Mom! Come look at this!" Sometimes, the dead mouse actually is a dead mouse.

My sister Ginny, age 10, was in the bathroom off the master bedroom, in her Easter Sunday best, trying to get her hair and everything else prepared to attend our father's funeral. Seven of us trying to fit ourselves into the two bathrooms and get all the pieces in place and all of us into the car for the trip. And her wail was heard to the ends of the house, and our souls. The plumbing under the sink had exploded, and was spraying water with wild abandon. Her best dress, her hair, and the entire bathroom were dripping, and the spray was only getting worse. Several more of us were soaked trying to calm her down, and trying to shut off the valve. Which accomplished nothing, because it was the pipe itself which had burst. That means shutting off the water at the main valve at the street, which is not a trivial affair, since that valve is rarely touched, gets sticky, and usually requires tools and force. And, the vault is barely big enough for your hands and the tools, and, oh by-the-way, that's where the black widow spiders live. As an adult, I once had to fix some plumbing there, and I went and shut off the water, and then thought, after I pulled my hand out, "Wow, you are really out of touch with this terrain," looked in the vault, and there were three black widows evident. I must not have disturbed their webs, as they are somewhat territorial and aggressive. I have been bitten by a brown recluse, and have no interest in discovering how poisonous the black widow is by comparison. And then, after the water is off, and with little benefit from the only two bathrooms, and with several sets of clothes wet, we still have to get dressed up and get to the funeral on time. It turns out that the neighborhood's iron pipes are incompatible with the city's copper lines, and are completely filled with rust and eroded through in many places. Sometimes the dead mouse is having to re-plumb your entire house three weekends after your father dies.

The depth of the problem may vary, but there's always a dead mouse.

One afternoon, sometime in the year after the plumbing adventure, someone in our neighborhood called us, and told my mother that she needed to get to the intersection of Victoria and Chapman (about a quarter mile up the street,) right away, and would not say why, but was very urgent. And of course, that just pushes a mother into worst-case-scenario panic mode. Which was unfortunately appropriate. The three youngest kids, ages 9, 7, and 5, had ridden their bicycles to the store. At the intersection, a car in the first lane had stopped to let them walk their bikes across the street, which they were proceeding to do. Some young hotshot, barrelling along too fast in that same lane, saw the stopped car and swung over into the next lane, at which point he finally saw the kids and bikes and why the car was stopped. Slammed on the brakes to no avail. Knocked all three children and their bikes down like bowling pins. Val, the oldest, and in front, took the brunt of it. The other two were thrown down with minor scrapes. Steven, the youngest, reacted by running with his bike to the far side of the street, which terrified my mother when she learned that, because it meant he was at risk across another two lanes of fast careless traffic when he wasn't watching clearly. He swears it was safe and he checked, but he was five years old. David was mostly unharmed. The driver who had stopped was screaming bloody murder at the young driver, and calling him names. He calmed down later and apologized to the young man. The young driver was cowed, and kept saying he couldn't apologize enough. And I've always felt that was true. He could not apologize enough. I hope he was scarred for life and never drove fast or broke a traffic law again. The police arrived and tried to calm everyone down. The ambulance arrived.

Valerie, however, had both femurs snapped. 9 years old. I still, 55 years later, have a vivid picture in my memory of her legs twisted underneath her in absolutely impossible ways. They scooped her off the street on a plastic device similar to the drain tray underneath your kitchen sink dish drainer, scooting it under her carefully, and then grabbing it by the side handholds and lifting her untouched onto the gurney. A marvelous piece of absolutely simple technology. I was impressed then, and I remain impressed now.

I'm the oldest memory left from this event, and I am at a loss about how we got to the hospital, and got all the children corralled, and got the slightly mangled bicycles home, when the obvious priority would be for Mom to get to the hospital, and I'm still too young to drive the only car. I just don't know. My best guess is that some neighbors got involved. And that would have to be from passing by and choosing to stop. There were no cell phones. But we did have that kind of neighbors.

So, where's the dead mouse? Well, it isn't that kind of story. Isn't it grim enough already?

Val was in a body cast, toes to armpits, for the next six months. Many weird, clever, or clumsy attempts were made during that time to slip something down the cast to scratch the vicious itches without doing damage. There was a strut between her legs, making her a sort of triangle. She was small enough at that age that I could pick her up and balance her, cast and all, and load her into the car, or the bed, or the couch, and we learned what worked and what didn't. We added boards and pillows and straps to a Flexi Flyer, which is a West Coast sled on wheels, so that she could be mobile, albeit prone and quite close to the floor. There is a photograph of her in the kitchen on the Flyer, with her dog Taffy, the mother cat Tiger, and a handful of kittens, feeding them at their own level. It's hard to see why she's lying on the floor, (which she isn't,) but for those of us who were there, that photo is precious. She has a look of concentration that is bordering on a smile.

Now, we were a very busy family, six hyperactive children with multiple interests, and a very intelligent mother who encouraged us to pursue them. And one of those family interests was camping. We were introduced to it by the cub scout troops we joined. After a while, during the colder months when the scouts didn't schedule a camping trip, the family would go camping anyway. We bought a huge very-old-fashioned heavy canvas tent in an era when lightweight nylon tents were taking the country by storm. But we had eight people to set it up. I can remember waking up freezing at about three in the morning to find my father cursing and re-filling the Coleman catalytic heater with white gas, pumping it up, and lighting it again to give us heat for the rest of the night. That heater was dangerous. I'm pretty sure you couldn't buy one today. We once went to Half Dome. On the hike side, it's a rounded hill, but the other side is a sheer drop of unimaginable distance and an unmatched vista. There is a steel railing around the path, and high winds. That was when I discovered that my father and I shared a fear of heights and edges. We were both glued to that railing.

And now I must digress. You knew I would. Val's convalescence, and my high school years, were the Viet Nam war, often disguised as the conflict overseas. A church in Brea, a town that bordered our Fullerton, started a program that brought young Marines from the El Toro Marine base, ones that didn't have family nearby or the money to visit their own families, up to our area on the important family holidays of Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and the Fourth of July. These were young men who were in the queue to be shipped off to Viet Nam, most likely to die there. The program invited them to spend a holiday weekend with a family, even if it wasn't their own, and it proved very popular. Families associated with the church, or who learned of the program, would sign up for a pair of Marines for the weekend, and the church would bus in the appropriate number of boys, and I choose that word very carefully, parcel them out, and bus them home again late Sunday. At its peak, four to six busloads of young Marines would be visiting some family for a weekend. And they were very grateful for it. My family got involved with this, which led to the aunts and uncles getting involved, and also a few neighbors and friends. We got so involved that we were allowed to request four guests instead of just two. Holiday family parties at our house might include eighty family and a dozen or more Marines. And one of the delights for these young bits of fodder was that my family figured that if they were old enough to die for their country, they were old enough to drink. There was enough supervision that drinking to excess rarely happened. There were other unusual events along the way, too, such as the young man who told us that he had just taken the bus ride to get closer to Los Angeles, where he had a girlfriend, and was going to hitchhike there to see her. My mother said, "Bullshit! You take my car and drive there, and don't you be late for the bus ride home or I'll hunt you down!" He was astonished, and very grateful, and he did come back on time. She gave another one busfare in a similar situation. I think we hosted several hundred young men during this program. Very few of them ever returned from the war. Only two of them contacted us again. One of them stayed with us a week while he waited for his first thirty rolls of film to get developed. That was all he could afford so far. He had shot over three hundred.

Now, remember that I was a scrubby, fresh-faced, bright, responsible, very young adult of fourteen to fifteen at this time, whose father had just died, in a very volatile political time, during an undeclared war. Every single one of these young Marines that spent a weekend with us took me aside at one point or another and told me that I should absolutely not enlist in the military, especially the Marines. That made an impression on me.

You will remember that we went camping as a family quite often. One year at Thanksgiving we and our aunt and uncle were off to a campout, and so we 'interviewed' the Marines coming off the bus to select ones who would enjoy roughing it in the woods rather than sitting around the family table, and off we went. This happened at the time that Valerie was still in the full body cast. We had learned to rearrange the placement of everything in the van so that she could ride at floor level comfortably on her Flexi Flyer, and the big steel camping box sat on a shelf we built over her feet, and everyone and everything juggled and compromised so that we could all still fit, with all our gear. And even fit in a few Marines. We did have two cars, but there were 6 cousins and a few Marines in the other car too. It went fine. We all had a great time.

At that campout, there was a rope swing hung from a big old oak tree to jump out over the river and jump into the swimming pool. It was hugely popular, a focal point of the campground. And as time went on, these young Marines thought it was a shame that Val, in her cast, on her skateboard, wasn't able to enjoy the excitement of the jump into the river that all the other kids were thrilled with. So they got some rope and lashed her into the rope swing and let her enjoy the swing out over the river jump, flexi flyer and all, a few times until she was happy, and then pulled her back to shore and untied her and set her back down. I don't think our mother ever learned about this. I think she would have gone ballistic. As a teen, I thought it was pretty cool of them. As an adult, and with all my experience with amateur riggers in the theater, I wonder if they had anywhere near the skills to do that safely. They were Marines. They had some training, and should have been taught a few knots, but they were just eighteen year olds, with only the barest training in risk assessment.

As we are fond of saying in the theater, "Well, no one died."

Val spent another six months in a wheelchair, and then another six months on crutches, and a painful year making all the muscles move again after the cast came off. We rigged up rope pulleys in a doorway so she could pull against the tension in her muscles until she screamed. And again. And again. It was a rigorous and excruciating year of muscle torture to get past the crutches until she could walk again, and let me remind you that it was her effort that made that happen, and let me remind you that she was ten years old. The doctors said she would never straighten out her feet and walk normally, and she rejected their attitude and took ten years of painful ballet lessons, practicing to balance and point her toes where the music wanted her to, and exceeded their expectations. They also said that the broken femurs might lead to serious complications with the weight of childbirth, but she has three brilliant children who have produced brilliant children of their own.

I should probably have a moral to the story, but I don't. I do recommend that you always look for the dead mouse.

 The decision (revised)

    --rickiT

The twin turbine Otter roars down the runway.

Wheels up and we are flying.

Lake Elsinore fades away into a blue green pool as the Ortega mountains rush down.

The airplane stabs through cumulous clouds and breaks out into a pure blue sky.

1500 feet.

My wife Paula opens the door. Fresh air washes over us.

I look forward to the pilot as he reaches up and adjusts the throttle. The airplane begins its steady climb to altitude.

Just behind the cockpit the tandem students chat in short sentences with their instructors. Their camera fliers film their nervousness.

One of the free fliers jerks a thumb toward the students and flashes a finger to his friend with his other hand.

His friend shakes his head, but laughs anyway.

My group of four is quiet, thinking about the skydive.

I close my eyes.

Exit, star, open accordion, spin pieces, re-dock, zig zag, star… open accordion, spin pieces, re-dock, zig zag, star… 

6000 feet.

The free flier yells, “SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR.”

I open my eyes and stare him down.

An instructor says, “Keep it down Fred.”

Someone closes the door.

12,000 feet.

My gear check… three buckles, three handles, three accessories.

The pilot yells “THREE MINUTES.”

The three minute warning is passed back through the plane.

12,500 feet.

The airplane turns on jump run.

 

The red light comes on at the door.

“DOOR!” yells Paula. The door is flung open. Cold air rushes in.

Her seven teammates stand.

The benches are lifted and Paula’s team pushes toward the door.

Paula spots, looking down for air traffic and to assure that we are over the Drop Zone.

The green light comes on.

Paula continues to spot. Waits for the right moment.

Fred  yells “GET OUT. GET OUT” 

Paula takes one more careful look and climbs out.

Two others from her group climb out holding onto a hang bar on the outside of the plane in the floating position.

The other five of her group, still inside the plane, press themselves into the floaters.

With a shake and a bob Paula yells, “READY. SET. GO!”

All eight were gone in a moment.

I look out the door just in time to see Paula’s group falling away.

Billy and I climb out, floating.

The other two take grips on us.

Billy chants, “READY. SET. GO!” and we were gone.

The roar of the wind in free fall is accented with the dance of skydiving.

…star, open accordion, spin pieces, re-dock, zig zag, star… repeat, repeat.

We turn 15 points.

My grin is large.

At 4,000 feet my audio altimeter beeps, we four turn in free fall and track away.

At 3,000 feet I pull out my pilot chute and throw it into the wind.

My parachute opens.

The sudden quiet is punctuated with my laughter.

I look around for my fellow parachutists.

There they all are.

I look down and see Paula’s group already under canopies.

I spot her bright pink parachute.

That is unmistakably Paula.

Paula makes her turn to final approach of landing.

Brian, a teammate, is to her right, makes a parallel approach.

Fred comes out of nowhere, spiraling on a collision course with Paula.

At the last second he cuts in front of her and swoops down for a fast landing.

Out of the corner of Paula’s left eye is a flash of parachute fabric.

Fred flies in front of her cutting her off.

Paula pulls down hard on her right steering toggle swerving right to avoid a collision. 

She is 300 feet above the ground as I watch Paula fly through Brian’s canopy lines.

The entanglement causes his parachute to collapse.

They begin to spiral toward the ground.

A moment before the entanglement Paula sees Brian, but it is too late.

She flies through his lines.

His lines wrap around her neck.

She cannot breathe.

Instinctively she slips the fingers of both hands between the lines and her neck.

Brian looks up at Paula.

He sees the entanglement.

His parachute is partially collapsed.

Paula’s parachute is also partially collapsed.

He considers cutting away his main canopy and deploying his reserve.

They are too low. No time to cut away.

They continue their violent spiral.

Paula considers removing one hand and cutting away her main.

I can’t breathe, she thinks, and we are too low for that.

The spiral continues.

I see Paula and Brian spiraling toward the ground.

There is a cloud of dust when they hit.

Paula hears a loud BANG!

It is the sound of her body hitting the ground.

I see the DZ truck racing out to them.

Dozens of people are also running out to the scene.

I bury a steering toggle to initiate a hard spiraling decent.

Moments later I land near my wife.

A friend, skydiver and nurse is attending to her.

Her neck is bleeding, but she is awake and talking.

“Are you OK?” I ask her.

“Yes, but my ankle hurts.”

“Don’t move,” says the nurse.

Brian is laying nearby, coherent but in some pain.

Someone is speaking quietly to him.

I hear the sound of an ambulance siren approaching.

The ambulance arrives and puts both Paula and Brian on stretchers, loads them in the ambulance and drives them away.

Later, at the hospital, I learn that Paula has suffered a broken ankle and Brian has a compressed vertebra.

Both of them will recover completely.

Paula has a scar around her neck to this day.

Fast and logical thinking of both skydivers saved their lives.

Had Brian cut away he would have died from impact since there was not enough time to open his reserve.

Had Paula cut away she would have been strangled by Brian’s parachute lines and they would have both died from the impact since they only shared part of Brian’s parachute.

Both of them made the right decision.

Both decided to do nothing.

Fall Colors

 Colors

In our quest to skydive in all 50 states my wife Paula and I were driving through Massachusetts.

It was Fall and the trees were changing colors.

Traffic was heavy because the leaf peepers were out in force. We took country roads to avoid the traffic and to see the foliage in its glory.

100 miles out from Pepperell, Massachusetts. we drove into a wind front. Colored leaves swirled around us like a rainbow snow storm. The show of leaves lasted for ten miles until we overtook the wind storm. Our car burst out into the clear, calm air restoring the colorful trees to our peripheral vision.

We drove on.

Arriving a the Pepperell skydiving center, we checked in at manifest. The staff at Pepperell were friendly and welcoming. While manifesting Paula and I on the next airplane I said the the staffer,

“We are trying to jump in all fifty states, so we intend to land in New Hampshire.”

New Hampshire is 100 yards north of the Pepperell runway and does not have a skydiving center.

“You will have to talk to the DZO if you want to do that,” said the staffer.

I walked around the building the the Drop Zone Owner’s office.

Fran is a smiling, genuine woman who put her hand out to shake mine.

“I’m Fran. What can I do for you?”

Hi. I’m Rick. I am here with my wife. We are from California on a quest to jump in all 50 states. Manifest said we had to talk to you, since we would like to land in New Hampshire on the first jump.”

“Well…” she began with a pause…” If I told you the rules, then you would not be able to do that.”

I could almost see the wink and the nod.

“OK, thank you.” I left her office.

Paula and I geared up and went to the Drop Zone (DZ) briefing where we saw the aerial view of the airport and landing area. Confident in the layout, I took Paula by the hand and followed the other skydivers to the plane.

The airplane was a Cessna 206 with a large plexiglass door. It taxied to the tarmac, ran up its engines and roared down the runway, leaping into the air.

At 1500 feet we opened the door and looked down.

It is a little known fact that fall colors begin at the tops of the trees where the sun is the brightest. Because the leaves were in direct sunlight they vibrated with neon color. The spectral show stretched to the horizon.

A mile or two away there was a disturbance in the trees. A plume of color rose from the treetops. It formed a line from horizon to horizon and was moving fast. As the Cessna continued to climb we saw the wind front approaching the DZ quickly.

At altitude the wind line was practically upon us. On jump run the pilot (a grizzled old veteran aviator) flew well past the DZ and into the wind. 

The pilot looked over his shoulder and yelled, “GET OUT NOW!”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“GET OUT NOW OR YOU WON’T MAKE IT BACK.”

Paula and I exited the plane.

We joined up in a two way skydive, took each other’s hand and slowly turned in 360° circles.

Beyond the turbulence were the fall colors as far as the eye could see.

As we looked north past the end of the runway I saw a plowed farmer’s field.

I pointed toward the field and we both began to track in free fall toward it.

At 4000 feet we were just upwind of the field. I faced Paula and waved off. Paula deployed her parachute and a moment later I opened mine.

Still up wind I steered toward the field.

Too fast.

This wind was strong.

I turned back into the wind and began to back up toward the field.

“The old pilot was right about the spot,” I said to myself.

Paula had taken her cues from me and stayed close during the descent.

We both touched down in a stiff wind and pulled down hard on one steering toggle to bury our parachutes into the ground.

We stood grinning at each other, in New Hampshire.

So as not to attract too much attention we walked back into Massachusetts to the field near the end of the runway.

By now the wind front had past and the day was bright, sunny and calm again.

We packed our parachutes.

Just as we were closing the DZ truck came racing across the field.

It brodied around our position and the DZO yelled out the window:

“You Californian’s sure have terrible accuracy, but I know you want to jump in Massachusetts so I manifested you on the next plane. Get in the back of the truck.

So we got in the back of the truck and she drove us to the airplane.

Out of pride. on this second jump, we landed on center on the Massachusetts DZ target.

 The decision

--rickiT

It was a normal day at the Drop Zone.

My wife, Paula, and I were socializing with our fellow skydivers.

A good turnout of 100 or so jumpers were bunched together in groups on the grass and packing area.

The school was busy too with first tandem jumpers being trained.

Paula and I were sitting with our usual group of friends when Billy said,

“Let’s get manifested.”

“OK,” said Paula. “Who wants to go?”

About ten of us gathered around Billy and Paula.

Assessing the experience of the group Paula grabbed seven skydivers and Billy motioned to the others to join him.

I went with Billy.

Paula organized an 8-way skydive (eight people to turn points in free fall).

Billy organized a 4-way group.

Each group practiced the points (grips and formations) that they would do. This is called dirt diving because we practice on the ground what we will do in the air.

Paula collected jump tickets from everyone and manifested both groups on the next airplane.

Ten minutes before the launch Paula and Billy’s groups met in the loading area with full gear.

We gave each other gear checks.

We dirt dived in full gear.

Paula decided the exit order.

Her group would exit first because it was the largest.

Exit order is always largest to smallest, then the school tandems.

Since the door of the twin Otter is in the back of the plane groups board in reverse order.

Tandems, instructors and their videographers boarded the plane first, then Billy’s group and finally Paula’s group.

Paula’s group would exit first, then my group and then the school.

I love the climb to altitude.

The race down the runway, wheels up and the roar of the twin turbine engines is always a thrill.

As we climbed through the clouds i thought with a smile,

“Just think… I could be home watching golf on TV.”

At altitude (12,500 feet), the pilot turned on jump run.

“3 MINUTES!” someone exclaimed.

The red light came on at the door.

“DOOR! yelled Paula.

The door was flung open.

Cold air rushed in.

Paula spotted, looking down for air traffic and to assure that we were over the Drop Zone.

The green light came on.

Someone in the back yelled, “EXIT, EXIT, EXIT” 

Paula took one more look out the door and climbed out.

Two others from her group climbed out holding onto a hang bar on the outside of the plane in the floating position.

The other five of her group, still inside the plane, pressed themselves into the floaters.

With a shake and a bob Paula yelled, “READY. SET. GO!”

All eight were gone in a moment.

I looked out the door just in time to see Paula’s group falling away.

Billy and I climbed out, floating.

The other two took grips on us.

Billy chanted, “READY. SET. GO!” and we were gone.

The roar of the wind in free fall was accented with the dance of skydiving.

We turned 8 points.

My skydive was fun. My grin was large.

At break off altitude (4,000 feet) my audio altimeter beeps, we four turn in free fall and track away from each other.

At 3,000 feet I reach back for my pilot chute, pull it out of the pocket and throw it into the wind.

My parachute opens.

It is suddenly quiet except for the sound of my laughing from the joy of the skydive.

I look around for my fellow skydivers parachutes.

There they all are.

I look down and see Paula’s group already under canopies.

I spot her bright pink parachute.

That is unmistakably Paula.

Paula is making her turn to final approach of landing.

Brian, another parachutist from her group is to her right making a parallel approach.

Out of the corner of her left eye is a flash of parachute fabric.

Another jumper swoops in front of her cutting her off.

Paula pulls down hard on her right steering toggle swerving right to avoid a collision. 

She is 300 feet above the ground as I watch Paula fly through Brian’s canopy lines.

The entanglement causes his parachute to collapse.

They begin to spiral toward the ground.

A moment before the entanglement Paula sees Brian, but it is too late.

She flies through his lines.

His lines wrap around her neck.

She cannot breathe.

Instinctively she slips the fingers of both hands between the lines and her neck.

Brian looks up at Paula.

He sees the entanglement.

His parachute is partially collapsed.

Paula’s parachute is also partially collapsed.

He considers cutting away (releasing) his main canopy and deploying his reserve.

They are too low. No time to cut away.

They continue their violent spiral.

Paula considers removing one hand and cutting away her main.

“I can’t breathe,” she thinks and “we are too low for that.”

The spiral continues.

I see Paula and Brian spiraling toward the ground.

There is a cloud of dust when they hit.

Paula hears a loud BANG!

It is the sound of her body hitting the ground.

I see the DZ truck racing out to them.

Dozens of people are also running out to the scene.

I bury a steering toggle to initiate a hard spiraling decent.

Moments later I land near my wife.

A friend, skydiver and nurse is attending to her.

Her neck is bleeding, but she is awake and talking.

“Are you OK?” I ask her.

“Yes, but my ankle hurts.”

“Don’t move,” says the nurse.

Brian is laying nearby, coherent but in some pain.

Someone is speaking quietly to him.

I hear the sound of an ambulance siren approaching.

The ambulance arrives and puts both Paula and Brian on stretchers, loads them in the ambulance and drives them away.

Later, after getting a ride to the hospital, I learn that Paula has suffered a broken ankle and Brian has a compressed vertebra.

Both of them went on to recover completely.

Paula has a scar around her neck to this day.

Due to the fast and logical thinking of both skydivers they are alive today.

Had Brian cut away he would have certainly died from impact since there was not enough time to open his reserve parachute.

Had Paula cut away she would have been strangled by Brian’s parachute lines and they would have both died from the impact since they only shared part of Brian’s parachute.

The irony and the fate of the situation is that doing nothing was the only correct decision.