Recalling a sportswriter’s memorable day of days

(First of two parts)

I always thought, when meandering down what used to be Highway 395

on occasion and seeing little puffs of white in the sky, what a great

feeling that must be as parachutists floated softly through the air

on their way to the turf near Perris, in Riverside County.

“Boy, would I like to do that,” I’d tell anyone within earshot as

we enjoyed the comfort of the highway. If I were to ever know the

true thrill of an adrenaline rush, I thought, this would be it.

Little did I know I would eventually get that chance.

It was the summer of ’77 when we were sitting around the office,

each of us mulling over options to help bring something interesting

to the pages aside from the usual.

Something out of the ordinary. With the passing of the graduation

rituals still fresh and the football season still weeks and weeks

away, the frenetic pace over the course of the school year quickly

dissipated into boredom.

So it was when it occurred to me that a story on skydiving might

be appropriate. That I’d see if I could go with the skydivers on the

plane, and get the story on a first-hand basis.

But after calling the Perris Valley Airport to set up a time when

I could get this accomplished, I found myself faced with the ultimate

put-up or shut-up scenario.

“Why don’t you take a jump yourself,” was the response from the

manager. “We’ll supply everything, it won’t cost you a thing. We can

do it tomorrow.”

For years I had been ranting about how I’d like to do it. Then, as

an out-of-shape 40-year-old, the opportunity was there and I found

myself unable to say, “No, I think I’ll just go along for the ride

and do my interviews.”

My wife was horrified when I told her of my plans. My boss, Glenn

White, was astonished at the prospect. But I felt great about it and

wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity.

Again, little did I know.

It was called a “first-jump lesson,” a 3,300-foot fall with an

automatic chute release from a rickety single-engine 1943 Howard

airplane which could accommodate six persons. It had one wing, across

the top, with struts to the fuselage.

Before that would happen, however, would be 6 1/2 hours of

“training,” of which I’d be subjected to various scenarios, such as

reacting to the chute failing its automatic system, swinging around

in a harness to get the feel of it flight and what they lightly

described as “PLFs,” short for practice landing falls.

By 2 p.m. as the temperature reached 100, I was ready for these

“PLFs,” which were to be done off a picnic bench and table. That’s

right. A picnic bench and table.

First, from 14 inches off terra firma, then the graduation to 30

inches off the table.

THUMP!

It’s a sound I still carry with me recollecting this madness as I

jumped off the bench, tried to make a little roll on the first touch

of the ground and slammed by helmeted head on the grassy area.

Dazed, I went for it again, this time jamming my elbow into my

side. I felt and heard three distinct rips and for some reason

started to realize things might get worse.

White has since arrived and witnessed this scenario, with a grim

face.

Eventually I went to the top of the table, and on a backward fall,

slammed my head against the grass.

Dazed, again, I heard my instructor call for a timeout.

It went on for another two hours before the big moment would come,

but most of that time was spent watching others go through their

paces, I think. This part’s a little fuzzy.

The instructors were concerned. So was White. But I wasn’t about

to call it off, not after absorbing this much physical punishment.

I knew this whole thing was far from the experiences of true

skydivers, who go much higher, free fall for extended periods of time

and hook up during flight in various formations before landing as if

they are prancing across egg shells.

But I wanted to experience the feel of the flight and I was

determined not to walk away empty-handed despite some

second-thoughts.

White, meanwhile, sped off to nearby Homeland where my mother and

sister resided, and brought them back to watch the big show.

Whatever stamina I had was spent and as I tried to lift myself

from the ground and into the opening near the wing there was nothing.

Somebody got behind me and pushed me into the plane.

The pilot, jump master, three other students and myself, sped down

the air strip and away we went.

Last on, I would be the first one out.

They took one pass over the area and the jump master tossed a

marker to gauge the wind.

The marker streaked across the horizon at 3,300 feet, and

according to White, my mother shouted, “It’s not opening.” We all got

a big laugh later at my mom’s apprehension as she mistook the marker

for me, when recalling this adventure.

On the second pass, having gone through the drill earlier, I

assumed my position: My right foot outside the door to the second

step, my first hand to a wing strut, then my left hand to the strut,

then my right hand farther out, then my other foot to the lower step.

I glided my legs out behind me, hanging on to the plane in a

horizontal position, looked up to my left and awaited the command to

open my hands.

(To be concluded next Sunday)

* ROGER CARLSON is the former sports editor for the Daily Pilot.

His column appears on Sundays. He can be reached by e-mail at

rogeranddorothea@msn.com.