Jumping Through Clouds

Ladies before gentlemen, the men laughed.

Manic laughter. Much as they'd laughed that morning when they signed airtight waivers of liability and paid $150 cash for their jumps. It had to be cash--no credit cards nor personal checks accepted.

Thanks, pal, Karen said, punching Jim on the arm. I always knew I could count on you.

As the Cessna 206 gained altitude, the jumpmaster hooked up Karen’s static line.

I'll give you two commands, she said, ‘sit in the door’ and 'go'. Do only what I tell you to do. Do not exit the plane until I say 'go'. Arch your back. Look up. Keep your eyes on me. Shout your count loud enough for me to hear you.

At 3200 feet, she rolled up the door.

Karen felt the rush of air, heard the roar of the engine, and drew back from the exhaust.

Sit in the door!

Karen seated herself as she'd been taught, holding onto the frame--left leg and left hand first, then right leg and right hand, her legs dangling in the wind.

Cut, the jumpmaster yelled to the pilot, and the plane slowed.

Go! she commanded, slapping Karen on the thigh.

Karen slid out of the plane into the blast of the propellers, extending her arms, arching her back, and counting.

Arch thousand. Look thousand. Reach thousand . . .

Karen completed the count as the canopy inflated, spreading above her in a wide concave rectangle and jerking her vertical.

When the ground instructor saw that the canopy was open, she made contact with Karen via one-way radio.

Following her commands, Karen flew the canopy, using the right and left toggles--ropes with handles--to control speed and direction. Karen landed safely, collapsed the canopy, secured the toggles, coiled the lines, and slung the canopy over her shoulder. As she walked toward the ground instructor, she heard her talking on the radio to the next student.

Karen looked up and saw that the student was Jim. He was already part way through the jump.

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In Virginia, too, it was the first beautiful spring Saturday of the year. I’d spent most of the day outdoors preparing flower beds and watching the boy next door, who was celebrating his tenth birthday, shoot baskets with his friends. By late afternoon, when the telephone rang, I was at my computer. My first thought was that I did not want to be interrupted.

The caller identified himself as Dr. Shriver of the Franklin Medical Center in Greenfield, Massachusetts. He asked if I were the mother of Jim Craig.

I have bad news for you, he said. Your son has suffered serious injuries in a parachute jump, including a neck fracture. He’ll be taken by helicopter ambulance to the Bay State Medical Center in Springfield. He will probably die, and if he lives, he will not be normal. You must notify his father and get to Springfield yourself as quickly as possible.

I didn’t believe him. Dr. Shriver? A shriver is one who assigns penance. This was someone’s idea of a joke.