For many, a Wisconsin vacation is all about relaxation amid woods and water. For others, it's about adventure and excitement while soaring above all the woods and water. In a special article, Laura Kearney details her experience seeking a Wisconsin adrenaline rush from 9,000 feet.
The day I'm scheduled to jump out of a plane for the first time, my horoscope says, "Don't feel like you have to be in control of every situation." While driving to my drop zone at the Lancaster Municipal Airport to meet members of the Tri-State Skydivers club, the radio serenades me with "Wind Beneath My Wings" and "Don't Bring Me Down." It's the kind of day skydivers live for, the kind that gave rise to the sport's motto, Blue skies!, which is shouted gleefully before every jump.
Inside the hangar, I find club members packing their "container systems," checking that the lines of the main parachute and the reserve are straight -- critical to a jump's success, as straight lines ensure that the chute opens properly. I meet instructors Jesse Heiar, who tells me he's never had to use his reserve, and Ike Lasoya, who has more than 4,000 jumps to his name and an aura of calmness broken only by the question on his T-shirt: "Scared?"
I'm looking for an adventure, but one within reason, so I've signed on for a tandem jump. I'll be harnessed to an instructor who's essentially in charge of the whole experience. During the 20-minute training I learn the three hand gestures we'll use to communicate, and get an overview of the equipment, from shoulder harness statistics (it can hold 5,000 pounds) to a brief history of parachute design.
I zip myself into a pink jumpsuit (the brighter the better to stand out against the sky). My tandem instructor, Jody Timmerman, and I practice the move that will launch us into the atmosphere: ready (forward), set (backward), go (jump!). Then I'm on the floor on my stomach, performing the spread-eagle pose -- arms and legs arched up -- over and over and over. Why so much repetition? "It's so muscle memory takes over," Lasoya explains. "When the door opens, jumpers can experience sensory overload."
Five of us -- me, Timmerman, Heiar, Lasoya, and our pilot, Randy Peterson -- board a Cessna 182. It's a tight squeeze, and movement is awkward since my harness is now tightly attached to Timmerman's at my shoulders and waist. Our collective adrenaline is surging.
On the way up to our jumping altitude of 11,000 feet, there's time to enjoy the view of Grant County, a quintessential southwestern Wisconsin landscape of rolling hills dotted with woodlands and farmland grids edged by the winding Mississippi River. Just when I think we can't get any closer, Timmerman tightens the side straps of the harness connecting us. We're at 9,000 feet and I'm having difficulty breathing—due not only to the cinching but to the growing sense that yes, I once wanted to do this. Over the engine noise I can hardly hear Timmerman asking, "What's the most important thing?"
I respond, unconvincingly, "Relax."
Thirty minutes after takeoff, we buckle our leather helmets over goggles. To get a better view of how far upwind we are from where we want to eventually land, Heiar, the spotter for this jump, releases the door latch, and it slams up against the wing. Sensory overload has definitely kicked in. Everyone is yelling, "Blue skies!" Despite myself, I chime in.
Heiar -- who had described skydiving as "flying like Superman" -- is the first one out. Lasoya, his helmet rigged with both a 35mm and video camera, is perched on the wing strut, watching me exit the plane onto the 6-inch-wide step. Timmerman and I begin our ready-set-go rocking, which propels us into a somersault toward the Earth.
It feels like we've been sucked into a vacuum. Because I don't assume the spread-eagle position quickly enough, we do two tumbles instead of the planned one, plummeting so fast that Lasoya, who jumped after us, can't get close enough for photos. Finally we get into the free-fall position -- bellies facing down, arms and legs arched to catch the wind and slow the rate of our fall.
At this point, most skydivers experience the high of free-falling, cheeks flapping in the wind, exuberantly whooping and hollering. I'm spastically flailing my hands toward my face, consumed by the irrational thought that my eyeglasses are about to slip under my goggles and embark on a solo dive.
It's a surreal feeling, this mad rush to the ground at 200 mph. Timmerman gets me back under control in time for him to throw the drogue, a small parachute that slows our free-fall to the rate of a single jumper. The wind whipping in my ears is the only sound I'm aware of. I'm thinking of nothing but where I am at this moment, a Zenlike sensation of being completely in the present -- it's thrilling and awe-inspiring and somehow grounding.
Timmerman has been eyeing his wrist altimeter. After maybe 35 seconds of free-fall, he deploys our chute at 5,500 feet. It's more of a jerk than I expect, but it's followed by what becomes my favorite part of the experience: seven minutes under canopy, floating to the ground with the parachute open overhead. Timmerman offers me a turn at the steering toggles. I want to hover forever like a rough-legged hawk, mesmerized by the view, but all too soon we're finishing with a soft, standing landing -- in a field of corn stubble.
Club members usually get a case of beer for landing so off the mark, but since Lasoya didn't get any photos, my reward is another jump. While awaiting my next flight, I talk with club members who emphasize that, for them, skydiving is more than a once-in-a-lifetime event; it's a sport with seemingly endless permutations. Instead of just falling, they play in the air, building formations of ever-increasing numbers of jumpers. They tell of skydivers surfing the air on boards and the Parachutists Over Phorty club. Steve Walker, whose goal is to jump in every state, shares his logbook, which includes photos of his jumps over Slovenia and into a 13-person formation.
On my second descent, when muscle memory is supposed to take over, it lapses -- big time. This jump, instead of one extra tumble, we make six or seven. But Timmerman adroitly pulls up my arms into the spread-eagle arch and releases our chute. Back on terra firma, Lasoya (who doesn't get any photos this time, either) notes that I'd assumed the "reverse arch," essentially turning us into a human cannonball. The average tandem free-fall is 30 seconds at 120 mph. Let's not do the math for this attempt.
When telling friends about this assignment, I'd billed it as one of the perks of my job. They wondered if I should be getting workers' comp. Well, I lived to tell this tale -- no thanks to me, one of Tri-State's worst students ever, I suspect. Fortunately my tandem guide was always in complete control. The club has a 30-plus-year safety record and instructors whose passion for the sport is infectious. Says Heiar, "No matter what's going on in your life, when you skydive, you forget about all your problems." He's right.
Originally published in Wisconsin Trails magazine.