My malfunction was called tension knots. A parachute consists of a pack tray, risers, suspension lines, and a canopy. Some of my suspension lines had looped themselves around part of my canopy and knotted up, deforming my canopy and causing a spirited spin to the right. There was no proven treatment for releasing tension knots. It was adventure time.
I was so far away from the rest of the group that I could scarcely discern even a single other canopy in the sky. I couldn’t tell how fast my rate of descent was because I did not have a thing or anybody to gauge my descent rate. I couldn’t see my drop zone (DZ—the destination where I was supposed to land), but knew I was flying in the opposite direction that I needed to go. I let up on my left brake somewhat, and I made a slow right turn full about. I could see an Army airfield in the distance and knew my DZ was in that direction. Below me was the interstate. To my surprise, I noted I was moving faster than the cars below and understood that the winds aloft were swift and backing. I was comforted and astounded at the same time.
My training with respect to cutaway (release my deformed parachute and transition to my reserve parachute) of my main canopy began to scroll through my head. Although completely backward, I did, in fact, have a steerable/controllable canopy, but my rate of descent remained a mystery. All my technical thoughts came to rest with the ultimate principle: I, and I alone, must make the determination to cut away. My altitude was still upwards of 13,000 feet. I would ride this canopy down to 6,000 feet and make my final decision based on the performance of my equipment. I continued to make subtle right-turn adjustments to keep me on azimuth toward the Army airfield. The DZ was somewhere that way.
At 6,000 feet, I came to the conclusion that I had grown too fond of my main canopy to chop it. We had come this far together, and I resolved that this captain was going down with his ship. We would ride it in together, and I would auger us into the dirt.
As I approached the Army airfield, it occurred to me that, without making more aggressive maneuvers, I would, in fact, come down inside the compound, where several Blackhawk helicopters sat with their rotors turning. When it rains it pours; I was coming down onto a human blender.
I spotted a dry creek bed with what appeared to be sand to my right about a hundred meters outside the airfield fence. I left my left brake up high and made a hard right turn toward the creek. I hoped the airfield control tower could see me and would keep the helos grounded long enough for me to get the hell out of their airspace. I was under 1,000 feet now. I could tell my rate of descent was faster than normal, but I deemed it manageable if I could make it to the soft sand. I was incredibly amped and eager to get it over with.
As I approached the ground, the warm ground turbulence started to bounce my canopy in such a way that the tension knots released and I began a violent spin again, in a counterclockwise direction this time. The remedy was simple enough. I just unwrapped the brake cord from my left hand and let it go. There, I flew at 500 ft. AGL with a perfectly controllable main canopy, headed right for my sandy creek bed. Prepare to land, land!
I came down soft but did a parachute landing fall (PLF) nonetheless, probably just to strip away any last would-be risk from my already harrowing jump. I sat in the sand for a moment, kissing my imaginary rosary. So this was terra firma once again. I had bull’s-eyed the creek bed and sat in warm, soft sand. Sage was all around, gracing my new landing zone with a sweet scent. The heat was just something I was inclined to notice at the time. I had no injuries to speak of beyond that to my pride.
At once, I saw one of our instructor trucks racing up to my location. I sheepishly began to recover my parachute and only at that moment did I notice that I had placed my ripcord over my wrist as I learned to do in training even during my initial spin-out at 17,000 feet. At least one thing had gone right on this jump; the day was not totally lost.
From the truck emerged Mr. Ray Frovarp, a retired military bad-ass who worked as a senior authority in our unit parachute rigger shed. Ray was lean and strong with a sincere face giving me a thoughtful assessment as he made long strides toward my position. He helped me recover my parachute in silence—no ass-chewing, no smart remarks, nothing. As we drove to the drop zone, I marveled at how far away I had landed.
There was an awkwardness on the ride back to the school as I looked out the window pretending to be interested in the jack-shit featureless view of desert nothing along the way. Ray finally asked me what happened. “I had some wicked tension knots, Ray. I don’t know how the hell that happened.” Ray told me that the next time I packed my chute to call him over during the step where we stowed our suspension lines into the rubber retaining bands. I told him I would.
That was it for the day. We returned to our hotel rooms and turned in, psyching ourselves out for the next round of problem-solving the following day would bring. I engaged in packing my parachute for the first jump. I struggled with the usual steps. “Rigger check; clear wind channels!” I shoved my sloppily folded canopy into the way-too-tiny deployment bag. “Hey, man…garbage in, garbage out,” my bud cautioned. “Bro, garbage is all I got when it comes to packing. Worry about yourself,” was my feeble retort. I came to the step to stow suspension lines in the rubber bands and paused. Ray suddenly appeared without me calling for him. He watched me stow the first fistful of suspension lines and stopped me. He pulled them free and calmly talked me through the process, demonstrating, then having me replicate his technique.
I had nothing but smooth jumps from then on in. Even my night combat equipment oxygen jump was smooth. Ray Frovarp had been the quintessence of a professional. He knew how to communicate with raw, audacious operators. I never let up on my gratitude to Ray for how he had handled my situation. The many more times I saw him at the rigger shed, he always greeted me with, “How’s it going, George?” I always responded with something like, “It’s going great, thanks to you, Ray.” He would let loose an ear-spanning grin, and we would go our separate ways. That’s the way support rolled in Delta: the best people, the best attitudes, some of the best souls in the military.
Geo sends.
—
Disclaimer: SOFREP utilizes AI for image generation and article research. Occasionally, it’s like handing a chimpanzee the keys to your liquor cabinet. It’s not always perfect and if a mistake is made, we own up to it full stop. In a world where information comes at us in tidal waves, it is an important tool that helps us sift through the brass for live rounds.
COMMENTS