And then it happened. My head was filled with a flash of white light as my bro, Jace B., and I collided hard immediately off the ramp. Our “piece” broke apart and gents when cartwheeling, flipping, spinning, and rolling in all directions. I detected very quickly that I could barely breathe like someone was holding a cloth over my nose and mouth. I wasn’t getting any O2 through my mask.
In my collision with Jace B., my brass O2 lever and been flipped to the off position. I flailed my right hand down to where my 02 bottle should have been. That movement caused me to go unstable and flip. I looked out at the jumpers around me. All color was gone, and the scene became something like a black-and-white cartoon. I knew I was blacking out.
Subject to our AFF training was a trip to conduct training in and altitude chamber. The chamber could be depressurized to simulate different altitudes to introduce students to the effects of a rarefied oxygen atmosphere. One of the drills consisted of a volunteer removing his oxygen mask and performing a simple puzzle, such as pushing different shaped blocks through their corresponding holes in a wooden panel.
My good friend Mac volunteered, dropped his mask, and commenced to plug away at the holes with ease, all the while reciting Steve McQueen lines from the movie Papillion, “I feel alright, but… how do I look?” Slowly, Mac began making mistakes. Eventually, he could no longer get a single block through a single hole. He suddenly stopped and lifted his head to a 1000-yard stare. The instructor quickly reconnected Mac’s O2 mask.
Then, we were all instructed to disconnect and drop our 02 masks. Within seconds, the instructor passed out black and white maps to each student and told us to study them. We did, and after a brief spell, we were told to reconnect our masks and continue to study the maps. Within seconds, my black-and-white map slowly started to reveal colors: violet, blue, green, yellow, and red. I was fascinated. The exercise demonstrated how the oxygen-starved brain fails to process colors. If the starvation continues, the subject will lose consciousness.
My view darkened and went black. The next thing I remember was seeing the landscape below me slowly fade in, and it was in color! I shook my head and checked my altimeter. I was at about 5,000 feet, meaning it was almost time for my pull sequence, and I was sucking in hard to squeeze more and more air between my mask and face into my lungs.
As I quickly looked up to regain my circle of awareness, I was startled to see Sergeant Major C. M. flying three feet from my nose, rendering a fierce, piercing stare. He had seen me falling and knew there was something wrong. He flew in close to watch me and, if necessary, pull my ripcord to save my life.
I gave Sergeant Major C. M. a quick and snappy thumbs up to assure him that my wits were recovered, and I waved off. The wave-off is an arm signal to other jumpers that you are starting your pull sequence. Once under canopy, I finally unhooked my O2 mask and sucked in six liters of oxygen-rich atmosphere. I studied the ground below to assess how far off I was from my landing target.
I was amazed to realize I was not at all off and would be able to land on target. It occurred to me that I fell more stable when I was unconscious than conscious; no back sliding or sideways crabbing. I performed downwind and crosswind runs and then turned into the wind for a soft standup landing.
I stood for a while and did nothing but contemplate how much I hated jumping, and the old cliche “when it rains, it pours” kept running through my mind. It dawned on me that both of my hands were stinging quite a bit. I pulled off my flight gloves to see that both of them were quite red, and in the coming days, the thin layer of epidermis covering my hands would flake and peel away. My hands had been frost-nipped by the extreme cold and lack of movement.
Jace B. came jogging up as I gathered my hateful parachute. “George! Are you ok? Was that you I collided with?” he asked.
“I just want a beer, Jace,” I whined. “But you know Jace,” I continued, “I am going to count that as credit for a midair linkup for you and me!”
Sergeant Major C. M. was next in line to check on me. “Ok, so??” he shrugged. I told him my sob story, and he had me go repeat it to the head rigger. In the end, my position was that, although it was easier for everyone to be coddled on the aircraft by the riggers when it came time to turn on our personal O2 system, I didn’t like that we weren’t familiarized enough with our equipment to turn our own supply on and off.
Also, let’s keep one thing straight: I hate jumping! Geo sends.
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Editor’s Note: Let’s all do Geo a solid. Go out and buy his book and visit his website. I promise it’s all good stuff. — GDM
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