When I was eleven, Dad decided he wanted to jump out of a plane. Fair enough. One fine weekend, we set off for the airfield in mid-state Massachusetts. Mum and us kids waited while Dad sat in on the pre-jump training. I have a vague memory of a huge open shed and parachutes being laid out and folded.

The parachute bundles were strapped to the backs of the half dozen or so young men about to make their maiden jump. They made their way to the little airplane which would take them 1800 feet into the air and drop them over the landing zone.

It was explained to us that this would be a static line jump, meaning the parachute is opened by a mechanism that pulls the ripcord as the jumper exits the aircraft. It was a requirement to do at least 5 of these before being in charge of pulling the ripcord yourself.

We watch in excited anticipation as the plane took off and circled the airfield, gaining height. We had been told that Dad would be the fourth to exit the plane.

We saw the first of the skydivers framed in the doorway of the plane. A short hesitation and he launched. The parachute strung out above him and billowed open. The plane circled the airfield, another diver appeared in the doorway and launched.

Again, the plane circled, a figure appeared in the doorway. This time, the hesitation was longer and he turned his back as if to go back into the body of the plane. The instructor pushed him out. He slipped over the threshold but grabbed on as he went down. We saw the instructor stomp on his hands until he finally let go. His chute opened okay, but he made no attempt to control it. He hung between the cords and allowed himself to be carried along into the woods alongside the airfield. As he got closer to the ground, we could see how tightly he was clenching his arms to his sides, like a clothespin off the handkerchief parachutes we used to make.

In the meantime, Dad had launched. We were torn between watching the hapless clothespin man and our father as he tried to control his descent by tugging on the cords of the chute. He tumbled to the ground on a slight rise at the edge of the airfield, outside of the designated drop zone. He struggled to his feet. He was basically okay.

The remaining skydivers launched and landed, then the search was on for the clothespin man. It seemed like everyone at the airfield joined in. We found him a couple of hundred yards in, dangling from a tree, about twenty feet in the air. He had a frozen look of fear on his face but he was okay. We left it to the experts to get him safely to ground and returned to find out how our Dad had fared.

He had landed awkwardly and sprained his leg, but he was exhilarated by the experience. I was determined I, too, would jump from a plane.

I never have. It has always seemed like a frivolous way to spend money. There’s still a chance, though.

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