The second time Dad made a jump, he booked a glider flight for Mum. The glider was a training craft, which meant that the passenger seat, which was behind the pilot, had a joystick which mimicked the actions of the one controlled by the pilot. This was in case the trainee pilot lost the plot and the instructor had to take control. I guess it also meant the instructor could monitor the pilot’s technique.

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Mum was nine months pregnant and she could barely get into the seat. When she did, it became obvious that her large belly was in danger of being attacked by the joystick.

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So I got to fly in a glider! It was the most amazing thing I had ever done. Once the tow plane had dropped the tow line, there was a magical quiet. Not a silence, but the quiet sigh of the wind as we moved through the clear sky over the woods and the still, dark blue water of the Quabbin Reservoir.

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There were times like that when I knew I was privileged to be the eldest child.

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Once we came to Australia, there really wasn’t the money for jumping out of planes for no reason. Somehow, though, Dad managed to find enough money in 1971. The airfield was Labertouche, in west Gippsland, which is farming country.

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I had Dad’s Honda 350 at the time because he’d lost his licence for drink-driving. The deal was that I would take him to his counselling appointments in the city in return for use of the motorbike. I had sold my little Suzuki Stinger because I couldn’t afford to keep it. I continued to ride even when pregnant, as my biker Mum had assured me it was quite safe.

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As a little aside, the first time I took Dad pillion on the 350, I nearly lost him. He didn’t put his arms around me, probably because I was pregnant, but hung on to the seat under him. I eased out of the driveway and onto the road, all good, time for second gear. I wasn’t quite prepared for the thrust, nor was Dad. He was thrown backwards and grabbed for my braids! The front of the bike left the ground, instinct took over, and we both bent ourselves forward, keeping the bike on the road and in a straight line.

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I think Dad pretty much trusted my riding, but he would bring is knees in when I was splitting traffic, even though there was a rollbar which stuck out beyond his knees.

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Back to skydiving. I took him on the Honda to Labertouche and was witness to the following unlikely little incident.

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Dad exited the plane and the static line opened the parachute just fine. He guide the chute so it stayed more or less over the drop zone.

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A cow had wandered on to edge of the zone onto what should have been a safe spot. Except that Dad noticed her and became fixated. It seemed the more he tried to avoid her, the closer he got, until – yep, he landed on top of her, legs astride, just near her rump. She took off, and Dad flew backwards, tangling himself in the cords.

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Cows don’t have pigtails to hang on to!