In the blink of an eye

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Some of you may have noticed this blog is sponsored by Heidi Cave. Heidi’s my wife and without her support I wouldn’t have found my way back to the sky to pursue my dream of becoming a professional skydiver.

In our house we believe in pursuing dreams and Heidi’s just had one of her own come true. She’s signed with a Literary Agent and a publisher to have her memoir Fancy Feet published. Here’s the synopsis:

Are you going to be a victim—or a survivor? That’s the question 23-year-old Heidi Cave had to face after a serious car crash killed her best friend, left her in a coma, burned 52% of her body, and cost her both her legs. Thrust into a world of unimaginable pain, fear and confusion Heidi struggles to piece together what remains of her life. Though determined to return to ordinary, Heidi learned to embrace the extraordinary and find within herself strength, beauty, and a relentless hope.

In celebration of Heidi’s accomplishment, I’d like to introduce you to her story through this short piece I wrote a while back that reveals how my life changed forever on June 12, 1998…

Heidi, my girlfriend of six weeks, had been in a car crash. She’d been t-boned on the passenger side of her small car by a ‘70s era muscle car travelling at over 110 kilometres per hour. Heidi’s car flew through the air, flipped into a ravine and caught fire. Her best friend was now dead and Heidi was left fighting for her life. With burns to over 52% of her body, she’d been rushed to Vancouver General Hospital.

In the VGH ER, a nurse escorted Heidi’s father and I to a small examination room. We had only known each other for a few hours, having been introduced during the forty five minute drive to the hospital, trailing well behind the ambulance that had rushed Heidi toward her best chance at survival.

The room consisted of nothing more than a blue curtain drawn across a five foot opening to hide us within three stark white walls. As we sat on the two plastic chairs pressed against the back of the tiny room, I absently gazed at dozens of dark marks on the side walls. These were undoubtedly the scuff marks left from countless children’s shoes as they took their own turn in these chairs. I imagined them kicking their feet forward and back in discomfort and nervous anticipation of the unknown, only to be scolded by their anxious mothers who rebuked them more out of habit than any real concern for the property.

There was nothing to say. No hopeful words of encouragement were applicable. We both knew we were going to receive tragic news. We were simply waiting to discover how bad it would be.

After several minutes, the curtain was drawn back and a young, kind looking Doctor entered. He introduced himself and explained that he had been examining Heidi and was responsible for deciding what immediate action would give her the best chance of survival.

“Heidi’s lower body has sustained incredible trauma.” he began, “The swelling in her legs was so severe from the burns that we were afraid it was restricting her circulation. So we cut into her legs to relieve the pressure. What we discovered is Heidi’s left leg is severely damaged but may still be useful. However, her lower right leg is damaged beyond repair.” He stopped speaking to the both of us and turned all his attention to Heidi’s father. “We believe it is necessary to remove Heidi’s right foot and part of her leg below the knee, in order to give her a chance. And we need your permission to perform the surgery.”

Heidi’s father sighed deeply. He squeezed his hands together nervously as his eyes roamed around the room, his mind searching for the correct response. His heavy German accent broke the silence, “Are there any other tests you can do? Maybe there is something that can be done.”

The Doctor’s face was clearly compassionate as he spoke, “Mr. Kroeker, forgive me for being blunt, but Heidi’s right leg is literally cooked like a piece of meat. There is nothing that can be done to save it. If we don’t remove it, it will kill her.” After a moment, he looked down at his clip board in an effort to give Heidi’s father the space he needed to make the most difficult decision of his life.

Heidi’s father turned to me, “What do you think?” The Doctor’s gaze followed.

I responded, “If it’s like he says, I can’t imagine anything else that could be done. He’s the Doctor. If it were my decision, I would let him do whatever he thinks he should do to save her life.”

Heidi’s father thought for several more seconds. “Ok.” his focus returning to the doctor “Please do whatever you can to save her.”

“We are Mr. Kroeker. We’re doing everything we can.”

The doctor held the clipboard while Heidi’s father shakily scrawled his name on a piece of paper, signing away his daughters past and preparing the way for many surgeries to come.

*******

The ICU family room wasn’t your typical waiting room. This one felt like it had been given a little more thought in design. The series of other waiting rooms that had led me to this one all felt as though they’d been added to the building as an afterthought and the space had been reluctantly conceded by the other more important parts of the building. This one was equipped for people whom would be waiting a long time. The couches and chairs felt comfortable at first but quickly lost their charm as your muscles discovered the lack of support. During the night these couches pulled out into even less comfortable beds. While the room was welcoming and warm, it ultimately failed in its efforts to conceal the fact that you were sitting in a place where death knocked often.

Heidi’s mom stood up as I entered the ICU family room. She looked worried and had been crying, which wasn’t unexpected, that’s what people do in places like this. But something was different today. Her eyes conveyed a sense of urgency. There was a question in them.

“Heidi’s awake.” She stated in her Germain accent.

“What?” I’d heard her but I needed a second to let the words sink in.

“Heidi’s awake and she won’t stop crying. You need to go talk to her.”

“ok.”

This was the moment I’d been praying for but the joy I was expecting didn’t arrive. There was nothing hopeful or triumphant about this moment. I simply found myself present in a cold reality, aware of the conversation I knew was about to take place. Were it not for love, I would have had no reason not to turn and walk away. Only love could give me the strength to walk the path appearing before me.

“The doctors turned down the drugs that were keeping her asleep. Her Dad and I tried to talk to her but she just keeps crying.”

“ok.”

The reality began to take shape in my mind. “She doesn’t know anything. She’s been lying there, unconsciously fighting for her life for every second of every day for the past two weeks.”

“I’ll tell the nurse you’d like to go in.”

“ok”

“There’s so much to tell her. Where do you start? How do you tell somebody they’ve lost everything they thought they would have forever?”

As Heidi’s mom left the room, I sat down on the small couch and stared at the floor. In just a few short minutes the door opened again as Heidi’s mom returned with one of the nurses I had come to recognize, “Hi Scott, come on in. Heidi’s awake and wants to see you.”

“ok”

As I stood up, I noticed the pile of paper cranes on the table across the family room had grown again since yesterday. Behind them, the Asian woman spoke quietly to a teenage girl as they both focused on the little birds forming in their hands. I followed the nurse out as she turned to lead me down the now familiar maze of hallways toward Heidi’s ICU room.

You can continue reading Heidi’s story in her own words on her blog, Fancy Feet

The Accident Chain Part 2

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In The Accident Chain Part 1 I explained that, in aviation circles, the accident chain is the concept that most accidents are not isolated events but the culmination of a series of related factors. If any one of these factors is eliminated, the accident cannot occur.

What prompted the post was a string of these related factors that began to assemble themselves in my world on Feb. 4th.:

I was making my first jumps of the year. Blowing off the dust that had accumulated on my rig over the past three months. The first load was going to be a hop ‘n pop. Nobody wanted to go too high, this was Canada in February and I had a reason of my own to favor a low exit. Earlier that week I’d inspected my gear to make sure the manufacturer had configured and attached a new line set properly. A sub-terminal opening seemed like a good idea.

I sat in the jump seat next to the pilot of the Cessna 206 and watched as the other jumpers left one by one. With a nod to the pilot I tumbled out the door and watched as the airplane flew away from me. As the wind grew louder, I reached behind me, threw out my pilot chute and waited. The parachute slammed on the brakes and pulled back hard on my shoulders. The abrupt opening got my attention but left me flying on-heading, comfortably seated in my harness. I flared, turned and dove. Everything was in working order. Three smiles greeted me as I gently planed out and took two steps to finish off my landing. I was pleased.

Link 1: The distracted packer

I walked back to the hangar to repack my gear. I was met by my two kids, ages 6 and 8. They were excited to have seen me jump and were having fun at the DZ. I started packing while trying to keep an eye on them. They’re getting smarter these days but I wanted to be sure they didn’t get into trouble with all the aircraft and parachute equipment in the area.

There was talk of a second load. The air had been surprisingly warm at altitude and we all wanted to get up to the 8500ft ceiling. I packed somewhat quickly but not hastily. As kids and skydivers alike chattered away excitedly, I wrapped the center cell of my canopy around itself and laid it on the ground. I tucked everything into a neat cocoon and slid off to the side to begin s-folding my wing into a neat stack. But when I turned toward my container, I saw my slick new lines slumped on the floor, disheveled and loose. These new lines had a mind of their own. With mild frustration, I pulled the canopy back up over my shoulder. The other jumpers were aIready zipping zippers and clipping clips. I hastily tightened up my lines and re-wrapped the tail.

Link 2: Changing the plan

On my second jump, we launched a 4-way from 8k. I dove out and arched hard, straining to stop myself from tumbling over-top the formation. As we leveled out, the jumper opposite me had disappeared. I quickly spotted him slightly below us, spread out and staring down at the earth, thinking light thoughts. He rejoined the group and on queue we broke to form our second point. This time it was me who slid down and away. I spread myself out and took my own turn admiring our planet. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the other jumpers waving me in. I drove my legs out behind me and sprinted toward the formation. My audible altimeter beeped a warning just as a hand clasped around my wrist. With our second point completed, the formation burst apart as the other three jumpers tracked away. I opted for vertical separation over horizontal and immediately tossed my pilot chute into the wind. It was a split second decision so my intention to dump in place hadn’t been communicated prior to exit. Activation occurred at 3600ft. My parachute opened normally, on heading and square. As soon as I was stopped I looked down and to my right to see another jumper flying about 100-200ft below me in the opposite direction. I guessed he’d had a 180 on opening. Normally I’ll try to locate the DZ while I’m tracking. But without having done any tracking and being focused on the other canopy, I’d lost my positional awareness.

Link 3 Getting lost in the problem

With a square parachute above my head, I reached up and pulled down my toggles. All seemed normal as I gently swung out in front of my canopy. But as I let the toggles up, my canopy lurched out in front of me, aggressively diving into a left hand spiral. I quickly pulled the toggles back down, thinking my left toggle had gotten stuck in the brake loop. Immediately the canopy went back into level flight. I inspected the brake line. The toggle was clean. I let the toggles back up, hoping the source of my troubles had cleared itself. But as soon as I moved my hands, my wing drove hard. Back into the dive. I pumped the brakes again, deeply. Once. Twice. All the while scanning the lines for gremlins. The canopy was acting like the left side was stuck in half brakes but I couldn’t figure out what was causing the behavior. Tentatively, I eased the left toggle up to meet the stop ring; warding off the impending dive by keeping the right toggle half way down. Having found fragile stability, I carefully explored my ablility to steer to the left by raising my right toggle and to the right by pulling it all the way down. I had directional control but it didn’t fill me with confidence. In essence, I was flying around in half brakes and slow flight, quickly drifting down wind. I was still not aware of my position over the ground. Ultimately, I decided I didn’t really want to keep this parachute after all. Bleeding precious altitude, my awareness descended down to my emergency handles.

My N3 altimeter would later tell me I spent almost a full minute trying to solve the problem. By this point in the jump the chain was well defined, growing longer with each passing second. I was in danger.

Breaking the chain

It was most likely the hasty pack job that lead to the steering problem. Though I never did find any concrete evidence as to its source. I’d lost situational awareness when I changed my dive flow plan at the last second and had developed some serious tunnel vision as I attempted to deal with the issues. On top of these bad decisions, I finally made a good one:

I had the presence of mind to check my altitude before I allowed my hands to follow my mind down to my handles.

A quick glance at my altimeter told me I was already down at 1200ft. 600 ft. below my pre-assigned decision altitude. If I’m still trying to decide if I’m going to keep my parachute at 1800ft, it’s supposed to be time for plan B. But I’d missed my opportunity for a safe cutaway. I decided there was less risk in piloting my crippled canopy than in a low chop. I committed to landing what I had.

I finally spotted the DZ and quickly realized I wasn’t going to make it so I looked for an alternate. I was over some blueberry fields which consist of row upon row of high-tension wires stretched out at chest height. If I had cut away at 1200ft, assuming there was no hesitation in the reserve opening, I would have found myself a couple hundred feet above the blue berry field with no “outs”.

However, from 1200ft, there was a dirt service road within gliding distance and almost on the wind line. So I made a wide right hand turn to line up with the road, being careful to keep enough forward movement to avoid fully stalling my canopy. I was still close enough to the DZ to read the windsock and saw there was a 8-10 knot headwind about 15 degrees off the line of the road. So I put in a slight turn to crab straight down the road. I had a good ground track going and didn’t want to risk destabilizing or stalling my canopy so I committed to landing in half brakes and prepared for a PLF. The ground rushed up toward me and kept it’s momentum as my feet then legs, body and arms tumbled into it. Finally, I found myself at rest, all my parts in their proper place.

Summary

In the end, this jump worked out very well for me. I learned more on this jump about myself and safety than in the previous fifty jumps combined. I’m thankful for the experience but it’s not one I’m hoping to re-live.

Had I not been within range of the access road, I would have been landing in the blue berries. Not a pleasant thought. Had there been a rock or stick poking out on the access road I would have sustained serious injury during my PLF. In the end, luck was on my side and with a little help from training and preparation a couple of good decisions ensured the accident chain was never completed.

The Accident Chain Part 1

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Most pilots could tell you about the Accident Chain. It’s the concept that most accidents are not isolated events but the culmination of a series of related factors. If any one of these factors is eliminated, the accident cannot occur. For example:

When I was about 11 years old, my friend’s dad was giving me a ride home in his car. As we drove down an unlit road, the car’s electrical system failed. The engine died and all the vehicle’s lights went out, flooding our world in darkness. He applied the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. Suddenly, there was a loud BANG! and a thousand cracks ripped through the windshield. We’d struck a pedestrian.

This accident could have been blamed on simple bad luck. The driver wasn’t speeding or intoxicated and the pedestrian was walking several feet away from the edge of the lane. It was merely coincidence that brought the two together so violently. But, like many accidents, the parties involved could have made simple decisions that would have likely prevented the accident.

The driver wasn’t a wealthy man and the car was fairly old. It’s likely the vehicle hadn’t been inspected by a mechanic in months, if not years. Had the vehicle been brought in for regular service by a trained professional, whatever mechanical problem caused the electrical failure may have been spotted and repaired before it led to total failure.

The pedestrian was dressed all in black. If he knew he was going to be walking down an unlit road at night he could have chosen to wear brighter colors or carry a light with him. This might have allowed the driver to spot him from a greater distance before the lights went out. I’ve no doubt the driver would have chosen a different response to the sudden darkness if he’d known there was a person on the side of the road. The pedestrian could have also chosen to walk on the other side of the road so that he was facing oncoming traffic. With his back to the oncoming traffic, he robbed himself of any opportunity to react to the vehicle coming toward him.

Of course we’ll never know if these alternative choices would have prevented this accident. That’s the nature of the accident chain. We only ever see it in full after the accident has occurred. In this case, the pedestrian survived; albeit with a severe concussion.

There are many things we can do to prevent skydiving accidents. The most effective choice would be to stay home and not skydive at all. This method works flawlessly for more than 99% of the population. But this is clearly not an acceptable option for those of us that find life at its richest when the side of an airplane opens up before us and we get to launch ourselves into the wind. Therefore, we must strive to equip ourselves with knowledge and habits that inhibit even the first event in an accident chain from forming. We must respect and promote things like established landing patterns, equipment checks, dive flow planning and many other activities that have been wisely programmed into our sport. Because, as a poster that has been up in our DZ hanger for at least 16 years surmises, “When the usual pattern is broken, accidents happen.”

Despite our best efforts to prevent the formation of these chains, if we keep throwing ourselves into the wind, we’ll eventually find ourselves cruising along at 120mph when a system or routine will fail. In these moments, preparation and patterns have done all they can. Our immediate decisions are all we have left.

In my next post, I’ll share the details of a jump I made last week. We’ll look at it through the lens of the accident chain and examine a series of events that could have lead to a very bad ending. But unlike most accident chain cases, we’ll get to see the decisions that finally resulted in the breaking of a chain that progressed much farther than it ever should have.

Dan BC on Michael Ungar’s death at Skydive Perris

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Dan Bronsky-Chenfeld seems to have discovered the secret to life. He knows every waking moment has the potential to be indescribably brilliant. He knows the apparent monotony of existence is merely an illusion. That reality can be far more mysterious and captivating if you simply clear your mind of presumption and allow yourself to be taught anew. He’s made the journey from who society tells us we should be, into a world of unlimited imagination.

As the General Manager of the largest dropzone on the west coast of North America, Dan may know the secret to life. But he also knows it comes at a cost. He knows that the brightness of our existence is due in part to the contrast provided by the darkness of its end. The nature of reality became all too clear once again at Skydive Perris on December 27th, 2011 when the life of 32 year old Canadian, Michael Ungar, ended as he failed to successfully execute a swoop. As Mike struck the earth, his impact with the darkness of reality created shockwaves in its light.

In the milliseconds before the accident, only Mike knew that something had gone wrong. An instant later, the darkness of reality burst outward, encompassing everyone who had been watching this highly skilled athlete perform his craft. Outside of this small sphere, life carried on unaware.

“When an accident happens at our dropzone, as one of the Safety and Training Advisors, I’m one of the first to be notified. You instantly go into emergency mode and your first thought is ‘What can we do to help?’” describes Chenfeld. “Right after the accident, very few people know what has happened. This is a good thing because a crowd can slow down emergency efforts.” In Mike’s case, any heroic efforts would prove futile.

The waves of the event quickly spread throughout the dropzone by word of mouth. We can imagine that each person, depending on their relationship to Mike reacted differently. It would strike his friends most violently. For the staff, experience and preparation would dictate their response. Those at the dropzone that day who didn’t know him would suddenly find themselves faced with the news that one of their brothers had been lost. As the ripples continued out beyond the dropzone, to emergency personnel and the media, every one of those already affected would begin to ask the inevitable question, “Why?”

“It impacts everyone in the skydiving community when one of our brothers or sisters dies. We all want to know what went wrong and what could have been done to prevent it.” explains Chenfeld, “In this case, as in most cases these days, it appears to be the result of pilot error.”

Mike had performed several successful swoops earlier that day. On his final jump, witnesses say his setup looked good and there was nothing unusual about his entry into the dive. However, as he neared the ground, instead of smoothly flying out of the dive as he normally would, Mike stabbed down on his brakes and then brought one brake up, resulting in a steep turn from which he didn’t recover. “We can’t think of any reason why he would have done that.” says Chenfeld “We don’t know what took place in his mind at that moment.”

Skydive Perris has strict rules for where and when swooping can happen. Jumpers must have at least 700 jumps under their belts and have sufficient experience with the canopy they are planning to use for swooping. Even then, most swoopers are restricted to hop ‘n pops. After repeatedly demonstrating their abilities, and a high level of situational awareness, just a handful of jumpers have been cleared to swoop after opening from a high altitude jump.  When Chenfeld explained these rules to Mike, the newcomer was understanding, respectful and compliant. “In the short time I spent with him, he came across as a good guy; smart, heads-up, not cocky.” said Chenfeld, “He understood the risks and clearly communicated what I needed to hear to be convinced that he knew what he was doing.”

The elevated risks associated with swooping have caused many dropzones to disallow it altogether. But for Chenfeld, this isn’t a part of his plan.

“The safest skydive is a static-line under a round parachute. Everything we introduce to the equation from there adds to the complexity and danger of the jump. Freeflying, CRW, wingsuits, big ways, every one of these disciplines has its own risks. So where do we draw the line?”

Chenfled continues, “Every major dropzone wants to offer a facility that lets athletes participate in the disciplines they’re into as safely as possible. For swooping, this means ensuring participants have the proper training, swoops are performed over water, and you provide for separation between swoopers and non-swoopers. And not just separate patterns but separation by time as well. If it becomes too busy for swoops to safely integrate into the traffic flow, we’ll shut them down until there’s space for them. But at the end of the day we’re jumping out of airplanes. We’ll never completely take the risk out of that. All we can do is try to make it as safe as possible.”

As the initial shock of a tragedy passes, most skydivers will find themselves reflecting on their own reasons for jumping; once again weighing the balance between fun and risk. “I think every one of us takes a step back and asks ourselves the question ‘Why do I do this? Is it worth it?’” says Chenfeld.

When asked what single action he would recommend to other dropzones to prevent accidents, Chenfeld responds passionately. “We need to make safety a part of our culture. We need to make it ok for people to ask questions and call each other on issues that could lead to an accident  We need to make it cool to be safety conscious and uncool not to be.”

“The sport is safer today because of the equipment we have available to us but at the same time it provides a false sense of security. Some new jumpers aren’t scared enough. How many jumpers are there that have thousands of jumps but have never had a malfunction? Then when it does happen, they’re surprised. They don’t react quickly. They cut late, pull the reserve late and rob themselves of the time they need to get out of a bad situation.”

“On every jump we need to expect that everything that can go wrong will go wrong. Expect a malfunction on every pull and be pleasantly surprised when your parachute opens. It doesn’t matter how much separation we have on opening, we’re all converging to land in the same area. So expect people to be close on every landing. Many of the skydiving fatalities of the last few years have been the result of experienced jumpers, doing normal jumps, colliding in a normal traffic pattern because somebody wasn’t aware of what was going on around them. Safety is maintained only as long as we keep it in mind. As soon as we stop paying attention it immediately goes away”

When any aviation related accident takes place it tends to draw media attention. Skydiving is no exception. In an effort to maintain the reputation of the sport, Chenfeld recommends a straight forward approach, “When an accident at our dropzone happens, we answer every call that comes in. We direct all media communication through a single person to ensure accurate information is delivered. If we don’t properly educate the media, they’ll make assumptions that can be damaging to the sport. Like if a jumper goes in and hasn’t pulled any of his handles, the media might report that both parachutes failed. Or they may possibly find a less experienced or ill-informed jumper to interview. It’s not pleasant but we need to be open and honest about the situation.”

Chenfeld knows first-hand what it’s like to face the dark truth of reality. While training for the World Skydiving Championships, he survived a plane crash that killed sixteen others, including one of his teammates. Chenfeld suffered a broken neck, broken skull, severe head trauma and a collapsed lung. After six weeks in a coma, he would fight back to win multiple world skydiving titles. He tells his story in his inspiring new book Above All Else available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or aboveallelsethebook.com

Skydive Perris is the largest skydiving center on the west coast of the United States. They have a fleet of three Twin Otters, two Skyvans, a Pilatus PC-6 and a DC-9 jet. The dropzone offers training at all levels of experience and puts between 120,000 and 140,000 skydivers in the air each year.

If you found this article informative, please spread the word and promote a culture of safety by using the links below.

Yes, stowing the brakes IS your responsibility

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I tuned in to the latest Skydive Radio podcast this morning as I was sweating my way to a slower fall rate. In show #161 they discuss a number of great topics including helmets, an interview with Dan BC, tandem jumps out of hot air balloons and of course monkeys. I was watching my heart rate climb to it’s near max recommended rate (don’t be impressed, I was at an embarrassingly low setting) when a segment came on addressing the question of who’s responsibility it is to stow the parachute brakes: the jumper or the packer.

I think the Skydive Radio crew would agree with me that it’s disturbing that this question even needs to be asked. When did laziness trump the value of people’s lives? The way I was taught, it is the packer’s responsibility to make sure they are handing off a safe rig when they finish their job. This means at least making sure there are no flip-throughs on 3 rings, brakes are set and safely stowed, nose, tail and line sets are clean (including excessive line twists in brake lines straightened), sliders are fully expanded and quartered through the line sets, kill lines are cocked, canopies are neatly stowed in deployment bags, lines are neatly and evenly stowed and placed in the container with just the right amount of slack, the closing loop is routed properly with just the right amount of tension, the bridle is properly routed and the pilot chute is folded and stowed in such a way as to prevent it from binding or snaking out of its home.

At my home DZ, it’s expected that the packer will set the brakes. When a camera flyer, coach or tandem instructor has to run to catch back-to-back loads, they don’t have time to worry about the gear that just brought them safely back to earth. They need to be focused on the next set of gear that is going to save their life. Students usually forget to stow their brakes and the fact is not all experienced jumpers are in the habit of setting their brakes when they land.

Even allowing this responsibility to be in question erodes what should be an industry standard. It creates a situation where an assumption could be made that could cost someone their life. I witnessed just such a situation when a packer visited our dropzone during our last boogie. He came from a DZ where lazy packers were tolerated and had become the norm. Imagine my friend’s surprise when he’d put his trust in this packer only to discover at deployment time a big ball of shit above his head that quickly spun him into a violent auger. Fortunately, as a certified rigger, my friend had been a little more diligent when he’d packed his reserve. When questioned, the butt-hurt packer weakly protested “At my home DZ it’s not the packer’s job to set the brakes.”

Speaking as a packer myself, the question isn’t even open for debate. It is the packers responsibility to make sure they are handing off a safe rig. But with all things skydiving, the safest answer to the question of who’s responsibility safety is, the right answer is “mine”. If you’re the jumper and you stow your brakes, there’s no way the packer can overlook that step. However, if you’re not in the habit of stowing your brakes and you’re working with an unfamiliar packer, be sure to communicate your expectations with them. As they hand your rig back to you, ask them if they set the brakes. If they complain, go find another packer. If they’re too lazy to stow your brakes, what other important steps might they skip?

If you’re the packer, check to make sure the brakes are stowed EVERY TIME and if they’re not stowed, stow them without bitching about it. That’s what you’re being paid to do. If they are stowed, be thankful this jumper is doing part of your job for you. If you disagree with me, go ask your supervising rigger or the DZO what your responsibilities are. If they tell you it’s not your responsibility, please let me know so I can be sure to plan my skydiving vacations at a different DZ.

Bumper Crop for Start-Up Dropzone

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Look up in the sky over the rolling dunes of Pismo Beach, California and you’re likely to spot a very happy flying vegetable. The bright orange Cessna 206, affectionately dubbed “The Pumpkin”, has been busier than anticipated in its first official year of Skydive Pismo Beach’s operations. “We’ve had to turn people away.” exclaimed Chris Lee, the dropzone’s manager. “We weren’t expecting to be this busy so early on.”

When asked what he contributes the success to, Lee responded without hesitation, “The location. Landing our tandems right on the beach has created a great experience for our customers that they can’t get anywhere else.” Not only do his customers get to land on the beach but every jump turns into an advertisement of its own. “Our landing area is far enough away from the crowds that it doesn’t create a safety issue, but close enough that people take notice and want to check it out.” says Lee.

Most of the first time jumpers come from nearby Bakersfield and Fresno. With both cities hosting colleges, Lee was expecting most of his customers to be student males looking for a rush. To his surprise most of the adventure seekers have been either female students or older men and women looking to cross an item off their bucket list. 2010 census numbers show Bakersfield and Fresno have a combined population of about 850,000 residents.

The location recently garnered unexpected attention when producers of the NBC TV series Chuck were on a tight deadline and looking for a unique location to capture skydiving scenes for their series finale. Lee explains, “They wanted to shoot some footage of skydivers landing on the beach. We were perfectly setup for what they needed. It all came together very quickly.” The show brought in their own stunt jumpers, Karlee Ayers and camera flyer Craig “OB” O’Brien, but viewers may see footage of The Pumpkin, piloted by DZ staff pilot Shawn Ashby, on screen as well. The episode is expected to air on NBC on January 27, 2012.

The success of Skydive Pismo Beach hasn’t come without its challenges. It took almost three years to obtain the business licence for the dropzone. In the process major concessions had to be made. Sport jumps aren’t offered due to the tight restrictions placed on the DZ by San Luis Obispo County. With complicated coastal weather patterns and an abundance of physical obstructions in the area, the county would only give the green light under the condition that jumps be limited to skydivers holding a USPA D License. Summer and spring fog has also presented a challenge with the most consistent runs of jumpable days occurring in the winter months.

When asked if there were any special plans for 2012, Lee says there’s still a lot of work ahead of the start-up, “We’re still trying to get our feet under ourselves after such a great start. Next year will be another building year. We’re anticipating another increase in business starting around St. Patty’s Day when the tourist season kicks in.”

Pismo Beach is located on California’s central coast, mid-way between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Despite a local population of less than 8000, the town is a well known tourist destination with over 65 restaurants and more than 30 hotels, motels, inns and RV parks. The locals have been very welcoming to the new skydiving centre; The chamber of commerce participated in the grand opening and locals often make a trip down to the beach just to watch the parachutes.

Want to see your dropzone featured on Skydive Professional? Send me, Scott Cave, an email at scott@skydivepro.net

Dramatically increase your DZ’s facebook traffic

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The team at ProSkydiving.com has just announced the release of a free facebook app that is sure to increase the “Likes” of your DZ’s facebook page. The concept is simple:

  1. A visitor clicks to enter to win a free tandem jump
  2. The visitor is prompted to “Like” your page
  3. The visitor is prompted to enter their name and email address for the draw
  4. At the end of the contest you click a button to draw the winner.

I know first hand the power of these little contests to draw attention to your organization. In my other life I’m a project manager at a web agency. We recently ran a similar contest for a baby food company. You’d be amazed at how many people went nuts for a baby food competition.

The benefit to these contests is two-fold. First, you gain exposure through word of mouth as people tell their friends about the contest. Second, you end up with a list of people who have expressed an interest in the sport and have essentially given you permission to market to them. In today’s attention economy, this permission is incredibly valuable.

While you COULD just take the email list and load it into your desktop email software, you SHOULD be using a service like mailchimp or constant contact to send your email campaigns. The reporting you’ll get back from these services is incredibly detailed. Plus they’ll show you the best practices for sending mass email and will provide the very important requirement of giving your recipients the option to unsubscribe from future mailings .

The app is super simple to install on your page. Following the directions of the installation video, I was able to install it on the Skydive Professional facebook page in about 5 minutes. However, the Skydive Professional Pilatus Porter is currently undergoing imaginary maintenance in an imaginary hangar so I figured I’d better take it down.

My path to becoming a Skydive Professional

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Sometime in the mid ’80s, at the age of eight or nine, I was sitting next to my big sister in the back seat of my parent’s bright orange 1972 Volvo. We were driving through the interior of British Columbia, Canada, on our way to visit friends. As we drove through the mountains, my dad pointed up into the sky and said “Hey kids, look up there… hang gliders.” As I pressed my cheek up against the window I spotted the two hang gliders, lazily chasing each other through the sky. In that moment, I knew that one day I would join them.

In 1995 I was living in Whistler, BC. My friend Mike told me he’d recently started skydiving. He’d already made a couple jumps and was working through his progressive free fall levels. Though I had often thought about skydiving, this was the first time I’d met someone who was actively doing it. I asked Mike to help me connect with the dropzone. The two of us then arranged to meet at the DZ on a day when I could take the first jump course. The day before my jump was booked, I hitch hiked the 130 miles (215 km) from my home in Whistler, BC to the dropzone near Qualicum Beach on Vancouver Island.

My first jump was an instructor assisted deployment out of a Cessna 182. I don’t remember leaving the plane but I do remember being under my parachute wondering why I wasn’t receiving any directions from the ground crew. My radio had failed so it was up to me to fly myself home. Fortunately, I’d grown up in the right seat of my dad’s cessna 170 so I had a pretty good idea of how to fly a proper circuit.

The landing area was a fairly large cow pasture surrounded by trees. On final approach, I remember looking down between my feet, watching as the instructor who was supposed to show me how to land my parachute disappeared behind me. When I looked up, I got my one and only experience of “tree rush”. I hammered on the toggles and swung out in front of my canopy. Still some twenty feet above the ground, I realized I hadn’t finished flying yet. Amazingly, I actually remembered the training that told me to only let up my toggles half way if I found myself in just such a situation.

With my toggles near my shoulders I transitioned back into forward flight. As the ground came up to meet me, I pulled my handles all the way down and gently reunited with the earth. My canopy continued forward, the top-skin brushing up against the branches of a tree as it nosed into the tree’s trunk.

An hour later, my instructor smiled as I watched her fly away in the red and white C182 I had just fallen from for my second jump. “FOUR THOUSAND! FIVE THOUSAND! CHECK CANOPY!” Without a doubt, I’d found my home. It was in the sky.

That same year, my sister bought me an introductory flight lesson for my birthday. Before the end of the flight, I was already making plans to move back to my home town of Abbotsford, BC to begin my flight training.

I would only do three jumps in 1996. But through the winter months of 1997 I’d complete my first semester of flight school and start my training to become a full-time packer at Skydive Vancouver, Abbotsford’s local DZ. That summer, I became a true skydiver. I lived on the DZ in a tent, cooked most of my meals on a bbq and fell through the sky every chance I got. By the end of the season I didn’t have a penny to my name but I’d logged about 70 jumps.

The following summer, everything changed. I’d been dating a girl for about six weeks when I received a phone call, “Is this Scott Cave?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know Heidi Kroeker?”

“Yes, she’s my girlfriend.”

“Heidi’s been in an accident and her parents would like you to come down to the hospital.”

“Is she ok?”

“We’ll give you more details when you arrive Mr. Cave.”

I would discover that Heidi was not “ok”. She had been t-boned on the passenger side of her small Japanese car by a reckless driver traveling at over 70mph (115km/hr). Heidi’s best friend was killed on impact. Her car had flown through the air, landed upside-down in a ravine an caught fire. Heidi would sustain burns to 52% of her body as she remained trapped in her burning car until firefighters could arrive to pull her out.

Heidi would spend the next 13 months in the hospital. Enduring almost 30 surgeries and eventually having both her feet amputated due to the burns.

Needless to say, this put my skydiving career on hold. Heidi survived and we were married in November of 2000. Helping Heidi to recover, spending any real time at the dropzone just wasn’t in the cards. I would get out a few times per summer but each year I would do fewer and fewer jumps. With the birth of my daughter in 2003, I would stop jumping altogether. (visit heidicave.com to learn more about my amazing wife’s journey)

My parachute would remain packed for almost five years. Until one day in 2009, I found myself in my home, staring at my rig. I put it on and tightened up the straps. Once again, in a moment, I knew that it was time to return to my home in the sky.

With my wife’s support and encouragement, the summers of 2009 and 2010 were focused into a solitary goal: earning a slot as a camera flyer. Almost every jump was committed to improving my belly skills in an effort to win the spot.

I’d taken a job at a website development agency that was just a 10 minute drive from the DZ. I’d cleared it with my boss to allow me to start my days early. This would allow me to take a two hour break at lunch to try to squeeze in a jump or two. On August 12, 2011, I took one of these two hour lunches.

I arrived at the DZ around noon to find a pile of tandem parachutes, waiting for attention on the packing floor. I picked one up, ran the lines and hauled it up over my shoulder. As I was packing, I kept my eye out for a tandem instructor. By now, they’d learned to expect me to ask if I could chase them to practice my camera work.

I spotted the dropzone owner in conversation with one of the tandem instructors. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but they were looking in my direction. The instructor left the conversation and approached me, “Scott, is your camera ready to go?”

“Yeah”

“We’re short our regular camera flyers today. Get your gear on. You’re flying camera for me on the next load.”

“Holy shit.”

And so began my career as a professional skydiver. By the end of the season I would log another twenty paid jumps.

I have a long road ahead of me to achieve the skill level I’m aiming for, this is only the beginning. Next season I will have everything in place. I’ve purchased the piles of gear, endured the hazing of the tandem instructors and packed until my blisters had blisters. Next season is when it truly begins.

In the meantime, as the temperatures drop below freezing, I will work on bringing my commercial pilot’s license back up to speed. I will also invest my time continuing to learn as much as I can about our industry: Where it’s come from, how it survives and where it’s going. I want to learn how to grow it so there is room for more people who would call the sky their home if only they could discover it. The Skydive Professional website will chronicle this journey and will be my way of giving back.

I hope you’ll find value in this site. I’ll do my best to provide information that is enlightening, entertaining and inspiring. This site is for the people who have, in one form or another, committed themselves to the most incredible experience nature has to offer. Skydiving.

That wuffo is going to run your dropzone one day.

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Not every tandem student is coming after your DZ, but everyone of us had a first jump experience. Every skydiver who has and will have the privilege of calling themselves a professional once looked up at the sky and wondered what it would be like to touch it with their bare hands. This is exactly why new jumpers are so important. Because skydivers aren’t born, they’re made. And if we don’t take care to make new ones, we could go extinct. It’s already happened in isolated areas.

There’s an article written by Sydney Owen currently posted on blueskiesmag.com that got me thinking about this. There’s an awkward phase in every skydiver’s journey that occurs somewhere between jumps 25 and 100. Sydney calls it the black hole. I call it the solo trap because I have way too many jumps in the first few pages of my log book with the comment “solo-nely”. I was a shy newbie.

I don’t know the actual stats but I’m willing to bet there are more jumpers with 40-50 jumps in their log books than there are with just 50 – 100. I suspect there’s a pretty high attrition rate in these low double digit jumps. Whatever the reason a person decides to stop jumping after having invested in getting cleared for solo, it’s a big loss for a DZ.

This is particularly true for dropzones that aren’t found near the ocean in the lower half of North America. Some dropzones stop growing because there aren’t enough skilled people to do the work. The DZO could ramp up the marketing and buy a bigger airplane but it wouldn’t matter because the tandem masters are already maxed.

If we’re going to grow this business, we need to take care of our baby skydivers. They’re the packers > coaches > camera fliers > instructors > DZOs of the future. It won’t take a miracle to dramatically reduce the attrition rate. All you need is at least one experienced person on your DZ willing to make an effort to see the newbies through from “cleared for self supervision” to being comfortable on their own around the DZ. But start soon. It’s probably going to take a minimum of three years to make enough tandem masters to fill that shiny new turbine you’ve been dreaming of.

Which reminds me… I did way too much packing last season. Anyone know someone who’s good with their hands and dreams they can fly?