Far Out
The first public parachute jump by Louis-Sébastien Lenormand in Montpellier, France, on December 26, 1783.
Slang. I’ve been thinking about slang words lately. Also, hip words and words of hype. I’ve been searching for Web sites focusing on English slang and then perhaps I’ll move on to slang in other languages. I’m not sure where this journey will take me. Anyway, I started thinking about the slang phrase of “far out.” I used it often when I was younger. According to Jonathon Green’s Dictionary of Contemporary Slang, far out was the “mental ‘space’ entered under the influences of hallucinogenics” and was first used in the San Francisco Comic Book published by Rip Off Press in 1970.
If you would like another definition of “far out” as well as definitions for other slang terms, go to Urban Dictionary or The Language of the Hip.
Its meaning expanded to amazing! remarkable! wonderful! Contemplating this, I remembered an article I wrote while in college. In it I think is my definition of “far out.” A long definition, but an accurate one. I have resisted editing it at all because it captures my 20-year-old self and a true experience of what “far out” was to me at that time.
First jump “far out” from Kansas State Collegian, Friday, November 3, 1972
“Arch 1000, 2000, 3000, 4000,” Gary Hine, recited as he demonstrated the correct way to exit a plane.
At my first training session with the K-State Sports Parachute Club, I looked around at the other members intently watching Hine. They were normal people just like those I’d seen on campus. What made them want to leap from a perfectly good plane 2800 feet above the ground?
I began to wonder what made me want to float to earth suspended from a canopy. There are easier ways of researching stories. Why get first-hand knowledge when several interviews could serve the purpose?
Basically, I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of falling freely through the air. Also, getting a good description of a person’s first jump is difficult.
People’s eyes glaze and rapt expressions spread over their faces: “Wow, it was far out!”, they exclaim. Try writing an article based on that.
So I joined the Parachute Club. Gary and Dale Boyer instructed my group. At our first training session, they explained parts of the parachute, canopy control, landing and exiting. They also discussed use of the reserve parachute.
My interest sharpened when they began talking about the reserve chute. In case of a malfunction, the reserve is used. A licensed rigger re-packs a reserve every 60 days as a precaution against rotting of the chute. But because parachutes are made of nylon, deterioration is unusual.
Dale and Gary made no false promises. As the Murphy law states, “If it can happen, it will and at the worst possible time.”
The next evening, we met again. Emergency procedures were explained at this session. There are several types of malfunctions – a streamer, Mae West, and a total. Generally, the same procedure is used in all cases – look at the reserve ripcord – and pull it.
Once your camopy is inflated, check it for holes. If you think they are big enough to make a difference, pull your reserve; the holes have to fairly large and in vital positions to be a hazard. But, as we were cautioned, “When in doubt, get it out.”
After one more training session, I was ready. The Friday night before my jump my mind was a tangle of procedures and precautions. I tried to imagine how it would feel as I jumped from the plane.
I drove into Herrington Field just in time to see Dale descending from the sky. I had never seen anything like it; a lone man gravitating toward earth, but controlling where he was to land.
Inside the packing building, members were efficiently bundling parachutes. Dedicated to sky-diving, these persons re-pack for another jump as soon as they return to earth. Since I will pack my own chute eventually. I watched closely.
Before jumping, I went through practical training. Gary took another student and me outside and we practiced landing falls. Landing position is feet together, knees slightly bent and arms up with elbows tucked in toward the body. You must fall to the side as smoothly as possible. We then went to the plane and practiced exits.
When we returned, John Schuman, third-year member, told us to get ready. John was our jumpmaster; he ‘spotted’ our position and gave us the jump orders.
We put on our parachute rigs. Then John showed us an area map of the general vicinity where we were to land. Schuman’s confidence and enthusiasm helped me relax. But when he kept asking how I felt, I began to wonder what my facial expression conveyed. Did I look that unsure of myself?
He checked our rigs, and John told Jane Cramer, another student, that she would be first jumper because “she looked like she had a weaker will.” I was congratulating myself on my confident appearance when he turned and said, “You’ll be next.”
Three students, a jump-master and a pilot entered the plane. Twenty-eight hundred feet later, Schuman hooked Jane’s static line which would automatically pull the ripcord. He opened the door.
Wind rushed in with terrific force and I realized I would exit through that same door. Jane followed John’s orders and I looked out the side window and saw her canopy open fully.
After a few minutes, John looked at me and I moved forward in the kneeling position. He attached my static line. I subdued any feelings of dread or panic as I looked out the door. John ordered me to get my feet out. I was in an odd position – sitting in the doorway of a plane, legs dangling 2800 feet above the ground.
The order to “get out” was given. With the plane’s prop blast and the wind pressure, I was sure there would be no way for my body to move onto the wing strut. Placing my foot on the step, I pulled myself out. I tightly gripped the iron rod with both hands and assumed a rather unorthodox squatting position. I tried to pull myself up, but the wind was too strong.
John yelled the final order, “Go” – and I went. I simply let go and the plane and I flew our own separate ways. As I fell backwards, John jerked my static line. He short-lines Jane’s, also, since we both were unstable exiting. Then I saw my canopy open. My fall toward earth was slowed with a slight jolt.
A beautifully rounded canopy filled with air above me. I was drifting toward earth through calm and quiet. I reached for the toggles controlling the canopy and experimented.
I pulled down the right toggle and the canopy turned a complete circle. I saw all the landmarks and knew my position from the airstrip.
Below tiny figures moved about. Where had all the people come from? But they weren’t people, they were cattle! Not particularly wanting to make a feedlot landing, I quickly changed course.
I saw a field and decided it would make the easiest landing. As the green rushed toward me, I realized it was milo. But it was too late to change. So I concentrated on landing position. My feet were definitely together and I descended form the sky into a sea of green. Contact with ground was fast and stinging.
I had landed correctly and had no broken bones. Dazed, I got up and looked at the disaster I had created. Suspension lines hung from milo stalks and the canopy draped over them. There wasn’t anyway I could field pack this mess.
I bundled it up and trudged out of the field, half-expecting to see some distraught farmer coming after me with a damage suit. But, no, Gary was waiting with his car so I didn’t have to walk back.
Then I realized this immense sense of accomplishment. I now understood why parachute club members live for week-ends, and why John once made 22 jumps in a week. I also knew why I had been smiling since I had left the plane.
How was my first parachute jump? “Wow, it was far out!”
