© 2005 By W. Curtis Lloyd

Many things had changed, as might well have been expected over the course of nearly two years. But much more had not. The most noticeable changes were in re-assignment and attrition of personnel. Rick had been given the same cubicle he had occupied before leaving Buckeye Prepress in '95. And, even though it had been occupied and again vacated during his absence, most of his old notebooks, maps, and brochures were still there. It was almost as if his former employers were certain of his inevitable return.

During his previous tour of duty here, he had acquired a reputation for being quick-tempered and some of the staff reluctantly welcomed him back while others were a little more enthusiastic. He was not being rehired for his personality, but rather as another warm body for the Service Department. There were quite a number of new faces in the Service Department, and several of them were also less than receptive. Some were openly antagonistic and one, in particular, hounded him for the next few days. It was clear that a showdown was about to transpire.

Marti Saunders was effectively the dispatcher and interfaced with each of the techs on a daily basis. One of the contacts she most dreaded was Alex Bennett. He was as bad tempered as a badger, and no one knew just how much was bluff and how much was promise. She saw him as a bottle of nitro waiting to be bumped.

Marti was not much more at ease with Rick's presence, as he had proven in the past to be occasionally more than unpleasant in complex situations. But Rick had calmed in the time he had been gone, although he would still be a force if pressed too far. In his embrace of Buddhism, he had taken to transcendental meditation and much of his anger was being channeled into more positive directions. However, as Rick himself pointed out, perfection was far from within his grasp. This is why he was a Buddhist. Not because he had become perfect, but because he realized how far from perfection he was. He was most impressed with a remark by the service warehouse manager, Whitey Cramer. "It's good to have you back, Rick..... But I wasn't sorry to see you leave."

Buddhism was a vehicle to be used to make the journey. When the journey was at end, there would be no returning - no rebirth. But that was many lifetimes into the future. For now, one must do what one could do.

Alex had just hurled another of many negative insinuations at Rick from across the office, as Marti cringed in anticipation of some reaction. And it came. Rick rounded the corner and raced down the corridor toward Bennett's cubicle to stop, facing the heckler. Marti's heart nearly stopped as she picked up the phone, preparing to call for assistance from Security.

Rick stared menacingly at Bennett and said in a voice that lacked no certainty or volume, "I don't know what seems to be bothering you, but I cannot see how it could be me. I'd never met you until I returned to this organization, and we haven't had two words with each other since that time. If you have some complaint about me, let's have it right now. If you just plain don't like me and would like to try to kick the shit out of me, let's go outside behind the loading dock and see how that works out. Otherwise, climb off my back and let's try to work together productively. And, if it's not too great a strain on you, maybe we can be friends." And with that, Rick produced a determined smile and reached out his right hand.

Alex Bennett was taken somewhat aback. His expression ran the range from surprise to belligerence to shock and finally settled on a relaxed smile. There was no posturing from that point. Alex looked squarely into Rick's eyes and replied, "No. I have nothing against you personally. But it's sometimes necessary to clear the air and find out just where someone stands." He reached out his hand and took Rick's in a firm grip. "Glad to meet you, Rick Connors. I'm Alex Bennett. It's nice to know you have a voice."

As Rick emerged from the corridor of Bennett's cubicle, Marti looked like she could have kissed him and motioned an enthusiastic "thumbs up" to him. From that time, even though Rick had some imperfect days, Marti referred to him as "The New and Improved Rick Connors". Rick appreciated her acceptance his new presence. He had always regretted having sometimes been less than courteous to her. She had, with rare exception, always been most pleasant to work with. The same, unfortunately, could not be said of his own actions. Perhaps, in time?

The day following the Bennett incident Rick was still settling in, gathering tools and equipment. "So," came a voice from the next cubicle, "you've decided to return to the sweatshop, huh?"

"I beg your pardon?", Rick replied, "I don't believe I recall having seen you around this place before. Do I know you?"

"Seriously doubt it. Just got back from Colombia. The name's Mike. Mike Samuels. I'm your next door neighbor in this pit."

Rick walked around the partition. "Glad to meet you, Mike. I'm Rick Connors." They shook hands.

"Oh, I know who you are. Every time we order a part we see your name on the IPBs. It seems you really liked scribbling your name on every document in the department."

"I can see we're going to have to have a little talk. Is everyone going to push me into some kind of altercation?"

"Whoa! Hold on a moment. I'm just pulling your chain. The way you went after 'Itching Powder', I thought you enjoyed conflict as a means of introduction."

"If you're talking about Bennett, that was a situation that was building up - not just one instance. And why 'Itching Powder', anyway?"

 "I would have thought you'd have figured that out yourself. He eventually gets under everyone's skin. Doesn't have a friend in the house."

 "You may be wrong. You may be looking at one."

 "I suppose anything's possible. But don't turn your back on him. Half the office thought you'd have a utility knife in your back by the time you reached the hallway leaving his workstation, yesterday."

"How do you know so much about what happened while you were out of town?"

 "I'm just naturally curious, Rick. I make it my business to know what's going on. It may be worth my life some day."

 'Come to think of it, I think I have heard a little about you, too. Some of the guys think you're a spook. Anything to it?"

 "Now, Rick, if I told you .... I'd have to kill you", Mike said, grinning slyly. "How are you doing with those 'Black Helicopters'? Ever skydive from one?"

That was a little too much for Rick. He wondered just how much this fellow had decided to pry into his life.

"Okay, Mike. Fun's fun. But invasion of my privacy is more liberty than I allow anyone. Let alone someone I've just met. Are you running some kind of dossier on me? And, if so, to what end?"

 "Conspiracy Theory, thy name is Rick Connors", Mike teased. "Hardly that, Old Man! Like I said, I'm just naturally curious. Everyone here knows your theories about government involvement in private lives. And it's no secret that you have taken a few leaps from a perfectly good plane at 5000 feet. I'm a skydiver, myself. I was curious if you might like to join me at Grand Lake sometime. How about it? Do you feel up to it?"

"Mike, if you know so damned much about my activities, you'd also know that it's been more than twenty years since I've been fool enough to leave the security of an airborne craft. Remember what they say, 'Aside from the elements of nature, the only things that fall from the sky are birdshit and fools. Which are you? Take your pick.' Besides, they're using squares now. I learned on conicals."

"I guess I was misled. Is this the same Rick Connors who would refuse no challenge? Even the wimp former president and one-time head of the CIA, George Herbert Walker Bush, had guts enough to skydive recently, at his age.

 The slam stung hard. And Rick found himself being goaded into acceptance of the challenge. Since late in his junior year at high school, he could not ignore an 'I dare you'. "All right! What is your current training status? Are you checked out on squares? And how can I upgrade? It used to require about 200 dives with a conical before you were even permitted to fly a square."

 "Well, as for my status, I've logged nearly a thousand drops and not a one of them a conical. These days, the rules have reversed. The conicals are considered so dangerous compared to the squares that now you have to have nearly 200 dives with a square before they allow you to jump a conical. The ground school is less than two hours instead of over half a day. It's a walk in the park. Plus, the landing doesn't beat you to a pulp like in the old days. By the way, I'm a jumpmaster at GLS. You can get your ground school and two dives for under a hundred bucks. It'll cost the other students about $150. I'll wave my fee. Call it professional courtesy."

 "Fine! You're on. I guess there's no fool like an old fool. What a way to celebrate turning fifty. Live on Van Halen..... JUST JUMP!"

Before the day was out Mike had recruited three more imbeciles to challenge gravity the following Saturday. Believe it or not, Alex Bennett was one of them. The other two fools were one of the engraving head designers and the daughter of the HR manager. He had shamed them into it by telling them that the 'Old Man' was going. Possibly they were going out of morbid curiosity. How hard does an old man hit the ground, anyway?

The Drop Zone

 It was 7:45, Saturday morning, April 19, 1997, and Rick Connors had just turned into the parking area at Lakeview Airport in Celina, Ohio. There were only two other cars in the lot, so Rick figured everyone was cutting it close.

Ground school was scheduled for 8:00 a.m., and according to Mike there should be quite a few neophytes today. Rick found his way into the conference room where coffee and doughnuts were waiting in the center of a large table. The fellow hooking up the TV and VCR for the presentation introduced himself as Tom Rogers, operator of Grand Lake Skydive.

 "Mike tells me you've been skydiving before, Rick. Is that so?"

 "Mike seems to have more sources of information than anyone can pin down, but they're correct most of the time. This one included. However, I wouldn't exactly call it skydiving. I never worked through to a controlled release. Static line deployment all three times."

"Well, that's further than most trainees go. We who love the sport find it difficult to understand, but the great majority of those who actually make their first jump decide not to try it again. Takes all kinds, I guess."

"I suppose, Tom, but you have to admit that it can be pretty terrifying to some people."

 "Of course it can, Rick. Damn! Why else would anyone do it? It's the rush. Where else can you get such a high - and legal, at that?"

 "Do you mean to tell me that with over 2000 jumps, you still feel the fear?"

 "Better believe it! When it stops scaring me, it's time for me to commit myself. Any time you're involved in an activity with such an incredibly high potential for taking your life and you experience no fear, then you've lost your reason. Fear guides our actions. It's a flag of caution. It's what triggers the adrenaline rush. And, it's why we're all here."

"Actually, Tom, most of us aren't here."

 "Not to worry. They're typically a little late, especially the new ones. Some have a last minute hesitation. Some change their minds completely. But don't ever get it into your head that we're any braver than those who back out just because we go ahead. Everyone has to make his own decisions. That's what life's all about."

 "Mike said that the ground school can be completed in less than two hours. How's that possible? On my first outing, it took more than half a day."

"I'd guess you were training for conicals - round canopies. Am I right?"

"As a matter of fact , yes! Thirty-five foot diameter T-10s, to be exact. Modified military. Some of the veteran divers had ParaCommander MK1s. That was more than twenty years ago, and we were told that only the experts flew squares - or 'ram air' canopies."

 "My, how times have changed, Rick! Today's rectangular canopies are much safer than the best round systems. That's why the training time is less. Less to go wrong. Less to prepare for. The SABRE II is so reliable that you can almost stuff it into the pack and it will open beautifully. But we still pack them according the manufacturers recommendations. No sense tempting a disaster."

"Speaking of disasters, Tom, look who's here."

 "Good afternoon, Mike", Tom kidded, glancing to the doorway. "So good of you to remember to show up."

 "Rub it in, Tom", Mike replied, apparently disappointed about something. "Rick, it looks like the others have opted out."

"You mean I'm the only one?" Rick choked, in obvious distress.

 "No, there'll be several other student jumpers. But none of our colleagues had the grit they thought they did", Mike grumbled.

"Uh, Tom, do you think Mike should have been in on our little discussion a little while ago?"

 "It wouldn't do him any good, Rick. Mike's got very little use for anyone who doesn't push himself - even if it means over the edge." Tom turned to Mike, "And you won't tell us why, will you?"

 "What's to tell? Some people are almost afraid to breathe on their own. Need to be coaxed and coddled all their lives. Why did they bother to be born at all?"

"Damn, Mike!", Rick interjected. "Don't you think that's a bit too judgmental? How can you know what another person is going through in his or her mind?"

 "Whatever you say, Rick. I'm going to the hangar to check my gear and arrange a couple of jumps while the rest of you are watching your training films. See ya later."

 No sooner had Mike gone than the other students began shuffling through the door.

Drop Zone (One small step)

It had taken less than an hour to watch the training tape and take the written exam. Then everyone in the class gathered next to the hangar where seasoned jumpers were packing their chutes in preparation for their second or third dive of the morning. Practice in PLF (parachute landing fall) was conducted just in case a rougher than usual landing might be encountered.

 Rick still didn't believe that these "ram air" rigs were as foolproof as Tom Rogers was apparently convinced they were. These things looked pretty flimsy compared to the T-10s and ParaCommanders he'd been around before. But they were the only game in town today, and that's all that the club used.

 Another thing Rick just couldn't get used to was the thought of a soft landing from a parachute jump. It seemed somehow self-contradictory, like military intelligence. But the thing that bothered him the most was the method of exit now used with small aircraft, as shown on the tape.

Twenty years before, when Rick made his first three static line controlled parachute jumps, the jumper stepped out of the doorway onto a small step welded on the right wheel strut just above the wheel itself, while firmly holding the wing strut. When the jumpmaster gave the signal to jump, the student pushed off evenly with both hands - simultaneously stepping off the small platform and striking an earth-facing arch. It was exhilarating, but no big deal.

 Today, it was different. Apparently due to a few minor mishaps (such as students failing to push off firmly - resulting in impact of their helmets with the wheel), the USPA adopted a few changes. Among these was what Rick could only think of as a wing-walk. The student now moves out to the step, but does not stay there. He, or she, then edges himself, or herself, out on the wing strut until the red marker strip is reached. The step has long ago disappeared from below the feet and the jumper is left hanging from the wing strut at 90 mph as the wind and propwash push the body back at a reasonable angle for initiating an earth-facing arch upon letting go of the strut.

When the instructors were satisfied that the candidate jumpers had a sufficient understanding of the exit and emergency procedures, they directed their charges to the back of the preparation hangar. There they selected jumpsuits and helmets which were as close to their size as possible. Next, the instructors assisted the students into their harnesses and packs and led them to the waiting aircraft.

Rick was in the first plane and scheduled to be the third one to exit. In a way, he wished he had been first - less time for the panic to set in. When his turn came, he scooted into position with his legs dangling out the door and gazed at the hazy landscape below. Today was a special treat. At many drop zones, new jumpers exited at 2800 feet. But, today, they were going out at 5000 feet! This was to allow the jumpmaster to get on the deck before the trainees landed, even though he was the last to jump.

The extra altitude gave the trainees a long ride, during which they responded to commands sent them from the ground through their "receive only" walkie-talkies that had been placed in the shoulder pockets of their jumpsuits. Ordinarily, a ride of this length is discouraged for first time jumpers because of the added chance of landing in Grand Lake.

Rick dropped to the step above the wheel and edged out on the wing strut. When in place, he turned his head to his jumpmaster. About fifteen seconds later, the signal was given and Rick released his grip. Assuming the earth-facing posture, Rick watched the plane disappear beyond the upper left quadrant of his visual range. The pilot chute was dragged from the pack as the end of the static line was reached and the Velcro fastener snapped free. In an instant, the main chute was opening and the drop slowed as the airfoil began to "fly".

Around him all was silent except for the fluttering of the canopy. And the view was so beautiful, he must be dreaming. But reality had a way of creeping in, even up here.

 "Okay, set your brakes!", came the crackly voice from his shoulder pocket. Rick raised his hands along the risers until he felt the wooden toggles with his fingertips. Grasping them firmly, he pulled smoothly and evenly and then raised his hands until the toggles were nearly back to their original position. Then, following the unseen voice, he performed one maneuver after another until he was at last approaching the pea gravel.

Two hundred yards. One hundred yards. Twenty-five yards. Ten yards. "One quarter brakes." ........ Twenty feet. "FLARE! FLARE!! FLARE!!!"

Rick instantly brought the toggles to waist level........ AND HIT THE GROUND AT TWENTY-FIVE MILES PER HOUR .... tumbling along the ground and tangling in the shroud lines..... stopping in a pained heap (wondering what might be broken or cut).

Several people came running up to the writhing cocoon, among them was Mike Samuels. "My God, Rick! What happened?"

In an unsuccessful attempt to be funny, despite the pain in his left leg, Rick replied with the punch line to an old joke,"I don't know, Mike. I just got here myself."

Drop Zone (Good to the Last Drop)

 Mike's expression turned from concern to irritation at Rick's light treatment of the incident. "You apparently haven't a serious bone in your body. You may be badly injured for all you know, but you're already making jokes - such as they are."

 "Well, what would you suggest? Would grousing about it lessen the likelihood of injury? When I'm worried or scared, or do something stupid, I JOKE ABOUT IT!" Then, a pensive look came over Rick's face. "What the hell DID happen, anyway? I thought these chutes were supposed to be such hot stuff. How come it didn't STOP?!"

 Mike looked at Rick as if he were looking at child. "YOU have to MAKE IT STOP. You didn't flare."

"Of course I did," retorted Rick. "I brought the toggles all the way down to my waist."

 "That would be about three-quarters brakes, Rick. For your height, with standard length control lines, a flare is toggles at about halfway between your waist and your knees."

"Oh!"

"Why didn't you go for the PLF?"

"Not enough time once I realized I was too fast for a good landing. Besides, it seems I was holding my left foot a bit lower than the right. I jammed that leg into the ground pretty hard. I may have fractured it. I've broken bones before, and this feels similar."

"Maybe not. You came in WAY too fast, but you did hit the pea gravel. That stuff takes up a lot shock. You may have just slammed the muscles and joints so hard that it feels like a break." Mike looked towards Tom Rogers and called him over to take a look. "What do you think, Tom?"

After checking for probable injuries, Tom replied, "I think he needs another jump."

"What?!", Rick nearly shouted. "I'm the one who crashed, but you sound like you landed on your head."

"No. Really, Rick. You seem okay. A bit stoved up, maybe. But what you need is another jump, and the sooner the better. Otherwise, you'll freeze up psychologically and maybe never go back up again."

"You got that last part right. I may be stupid enough to jump out of a plane, but when it hurts I quit. When I broke my foot twenty years ago, I quit. And this seems like a good time to start the count for another twenty."

"Come on. You don't mean that. You're not going to let this thing beat you, are you? Get back on that horse and get it right this time." Mike paused, "Gather up your chute. I'll pack it for you myself."

They began the walk back to the hangar (or in Rick's case, the limp back to the hangar). "How the Hell am I going to climb out of the door? I can't even walk properly."

"Does grousing help more now than when you were tangled up in the chute?", Mike needled. "Besides, you hold on to the strut with your hands - not your legs."

 "Mike, I don't want to climb out there again. I'll admit it, but damn you if you repeat it. It turns my blood to ice water and my backbone to jello. I've never been so terrified in my life. I don't think I CAN go back out there."

 "What difference does it make if you jump into nothing from a platform or fall from a wing? You're on a rope, for God's sake. The chute will open the same, any way you do it. It seems strange to me that the wing scares you but the really serious thing, jumping into oblivion, doesn't seem to faze you at all."

Rick thought about what Mike said. Of course, he was right. What was the big deal about a wing walk when you had already decided to fall to the ground anyway? Still, the very thought sent a chill through him. It pumped more adrenaline into his system. And, before he understood what had happened, he was watching Mike lacing the shroud lines into the elastic retainers of his pack tray. "How do you know if you've packed it correctly?" he asked Mike, nervously.

 "Simple!" replied Mike, "If it opens, you did it right."

"Very funny!"

It had taken longer to pack the parachute than Rick had thought. Now, securely strapped into the harness again - and with the adrenaline concentration nearly flushed from his bloodstream - his attention turned to the increasing pain in his left leg as he struggled to make his way to the jump plane. The jumpmaster had to help him aboard.

Rick was the last to board, and therefore the first to "deplane". "Just as well", he thought. "If I have too much time, I probably won't go through with it. Not with this damned leg acting up."

In what seemed an eternity, they were at altitude (again at 5000 feet). The door was opened and Rick was instructed to scoot into the opening. He passed his static line hook to the jumpmaster, who immediately secured it to the ring in the floor of the plane Then he moved his legs out of the portal and prepared to get into position. He swung onto the step, placing his weight on his left leg......... and stumbled as the pain seemed to flash a red aura around everything in his visual field. He still had a good hold on the wing strut and pulled himself up enough to get his right foot onto the step. With his position righted, he proceeded to edge out - one hand, then the other - to the red marker on the strut. He looked back at the doorway of the plane. Was it his imagination, or was there an expression of concern on the face of his jumpmaster?

It must have been hallucination, for in less than thirty seconds the signal was given for a normal release. Rick let go of the strut and struck a near perfect earth-facing arch. This time, as the plane disappeared, it seemed to be deserting him, like a great oceanliner ignoring a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a piece of flotsam in a threatening sea.

He was jolted from his reverie by the shock of the chute opening. When he checked overhead for an inflated canopy, he grimaced. The chute had opened, but it wasn't right. He had not one, but two, malfunctions. Individually, they would be classified as "slow" malfunctions. Slow malfunctions are chutes that open and partially slow the descent of the parachutist. However, if not corrected, they cause loss of maneuverability or accelerated descent or both. When multiple malfunctions occur, it is usually considered a total loss and the main canopy should be cutaway, followed by emergency chute deployment. But the way things were going today, Rick was nearly certain that the secondary chute would also fail.

Working under the assumption of "better the Devil you know", he began to try to correct the trouble. Rick was glad for the slightly extended time afforded by the extra altitude. If the drop had been made at 2800, there could have been no repairs.

The malfunctions were combination, as stated. First, there was a line-over. Second, there were twisted shroud lines - which would make any attempt at using the brakes fatal. Obviously, the twist took priority. Finally, a voice came over the pocket radio, "Don't set your brakes. The lines are twisted. Cutaway! Cutaway!"

A strange feeling came over Rick. "They should have seen the problem before I did. Why did it take so long to warn me??"

THE HELL WITH THEM!! I'LL FIX THIS OR DIE TRYING!! It dawned on him that he may do just that. A look at the ground showed a landscape spiraling up toward him. A glance at the altimeter showed a rapidly decreasing number with the hand approaching RED.

The video they watched in ground school came back to him. "It's like when you were a kid playing on the swings in the park. If the chain is twisted, kick your feet to reverse the twist." And, so he did. And, IT WORKED! As the twisted lines straightened, he was snapped through backward and forward rotation until the lines were in correct position. WITH THE EXCEPTION OF THE LINE-OVER, OF COURSE. The only way Rick could remember to correct this was by fully inflating the cells. He couldn't do this until setting the brakes. But he should be able to do that now, with the twisted lines corrected.

 He raised his hands until his fingertips found the wooden toggles. Grasping them, he pulled them to shoulder height then returned them to near their original position. THE BRAKES WERE SET. Now he pulled the toggles to a complete flare. The inflating cells popped the restricting line from over top of the chute and all seemed normal. But, because of the flare, he was now in a stall. So Rick released his toggles and grasped the front of the risers and pulled himself up on them - forcing the canopy to dive and pick up speed. The stall was corrected and when he released the risers, the chute resumed its flight as if nothing had gone awry. EXCEPT NOW HE WAS OVER GRAND LAKE AND HEADING THE WRONG DIRECTION.

The altitude was nearly one thousand feet, so a roundabout approach to the drop zone was still possible. Correction maneuvers were relayed from the ground. And when the voice said, "FLARE! FLARE!! FLARE!!!" He DID! DID!! DID!!!.

It was a beautiful landing. Even Mike said so. But as the flare stalled the chute to a mere two feet from the ground for a perfect walk away landing, the wind shifted and tipped him backwards and set Rick on his butt. A perfect ending to a perfect day!

Mike helped Rick to his feet. "That was amazing! Aren't you glad you went back up?"

"Actually, I am. And, I'm looking forward to the next jump."

"I thought so," Mike replied. "When do you think that might be?"

Rick piled his chute into the corner of the hangar with the other student canopies, "I'd say in about twenty years."

Mike watched as Rick hobbled painfully to his car and blazed out of the parking lot with tires smoking.

- The End -

Tomorrow's Dust