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March 05, 2006

Falling Free

In which Yours Truly, thumbing his nose at both the weather and His fate, experiences an 8500' freefall, smiles like a blithering idiot, rides His wing to a baby-soft landing, and otherwise continues His Inimitable Journey through Life--come what may.

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After years of idly dabbling with the thought, and a couple months after a not-so-idle discussion on the transubstantiation of Dabblage into Doage, Your Humble Master of Pseudocism has finally finished dabbling idly and has tasted the forbidden fruit of skydiving. And whoa . . . Holy Mother of Trinkets and Wowitude, was it ever a fantastic experience.

The most peculiar aspect of the entire event was how close it came to not happening.

I arrived at the private airfield of Skydive Dallas at 7:30am, as instructed, where I was required to sign page after page after page of liability release clauses wherein I agreed not to hold Skydive Dallas or their affiliates or their third cousins twice-removed on mama's side liable for any negligence, "including wanton or gross negligence," that might possibly result, directly or indirectly, in my bodily harm or death. Even if this weren't an obvious necessity in our rampantly litigious society it would still be a good joke to play on newbies--a simple, low-cost way to weed out the folks that really don't want to be there. Sort of like leaving a giant-sized dogtoy on your front porch to scare away the burglars even though you don't own a dog. Not that it'll surprise any of my faithful readers, but I was forearmed with knowledge of the sport's surprisingly excellent safety record and wasn't put off one bit by all the gloomy legalese. Unfortunately the day was just as gloomy as the disclaimers, and nearly as windy . . . which did not bode well for my chance of catching air later in the afternoon. For AFF- Level 1 jumps the wind has to be 14 mph or less for at least 20 minutes prior to take-off and the cloud ceiling has to be virtually non-existent (if they can't see from the 13,500' drop point to the ground, you don't get to jump; simple as that). We had 18-20mph winds and a 2500' ceiling. All day long.

Grrrrrrrrrrrr

Jump or no jump, we were given over 5 hours of surprisingly detailed and comprehensive classroom training on hand signals, basic canopy mechanics, possible emergencies and "nuisances," as well as the correct way to address them, body positioning in freefall, dive flow, proper aircraft exit sequence, flight patterns for landing, the three S's for evaluating canopy deployment (Shape, Stability, and Steerability), the correct sequence for cutting away the main chute, and numerous other minutiae of skydiving. Most of the main items were repeated dozens of times until, finally, an exam was given (yes, I received a perfect score. . . thanks for asking). The entire flight sequence had to be memorized, from getting oneself into position in the aircraft doorway to gathering the parachute after landing. The sequence looks (more or less) like this:

Now, maybe that doesn't sound like a lot to you . . . but keep in mind that the first 15 bullet points need to be second nature to you as your body is plummeting earthward at 120 mph. I was extremely happy that the instructor (a likable if eccentric police officer known as Sniper John) had been as demanding and as thorough and as repetitive as he had been.

Now a word about the "how close it came to not happening" part. The class was complete by about 1:30 or 1:45 pm, yet the weather still sucked worse than Jeramy Bede doing Back Secadas. The ceiling hadn't lifted even a tad and the winds were holding somewhere between 18 and 24 mph. Many of the experienced jumpers began to take their leave. Before long, my two AFF classmates had disappeared as well. By 3:30 there wasn't a single paying customer left other than Yours Truly (hope springing, as they say, eternal) and a boyfriend/girlfriend couple who had signed on for their first tandem. Soon after that, I was alone with the staff--even the xbox-addicted, hardcore jumpaholics had said their auf wiedersehens, assuming the worst. I sat in a corner reading short stories until about 4 pm, checked the online forecast (not good), and decided--with an infinitely heavy heart--that I was NOT going to have the opportunity to jump today. I left. About 25 miles into my homeward journey I was summoned into action by my best friend and constant companion: Percy the tapeworm. Percy was hungry. And he was hungry NOW! Ok. Fine. So I stopped in McKinney and rustled up some of my favorite grub--guacamole salad and beef enchiladas (with chopped onions on the side). A bit dejected, Your Hero dined. Slowly. By 4:50, Percy had had his way with me, and I left the building . . . only to be stopped dead in my tracks by something I only vaguely remembered: sunshine. SUNSHINE! The clouds were dissipating! I called Skydive Dallas and asked what the conditions were like at the dropzone. "Slowly clearing, but still very windy," they said.

Good enough for me.

I gunned the PseudoMobile back in the direction of my disappointment, and arrived at about 5:15pm. The last possible time a plane could leave with an AFF student aboard? 5:50pm. The winds were moving downward, but they were taking their own sweet time. If they didn't stay below 14 mph from 5:30 to 5:50, I would be returning home defeated (not an acceptable state for a self-respecting Hero, eh?). Miraculously, with only two minutes to spare, we had our window: at 5:48pm the wind had managed to stay below the required threshold for exactly 20 minutes. YESSSSSSSSS! I was gonna get to jump out of a perfectly good airplane after all! FUCK ME GREEN AND SIDEWAYS!

The plane was already fired up and ready, and The PseudoLatino was guided aboard by his instructors and seated just behind the pilot. The plane took off. Your Heroic Oracle started to smile with an intensity bordering on the sexual. He had something we'll describe politely herein as a "karmic woody." Life was great. Awesome. Fantastic. There was little time for the nerves to build during the climb to altitude; Ernie (my primary in-flight instructor) made me repeat my Dive Flow to him several times; he made me point out the main hangar on the ground below and describe to him my flight plan from canopy opening to landing. The videographer asked a couple of questions, which I attempted to answer despite the difficulties posed by terminal grinning. Suddenly the plane levelled off and the door was opened. For the life of me I don't know who opened it. Before I could really focus on what was happening, the three tag-along staff members stepped out of the aircraft, disappearing into the distance below, and my instructors told me to take my position in the door. What?!?!?! I was expecting a little time to contemplate what I was about to do! But no. I stood up and attempted to bring to mind the multitude of actions I had been trained to take at this time. For the most part I was successful, at least I think I was. I'm really not positive, but within about 60 seconds of the aircraft's door being opened I was falling to the earth at 120mph, not quite sure how the hell I had gotten there.

I later learned that I had, indeed, done 95% of the things I had been taught to do.

So . . . what did it feel like as I stepped out of the airplane? Surprisingly, I experienced neither the stomach-trying-to-exit-via-the-mouth feeling that most freefall amusement park rides impart to their participants nor even much of a sensation of falling. I realize that this sounds implausible, but I swear it's the truth. Somehow it felt more like I was stationary atop 120 mph winds trying to keep my balance than as though I was plummeting earthward at a rate of roughly 1000' every 6 seconds. Even watching the ground below didn't give me the impression of falling, which is perhaps why there is such an intense emphasis on altitude awareness during the Level 1 training: it seems strangely as though you have all the time in the world and that you're really, truly flying.

I started my dive flow, and paid careful attention to the feedback I was getting from my instructors. I checked my altimeter, found the handle for deploying the main chute, and did my practice touches. I got more feedback. I kept an occasional eye on the altimeter as I smiled for the camera and merely enjoyed the sensation of freefall until I reached 5000 feet, did my two-handed salute, and threw the pilot chute out into my slipstream.

Poof! The main deployed, a slight case of line twist corrected itself before I could take corrective action, and . . . voila! I was floating comfortably and excitedly under a fully-deployed canopy. I did my flight check. Perfect. Everything was cool as I made my way towards the holding area, facing almost directly into the setting sun (a beautiful sunset it was, too).

Was all of this scary? Was I afraid? No and no, although the adrenaline assuredly made itself known after that first group of experienced divers exited the aircraft and my instructors told me to take my position. My theory is that the extreme distance from the ground plays havoc with one's perception, making things look more like one is stepping into some sort of simulation than into a literal void. It just looks . . . well . . . fake somehow. Like an ultra-tiny toy train set. Please forgive the paucity of my descriptive powers, which are malfunctioning completely at this point, but I'm at a loss as to how I can impart the surreal nature of the whole procedure. Perhaps the video will help clarify the experience? Feel free to download it and see for yourself.

What you should know is that the whole thing is a fantastic experience; that it is a feeling akin to nothing else you have ever encountered; that it results in momentary sensory overload--at least for a beginner like myself: I just jumped willingly out of a perfectly good airplane at 2.25 miles above the surface of the earth! You should know that it is often an addictive event, though I didn't experience anywhere near the overwhelming adrenaline rush I did when--as a bit of a warm-up exercise--I did the "Nothing But Net" freefall at Zero Gravity last November (I can't explain this, either; the skydive was a thousand times cooler, but I was less physiologically pumped afterward; go figure). And you should be told, once again, that it is statistically an extremely safe sport (over the last several years there has been an average of one death for every 90,000 jumps; you're in more danger in your car on the way home after school/work).

It isn't anywhere near as dangerous as dancing the local Tango scene, where you could awaken to find yourself a leper (outcast! Unclean!) for merely pointing out the ongoing ineptitude of a couple of local instructors or--still worse--perhaps find yourself drowning in the formaldehyde used to preserve one or more of the passionless dancing corpses at any of the omnipresent Night of the Living Milonga events. And it's certainly safer than any of those vapid downtown watering holes, where intelligence, creativity, hard-earned and insightful quantities of ironic detachment and an abundance of inner and outer beauty can be co-opted into . . . well . . . let's just say co-opted and leave it at that.

Skydiving is safe, fun, inimitable, challenging and--as of today--comes highly recommended by Yours Truly, the King of Wing.

Blue Skies, Yo.

---the PseudoLatino

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM | Comments (0)

March 09, 2006

Too Hot to (Fox) Trot?

For those of you who happen to be termporarily humor-deprived I have just discovered the answer to ALL that ails you, and it's none other than DFW's own Jeramy "I love to wear smarmy Used Car Salesman clothing" Bede!

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While plodding my quasi-inept way through another Fred and Ginger advanced class at Ye Olde Salon Pavadita I was blessed with the chance to watch the J-Bede teaching something that looked like a cross between Fox Trot and morning Tai Chi exercises at the Cerebral Palsy/Parkinson's Disease Convention. With 15 minutes of instruction from the infamous Ratbastardo, Yours Truly could make his flaccid PENIS dance ANY ballroom dance with more rhythmic vitality and musicality than the utterly inept and talentless Anal Bede. Yet our Walking Anal Insertion continues to teach.

The Universe, it seems, has an excellent sense of humor.

And so . . . for a good time and a hearty chuckle, just come to Salon Pavadita any Thursday night between 7 and 10pm, when the Bedester is chokin' the arhythmic chicken for one and all to see.

---the PL

ps

Once again I'm forced to point out that you should NOT--for ANY REASON WHATSOEVER--take lessons from this man. He's an unqualified, butt-slurpingly horrendous natural disaster of an instructor at anything but Tango (at which he's still unqualified, just without the audible slurping). Save your money to buy Dick Cheney's Firearm Safety Tips: A Field Guide instead (a useful and informative text, by all accounts).

pps

If you've ever seen the two of them, individually, dance to anything non-tango you'll concur with my new idea: Let's get J-Bede and Laurie "God Protect Me From Her Milongas" Vega ('vega,' as in "my-a sense-a of-a rhythm is-a totally VAGUE-A") together for a reality show called Large Fish Flopping About on Hot Pavement. It's CERTAIN to be a big big big hit.

Don'tcha think?

Alternatively, we could produce an episode of Fear Factor in which faux-bosomed babes must try to dance swing with the Anal Bede for at least 35 seconds without vomiting their guts out.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM

March 14, 2006

"Sick as a Dog"

Today I was awakened by the PseudoMatriarch and informed that my sole remaining PseudoChihuahua--for me the most important living, breathing entity on planet earth--was deathly ill. That animal, a heart-meltingly beautiful and love-giving Great Dane named Katje, was rushed this afternoon to her local Veterinary hospital for emergency treatment, tests, and evaluation.

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For the last two days she has suffered explosive diarrhea, an increasing loss of appetite, and the rapid onset of near-total lameness in her rear legs. When she arrived at the clinic, her body temperature was nearly 5 degrees above normal and, though she was responsive, she was lethargic and completely unable to stand up on her own. An IV was started to get fluids and nutrients back into her system, and she is being held overnight for observation. In the morning a number of tests will be run and her spine will be x-rayed to help determine the cause of lameness. For a Great Dane she is quite an old girl--nearly 11 years old--yet she still often behaves (within the limits of her arthiritis) like the tiny puppy I brought home with me a decade ago. She has been the greatest and most innocent love of my otherwise too long and too bitter life (if any of you think this is unusual, sad, or a bit pathetic, you're cordially invited to go fuck yourselves with a razor-encrusted, red-hot, fist-sized dildo), and I don't even want to contemplate what that life will be like, eventually, without this dog in it.

Katje--not some mythological, war-mongering SkyBeing--is my Rock and has been, on more than one occasion, my salvation.

She is the Be All and End All.

She is Love Incarnate and is, effortlessly, the Master to my Grasshopper.

Please take a moment or two to send your wishes of wellness to my faithful and unquestioning companion, and (for those of you with pets of your own) to show your appreciation to your own beloved canines. Give 'em a treat and an extra scritch or 50 . . . and then take 'em for a walk and give 'em another treat and scritch just for good measure. They deserve it. They are without a doubt the most loving and loyal friends you will ever have. Bar none.

Long Live Katje.

(Get well, my wondrous four-legged friend. . . I love you)

Posted by earwicker at 01:05 PM | Comments (3)

March 16, 2006

R.I.P.

Despite my fervent attempts to stave off the paws of fate, my beloved Katje passed away today.

May she rest in peace.

Posted by earwicker at 11:59 PM