Busting the Rust

A Middle-Aged Man's Return to the Sky

Do I want to go to France in June? Sure do. What are we doing? Oh, we’re jumping out of an airplane to commemorate the D-Day airborne drops in France. You know, as one does in their mid-50s when retirement gets too dull.

I did jump out of planes for nearly thirty years while in the Army, but I've been retired for almost a decade. Should I bust the rust off my old airborne wings and put my knees in the breeze again? By the way, my knees, by the way, that sound like bubble wrap being tortured by an enthusiastic toddler every time I stand up.

But OK, yeah, why not? What's the worst that could happen? (Don't answer that.)

As instructed, I joined the Round Canopy Parachute Club and then headed to Florida to be recertified as capable of falling out of a plane without hurting myself or others before I hit the ground. A bonus of the trip was flying into Orlando to catch up with my brother, Ivan Castro. If you've read my Substack for any time, you probably understand my relationship with Ivan. If not, you can go back and read "What Obstacle?"

After catching up with Ivan, I headed to Palatka, Florida, home of the Round Canopy Club. I sat through a few hours of refresher training, mostly consisting of instructors asking, "You remember how to do this, right?" while I nodded confidently despite my brain screaming "SORT OF!" while it looked through old files for the relevant experience. Then we executed some parachute landing falls on the grass outside the hangar. Nothing says "I'm too old for this" like repeatedly throwing yourself onto grass while younger folks pretend not to notice your grimaces.

A parachute landing fall (PLF) is what the Army calls a controlled crash where you attempt to absorb the shock of falling by rolling from the balls of your feet, across one calf, the side of your butt and then the side of your back before you continue to dissipate the momentum by throwing your feet into the air to rotate yourself to flat on your back after using the side of your body as a rocker. The PLF sounds more complicated than it is - and it is, in fact, best executed by people under 30.

After the torture, it's time to chute up. Only two of us are going through refresher training today, which is good because the small Cessna we're jumping will only hold two jumpers, the pilot, and a jumpmaster...and it's tight. Nothing prepares you for intimate bonding like being sardined into a metal tube with strangers before throwing yourself into the void. My first attempt at wedging my body into the plane results in my parachute hitting the plane’s throttle. I’m more gentle on my second attempt, and the pilot is convinced that I won’t kill us before we get to altitude and he can get me out of his plane.

Up we go. Then the door is open, and the familiar feeling of having your feet dangling in space at 1,200 feet while you watch the world go by hits you, along with the sudden realization that retirement has made you forget how unsettlingly this can be when you haven’t been hanging out of a plane for a while.

I'm sitting in the door of the Cessna, one hand on the wing strut and the other holding the edge of the door, contemplating my recent life choices that led to this moment. The jumpmaster gives me a little tap—which in my mind translates to "too late to back out now, old man"—and I'm off.

Feeling the forward throw as your static line parachute opens is good. This isn't skydiving. I'm not free-falling, then deploying a parachute resembling a wing and flying that canopy around like a plane (essentially what it is). No, I'm doing what Army paratroopers have done for 85 years—jump out with a static line still attached to the aircraft that pulls out your round parachute while you silently pray to the Airborne gods that everything deploys correctly.

I hear the familiar pop as the canopy inflates, and I look up to check it out. Yep, it's all there- no holes, no cigarette burns, no "made in 1944" tags that I can see. I look around to check my surroundings, then orient to the wind. This round canopy has a forward speed of about 11 miles per hour. The wind today is blowing from 7 to 10 mph—perfect for this aging jumper who doesn't bounce like he used to.

Now, an inexperienced jumper might let the canopy find its own way... This is bad. The canopy will turn itself to run with the wind if not controlled by the two toggles on each of the back risers going from my harness to the parachute. You need to make minor adjustments to avoid obstacles on the ground and keep yourself facing into the wind. If you want the 11 mph minus 7 mph headwind to reduce your speed to 4 mph, you turn into the wind. Or you can run with the wind, and 11 mph plus 7 mph means you'll land downwind at approximately 18 mph.

The difference in speed translates to either stepping off a curb at a brisk walking pace or stepping off the back of a moving truck at 18 mph. The additional speed can cause some unneeded discomfort, especially when your health insurance questionnaire does not include the question, "Do you still jump out of aircraft for fun?"

I opt to face into the wind after I spy a nice piece of grass between the runways on the small airport. All goes as planned, and the canopy sets me down gently. And just like that, I'm recertified as a static line jumper and ready to jump with my fellow old and new paratroopers in Normandy this June to commemorate D-Day.

I can't wait. On the other hand, my orthopedist is wondering if my knee surgery count will crack double digits after this trip. At least I've got my copper-infused knee sleeves—modern-day talismans for the middle-aged paratrooper. Because nothing says "I've got this" like compressing your joints with magical copper fabric that promises to keep the old knees happy while you're hurtling toward the earth.

Lead with Love,

Doom