The unexpected

Flying Safety, August, 2008 by E. Yancey Walker

Regardless of airframe, when students are in training, the potential exists for the unexpected to happen. In these situations, the Air Force places faith in its instructors to use their foresight to prevent, or expertise to resolve, potential disasters. To use the cliche, instructors should expect the unexpected ... at all times. In the 98th Flying Training Squadron at the U.S. Air Force Academy, more affectionately known as "The Wings of Blue," free-fall instructors have to consistently be on guard, not only in the airplane, but also as they hurl themselves out of it and towards the ground at over 120 mph.

During a recent deployment to Gila Bend, Ariz., the squadron bore witness to one of the more graphic examples of how quick reaction and ingrained knowledge can turn what could have been a potential disaster into merely a "close call." From a spectator's standpoint, this incident started similar to others in the squadron, with everyone's hands over their eyes, as if misplacing their salute, searching the sky for three things: a good reserve parachute, a departed main and a freefalling free bag. As a corollary to this phenomenon, this also served as the bat signal to beckon the safety staff to the drop zone to meet the jumper and discover, what Paul Harvey would call, "the rest of the story."

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Following closely behind the medic, our group flight safety officer and I made our way across the tarmac to the landing area. I arrived shortly after the reserve parachute touched down. Approaching the pea pit, I realized the jumper who had just cut away was actually one of our most experienced instructors. After shaking off the adrenaline rush through some sighs of relief, he walked with us back and relayed, simplistically, why he decided to execute plan B with his parachute and what exactly caused the rips in his jump suit. As we neared the shack, he concluded his story with, "Oh, and I got it all on video."

The instructor, a master sgt., queued up the video and plugged the cables into the TV. The opening scene began normally with the instructor climbing out on the camera step of the UV-18B, Twin Otter. On this particular jump, he was acting as videographer and air coach to a slew of jumpers in GI flight suits, attempting to complete a seven-way star. As a little background, these GI flight suits readily identify the squadron's "Wings of Green" team: upgraders in training, with no one jumper possessing more than 100 total sky-dives. This jump was also one of the first that did not require an instructor as part of the formation. These fledglings were on their own, with the instructor merely watching as adult supervision as they attempted to fly.

The jumpers positioned themselves in the door, and with a quick ready, shake, go the four-way base left the aircraft. The instructor peeled off the back of the airplane and maneuvered to place the formation in the center of his sights. Periodically, he checked above himself to judge the progress of the jumpers diving onto the base. He was also ensuring that none of them were acting as the proverbial meat missile, on an uncontrollable collision course towards either him or the formation.

They looked good. One by one, all seven made it into frame, five of them actually taking grips in the circular formation, and the other two looking desperate as they struggled to fly into the formation before break-off altitude at 5,500 feet AGL.

As the sky dive continued, the formation began to go into what could most familiarly be described as harmonic oscillation. Now, even if the two outliers could make it to the formation, the build-up of kinetic energy would barricade their entry. As I peered on the inevitability of what I knew was coming, I held my breath. Freefall time was getting longer, so I knew altitude was getting scarce; the jumpers were going to break out any second.

On cue, approaching 5,500 feet, several of the jumpers gave the prebriefed wave-off signal, turned 180 degrees from the formation and transitioned into their tracking body position. To those unfamiliar with skydiving, a jumper's tracking body position emulates the delta wing concept. Skydivers sweep their arms back to their sides, cup their hands, roll their shoulders and peg their legs slightly more than shoulder width apart. By doing this, they gain the most horizontal travel per vertical foot and ensure they have sufficient separation from other jumpers as they deploy their parachutes. This maneuver also ensures that all skydivers vacate the center of the formation in which the videographer will descend and pull.

As the skydivers fanned out, the instructor focused on one particular upgrader that had documented trouble executing this tracking maneuver. All seemed well, so he turned his attention back toward the center, performed a couple altitude checks, and waited for his deployment altitude at 2,500 AGL, 100 feet lower than the upgrader's pull altitude. As the instructor approached his altitude, he reached to the bottom of his container and hurled his pilot chute into the wind. In an instant, the pilot chute extended the suspension lines and the parachute sniveled out of the deployment bag. Watching it through inflation, the instructor saw the blue and white canopy open about 45 degrees off, heading to the left. The instructor, who, just a few years before, had been patrolling the streets of Iraq, would describe the next 15 seconds as the scariest of his life.