San Jose skydiver dies after falling out of harness

A skydiver has died after he fell out of his parachute harness during a jump at SkyDance Skydiving in Davis.

Yolo County sheriff's Sgt. Hector Bautista says the 23-year-old man made the jump in Davis over the Yolo County Airport at about 6 p.m. Saturday. He died at a hospital.

His name hasn't been released but Bautista says he was an experienced skydiver who lived in San Jose.

Yolo County officials said they were sent to the scene around 6 p.m. Deputies located the body of the deceased skydiver about 1 mile southeast of the SkyDance drop zone. His canopy and harness was also located 1 mile northeast of the drop zone.

"At this point in the investigation, it is unknown how the victim became detached from his skydiving gear," according to Sheriff's Department spokesman Mark Persons. "Friends and fellow skydivers stated that victim was an experienced skydiver with more than 600 jumps.

Forgive the length, but this is my experience in my first three jumps. At least it is my impression.

I first jumped out of an airplane on October 18, 2008, at 50 years of age. Preparation included a six-hour course to train for a static line jump, and a little soul searching. There was a long wait of several hours after the class while the winds died to below the maximum allowed for students. After suiting up, another hour passed, while I wavered between hoping and dreading the waning of the winds. We left around 1800 as the sun was lowering. My psychic investment was by then too great to turn back.

When loading, the first one out is the last one in, and I was last in. The claustrophobic Cessna 182 was stuffed with two other jumpers, the Jumpmaster, and a pilot. All wore jump rigs. Even so, the Cessna made it off the ground. Everyone sat on the floor but the pilot. Facing backward, I was pressed up against the instrument panel on the right side of the cabin. The side of the pilot’s right leg and the door were a vice holding me immobile. Small hand movements were possible, but not large body movements. The other jumpers were crammed in the tail, one facing forward and one behind the pilot seat facing the rear, legs enmeshed. The Jumpmaster faced me, his knees straddling my feet. He fastened my floor belt and attached my static line to the floor, since I could not reach them. I would be the first to jump. No one could jump if I did not, as I blocked the door.

When a checkerboard pattern of farms for many miles to the West became visible, it seemed we were high enough to jump. I thought, “How high are we going, anyway?” My altimeter indicated only 500 feet, one seventh of the way there. At 2,500 feet, the pilot, yelled, “It’s a beautiful day to skydive!” When we reached 3,500 feet, we unbelted our floor straps. An accidental chute opening and blowing out the door while belted would cause catastrophic damage to the plane and everyone in it. They are never worn when the door is open.

As we approached the DZ, the jumpmaster judged the exit. As we neared it he opened the door that swings out and up against the wing. Sitting at the very edge when it opened, it was unsettling when the vice of the door no longer pressed against my shoulder, notwithstanding the jumpmaster’s assurances that I would not fall out. My jumpsuit blew in the wind. Without the door there to hold me in the plane, my left arm and pant legs were over the hung over the edge of the threshold. There were no handholds inside the plane. Holding on meant placing the palm of your hand on the wall. The fear of falling out of the door had to be consciously suppressed. There was no retreat from the threshold. Ironically, I was afraid I was going to fall out the door if we hit turbulence, when a few seconds later I was going to voluntarily climb out anyway.

From straight down to straight out was nothing but dozens of farms in a beautiful checkerboard pattern. My gaze was fixed on the farms on the horizon, which seemed somehow less intimidating than the ground straight below. Looking down seemed a sensory overload right then. We flew from the North, straight into the South wind to reduce our ground speed. It was blowing aloft more than 30 miles an hour. The exit was at a spot quite a long way to the South of the DZ because of the wind speed.

As we neared the exit point, the Jumpmaster asked me, “What is the most important thing for you to remember?” I answered, “Hard Arch!” I thought, “Don’t freeze in the door!” The Jumpmaster’s first command was stated in a matter of fact way: “Put your feet out of the door and stop.” Cautiously and slowly, my feet moved out the door and come to rest on the 8” by 14” “platform” atop the right wheel, a few inches below the threshold. I made certain to focus on my feet like my eyes were a telephoto lens, in hopes that the unfocused backdrop of the ground 3,500 feet below would be easier to ignore. Even looking nowhere else, there was no way to avoid knowing and seeing what was, and wasn’t, past my feet.

The strength of the wind was surprising but not troublesome. Leaning out the door, I placed my left hand on the strut supporting the wing, next to the fuselage. I was then in perfect position with my right hand on the wall to the right side of the door. Without thinking, I forgot to stop there and started to get up and put my right hand on the strut, too. Then I realized that was step two! I leaned back and resumed my correct position, and then looked at the Jumpmaster. He was grinning at me, probably wondering why I did not keep going.

Once outside the plane, there is no turning back. The next step was irreversible. The movements I was taught were automatic, almost robotic, as I tried not to think too much. At this point, I was beyond frightened. I wondered why I was doing this. I could have backed out on the way up. My pride would not have permitted that. However, once out the door, the only way back to the hanger is under your canopy, no question about it. Thoughts of staying dissipate and thoughts of going forward solidify.

I tried not to be distracted by sensory overload by focusing on the Jumpmaster. He shouted the second command, “Get out of the plane and hang!” That was it. Turning my head left, and leaning out the door, I slowly and deliberately moved left and closer to the strut. I let go of the right side of the door threshold, and leaning further still further, into the wind. My right hand pierced through the wind to join the left on the strut while I leaned toward it. My legs rose slowly into a standing position on the rectangle cover of the wheel, feeling like lead weights. The Jumpmaster guided my rig, assisting me to the standing position so it would not catch on the door. It was necessary to bend at the waste 90º while standing so my rig did not hit the door resting up next to the wing. For once, being short helped a little.

Once standing with both hands on the strut, I slid my hands along the strut one at a time away from the plane as I faced forward into the wind. My right hand moved a few inches further out first, followed by my left hand as I brought them together. With each slide, I had to lean further to the right and out away from the platform, and over the nothingness below.

In that environment, focus was important to manage fear. I was very careful to look only at the very center of the back of my moving hand, and to traverse my eyesight along the centerline of the strut between my hands. It was not helpful to gaze at the ground 3500 feet below right at that moment.

When my hands are all the way up to the wing, I was stretched out uncomfortably with my toes still on the plate above the wheel. Being short was no longer helpful. I held tightly to the strut and slowly stepped with my right foot off the platform and into the steadily pounding wind. Then my left foot was off the platform, and hung in mid air, standing on the nothingness below me. All pretense of something being below me was gone. I allowed my arms to extend to full length. It was easier to hold on in flight than while practicing on the ground. The wind was in my face. It seemed the wind buoyed my body up a bit, like when you hold an arm out of the car window on the highway to make pretend airplane wings.

I looked to the door. The pilot watched me. The Jumpmaster was sitting in the door when I looked over. The third command was given quickly. He mouthed the words, “Look up!” He gave me the thumbs up sign. The piece of red tape on the bottom of the wing was directly between my hands when I looked up at the bottom of the wing. The position was right. There was a pause, for a second or two, to make the final decision. Letting go was easy. It meant simply not trying to hold on any more. I let my fingers relax and straighten, and the plane was gone, racing up and away from me.

There was no concept of time. The next events occurred in a certain order, but they all run together in my mind as though they all happened instantaneously. The images are unforgettably seared into my memory. I was trained to go immediately into a hard arch of my back in an “X” or spread eagle position and count to five. I’d like to think that I did that, but it might have been my imagination.

My first shock was the feeling of weightlessness from free falling. There was no reference point other than the plane as it left me, seemingly rocketing straight up and away from me. The weightless sensation was interrupted when I observed the static line tighten and snap right off of the back of my chute. It wildly recoiled after pulling open the container to my pilot chute, whipping snakelike as it slithered away from me. The plane had it by the tail and was never going to let it go as it protested by slapping the side of the plane.

The pilot chute jumped out of the bag, and I heard it ripple into the wind. It caught the wind and raced away from me, pulling out its precious cord attached like an umbilical cord of life to pull the main chute out of the container. It looked like a jellyfish with one tentacle fighting to get to the surface of the water, or a big scuba diver’s bubble.

What brought me to some extreme if unintended vocalizations of a religious nature came next. Fortunately, there was no one around to hear my prayers and petitions, which for the first time, were short and to the point. They occurred when the canopy opened around the 4 count. It jerked me to what felt like a dead stop, 300 feet or so below where I straightened my fingers. The sound of the canopy fabric snapping open under the duress of air pressure and my falling weight was unexpectedly loud, and added to my surprise and awe. The horizon rose and fell like I was on a sailboat in high seas until the swinging stopped when the canopy stabilized.

It took a moment to regain control of my breathing and gather my senses. I checked the canopy to see that it opened properly. It had. It was large, blue, and taut. Silken life. The lines were in order, the slider down. If it hadn’t, there would have been only a matter of seconds to pull the reserve. What a beautiful sight! I would live!

There is no way to practice steering while getting the real feel for the canopy on the ground. I had to learn how the canopy steers and handles on the way down. I reached up to grab the steering toggles and release the brakes. The steering was not difficult. In a few moments I was feeling more relaxed and comfortable. There was little sensation of falling at that height. The sensation was of forward flight. The fabric edges snapped a staccato rhythm in the wind that seemed comforting.

Since I jumped correctly and faced into the wind going straight away from the DZ, it took a moment to realize the DZ was behind me. As I was about to turn toward it, the jumpmaster radioed to hold into the wind. There were strong gusts at altitude. Even with the forward speed of the canopy at around 25 m.p.h. heading away from the DZ, I was being blown backward toward it. Running with the wind would have made me quickly overshoot the DZ to the North, so the entire approach for the landing was spent flying backward.

I recall crossing the highway coming south out of town, and the creeks near there to the South of the DZ. The cars were so small, and I was unseen in the heavens. I observed my direction by looking between my feet. I had a perch like no other, higher than the birds. The sun was setting to my right. I enjoyed looking at the broad vistas before me for a few minutes, and felt the fresh breeze in my face. The air was warm. I wanted to share my sensations with someone, but this was a very solitary flight, an experience all my own. I never felt more alone. But it was all right and I was at peace.

As I descended it became easier to perceive the sensation of losing altitude. The Jumpmaster told me to turn and run with the wind, and then keep on turning until I had done a 360º turn. It put me straight above the DZ. The turn dropped my altitude quickly. The wind at the ground was slower. I gradually picked up forward speed at that time. I bent my knees, flared, and landed a few feet from the jumpmaster, a successful jump, except for the faceplant for looking down too soon with bifocal glasses on. I thought, “I made it! I did it!”

A repeat jump a few weeks later was much more enjoyable because it was not so traumatic. I knew the route down. It was truly fun. The wind was calmer, and it was fun turning, running with the wind, and aiming for the DZ on my own. I spent more time being aware of my surroundings and the beauty of the view. Except for the snapping of the canopy, it was silent.

My third jump was difficult. Gloves were necessary, as it was 25º or less. I fell from the wing before I was ready when my grip slipped. The canopy opened when I was at an ugly angle, twisting the lines several times. The canopy was to my side and horizontal to the ground as it opened. The small canopy I flew was much more reactive to my input. That accentuated the effects of my mistakes.

Kicking out of the twists seemed to take forever. At first, the lines continued to twist tighter as I kicked, but eventually, they stopped and began to unwind. The Jumpmaster was talking to me, though I had no idea what he said. I had no idea how long I could work on untwisting them before I had to give up and pull the emergency cord. I was focused on the lines, and nothing else. Waiting for those lines to unwind as the seconds swept by and the ground raced up required every ounce of my patience. Altitude is life. The canopy shook me hard when it finally properly inflated, a blessed jolt. The slider came down, and things calmed down. Fear and inexperience will have their way, so I never did look at my altimeter to know if I should have cut away. My adrenaline masked how hard I kicked. It was harder than I realized. The next several days the muscles on the inside of my knees were quite sore.

Now I have a T-shirt…I have a daughter says that I am “tough house” and “hard core.” I feel great.

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