LOW AND HIGH
IN THE
DEEP BLUE SKY
Poornachandra
***
“The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious.
And why shouldn't it be?
It is the same the angels breathe.”
- Mark Twain, "Roughing It"
In the sky
an infinitude of hope,
a canvas of glory
all possibilities mine.
- Neroli Lambent
1982
“Nabhah Sparsha Deeptam”, the banners read, “Touch the Sky with Glory”. It was 1982 and the Golden Jubilee of the Indian Air Force (IAF) was being celebrated at the Hakimpet Air Force Station in Hyderabad. My father drove us three children a long way on his scooter to take us to the exhibition put up by the Air Warriors. It was a wonderful experience for the ten-year old I was. Those magnificent men and their flying machines were a sight to behold as we walked around the equipment put on show. But the real treat was yet to come. Then the demonstration began. The Suryakiran aerobatic team took everyone’s breath away with their dazzling display of flying daredevilry. After the planes ended their air show, the audience still waited.
The commentator said something and everyone craned their necks to look up at the skies. With a heavy drone, a big plane approached us and a line of people popped out of it under big green canopies. They were soldiers jumping with parachutes, we were told. As they slowly descended to the ground, the plane flew higher. The paratroopers hit the ground one by one and rolled before they got up and walked. We laughed and clapped at what seemed a funny end to a fearless act. There was more commentary, further craning of necks and peering into the blue heavens. There was commotion amongst the audience. We could not make out a thing. Then my father pointed out. Yes, we could see small spots like some black seeds falling fast from the sky. Were they people?! As they rapidly fell towards the earth to the accompaniment of gasps from the viewers, the sky blossomed when each of the black seeds sprouted a colourful canopy. It was blooming rainbows! These were skydivers, father said. Their parachutes glided slow patterns in the sky before the skydivers touched down in front of the cheering viewers. This time, no one fell down on the ground. All of them touched down standing and we clapped. And then, the show was over. We went back home excited, and I had quite a story to tell my friends at school in the days to come.
As we grew up into the busyness of schooling and exams, lugging bags and chasing buses, the memories of that wonderful day faded. There was the question of a future waiting to be answered. But neither I nor my little brother and sister knew that one day in that future, we would make a tryst with the skies. Years later, it was to be a rocking rendezvous.
***
“Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted
Just an earth-bound misfit, I.”
- Pink Floyd
1989
I was seventeen. The identity crisis of adolescence and exuberance of youth hastened the urge to take to wings and leave the nest. Embarking on the journey to manhood, I made my way to the National Defence Academy, hailed as the “Maker of Men”. I was going to find my destiny in uniform. My dream of becoming a flyer was nipped in the bud when my weak eye sight prevented my entry into the Air Force or even the Navy. So I was to stay on the ground and stamp my feet. In any case, I couldn’t even fly a kite; so better I left the planes to others. Olive greens and brass on the shoulders were to come later, if I first succeeded in surviving the rigours of the Academy.
At the NDA Wing, the boot camp in khakis and crew cut knocked the hubris out of my system. I became a Nobody – weak, confused and thoroughly lost. They called me “dope” and several other honorifics befitting losers of the martial race. My search for identity was not getting anywhere. In between running around and being kicked about, I looked up at my instructors. There were soldiers from Infantry and Cavalry, Flying Aces of the fighter clan and Marine Warriors, several of them veterans of the war of peace-keeping in Sri Lanka. Amongst the various shades of uniform, badges, ribbons and medals, there were those few who stood out with maroon berets jauntily perched on their heads and wearing wings on their chest. They were the Paratroopers, some of them Para Commandos. Those wise guys among the cadets who knew generally everything compared to my blissful ignorance, told me that these Paras were the ultimate warriors. They were tough, brave and jumped out of planes for fun. There were plucky comrades of mine who aspired to join the maroon tribe. My memories of people falling from the sky were rekindled and I wished I could be all that, full of guts and glory. But for a hopeless tail-ender falling from exertion after a cross-country run, I had no business to think of free-falling from the skies, because I wouldn’t even make it anywhere close to the planes. Impossible dreams!
***
“Vertigo is the conflict between the fear of falling and the desire to fall.”
- Salman Rushdie
1990
Sleep-walking through the first six months of training, I stumbled into the Academy’s famed Hunter squadron in my second term. “If it can’t be done, it will be done,” proclaimed the Headhunters’ slogan. It was a rude awakening followed by shock treatment, as far as life in the squadron was concerned. As one who was hunted most of the time, I wondered how I could turn a hunter! Cross-country running was the religion, and a non-believer like me deserved to be burnt at the stake. The gap between the “studs” and “shaggos” was wide, and the ordeal was by fire for the latter.
One of the rites of passage for the Hunters was the “Para Jump”. Everyone had to jump from the ten meter diving platform into the swimming pool, of course without a parachute. It didn’t matter that there were some like me who couldn’t swim. Even if you were a “dead-sinker”, you had to jump; they’d fish your body out later – alive, in all likelihood. The entire pack of Hunters trooped to the swimming pool under the watchful eyes of the senior appointment holders, lest someone slink away. Some hopefuls were found pleading with the officers with excuses as to why they should be exempt from the jump, with little success. The instructors marshalled all of us and we lined up according to the hierarchy. The seniors led the procession up the stairs to the platform and we followed respectfully. It would’ve been difficult to take the census of butterflies fluttering in the stomachs of those lined up to jump.
The word was given and then they began to fall into the pool, resembling lemmings albeit reluctantly. Some were brave, some hesitant and some outright refusing. You had to go anyway, assisted by an encouraging pat or a forceful push from the instructor posted on the edge. They fell in all possible and some impossible positions, shouting bravely and screaming wildly. I was what is commonly referred to as “shit-scared”. Like-minded ones scurried to the toilets to ease themselves, hoping to buy some more time before the inglorious fall. The line of bare-bodied boys-waiting-to-be-men moved slowly but steadily, and I climbed up the steps and onto the platform. As I did the countdown of those ahead of me, I wished I could turn back and rundown the stairs, or atleast go further behind in the line. But there weren’t many behind me. “There is only one way down,” thundered the Squadron Commander. And then, it was my turn. I looked down at the small patch of water and was convinced that I’d fall splat on the ground instead of making a splash in the water. I don’t know if I jumped or was unceremoniously shoved, but gravity did the needful. As I fell to what I thought was my death, I swore to myself that I’d never again even think of planes and parachutes. I yelled through the long fall which should’ve been less than a second according to the Physics book. I hit the water and went under, hopelessly drowning. Out of sheer anger at the swimming pool, I would have drunk up the entire water, but those concerned fished me out to avoid any bother. They dragged me out of the pool and threw me aside to deal with the others coming down. I lived! But no more heights! It was ok to watch Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo on the screen but not to experience its dread in reality.
***
“Flying without feathers is not easy; my wings have no feathers.”
- Titus Maccius Plautus
1992
Three years in the “Maker of Men”, and “i" came out of the place downsized. Brashness and bluster were replaced by bashfulness, and hubrIs gave way to humility. The skies seemed very distant and unreachable, and i decided not to bother looking at it. It only seemed to give me a crick in the neck. Looking down to carefully pick my path and avoid a fall, i moved from Pune to Dehradun. Over the three years, while my comrades collected their distinguished “blazers and blues” in various games and sports, i was just short of getting “black-and-blue”. The only but truly important achievement was that i made the transition from a Cadet of the National Defence Academy to a Gentleman Cadet (GC) of the Indian Military Academy (IMA) with my coursemates, instead of the one or two terms later as an honorary “Brigadier” or “General”.
During the first mid-term break, amongst many activities, there was the possibility to go on the “Para Hike” wherein some GCs could go to Agra, the home of Indian Airborne, and do the basic parachuting course. But, true to the spirit of the activity, only a few chosen ones could participate, after qualifying a demanding selection process of physical rigour. The tough guys volunteered while the wise guys made commentary on the futility of risking limbs when we were only months short of becoming officers. Being neither tough nor wise, i kept quiet and went about the business of surviving and finishing the training.
It was the Diamond Jubilee Year of IMA (and also of IAF). In December 1992, halfway through our pre-commission training, the Jubilee was celebrated with great pomp and show. The Field Marshal Sam Bahadur himself was there to grace the momentous occasion. It was inevitable that an event of such significance had to include the participation of the Airborne. A parachuting demonstration was conducted on the banks of Tons river. The Maroon Warriors descended from the heavens, executing static line and freefall jumps. They landed in front of an admiring audience and walked around looking dashing in their Maroons and frocked trousers. i looked up again, and couldn’t help hoping to be there. Then it dawned on me that i had to be there and do it, if i had to become the man i set out to be. Only guts translate to glory.
***
“There is an art, or rather a knack to flying.
The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.”
- Douglas Adams, “Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy”
1993
The final term at the Academy was full of action and anticipation. Running through theory and tactics, examinations and exercises, we were getting closer to the “Final Step” outside the historical Chetwode Hall. That was the time i made a start, ironically when many others were finishing. Apart from the formal physical training, i devised my own toughening-up regimen and stuck to it religiously. My body was getting stronger and the difference of a resolute mind could be felt inside. Even though the “shaggo” tag was shunned, i was still miles behind the “studs”. Friends who won medals on the cross-country route, boxing ring and obstacle course still had to push me to complete the Battle Physical Efficiency Test (BPET) in a good time. But audacity was not dead in me; it was only down and decided to stand up again. When the time to exercise the “Choice of Arms” and apply for the branch of the Army one wanted to join, i opted Artillery but with the added prefix of Parachute. i wanted to be part of the Airborne Artillery. My performance over four years in the Academies was nothing to write home about and i was neither a “High Merit Type” who got what he wanted, nor a “Super Stud” who would be accepted as a Para volunteer. People laughed but i had four years of practice in being laughed at. i became a Gunner and joined a Field Regiment. But the man within had made a commitment at the time of the Choice of Arms, and my goal was fixed.
It was a fresh start as a young subaltern with one star on the shoulder. Not satisfied with turning a new leaf, i through away the tome of my travails and got myself a new book to write. With a load off my shoulders and no longer dragging me down, my head was clear and returned to efficient functioning. Deolali was a beautiful place and Artillery had the scientific element to stimulate me. With a new-found motivation, the Young Officer’s Course was fun learning. The good Instructors-in-Gunnery (IsG) turned me into a fine gunner whose sights were set straight. I went up North to the Paradise Lost, Kashmir Valley, to do my first stint in high altitude and counter-insurgency operations. The mountains were an exhilarating place to be, and all the kilometers logged on foot did a great deal of physical and mental good. It was a high, and as i grew up i got closer to the sky.
***
“Within all of us is a varying amount of space lint and star dust, the residue from our creation. Most are too busy to notice it, and it is stronger in some than others.
It is strongest in those of us who fly and is responsible for an unconscious, subtle desire to slip into some wings and try for the elusive boundaries of our origin”.
- K.O. Eckland, "Footprints On Clouds"
1995
It was over a year in the Kashmir Himalayas and full of confidence, i wanted to volunteer to join the Paras. To assess my own readiness, i asked to be sent to Belgaum to attend the Commando Course. My Commanding Officer (CO) wasn’t convinced that this short, small, scholarly looking 2nd Lieutenant could survive the course which was avoided by many. But he relented and let me go. The six-week grind in the heat of an Indian summer almost got to me to resign the idea of being a Para. It was too much for me. But as i went through the course, i could see that all the officers with me including a couple of Paras were human and felt the same things as fatigue and exhaustion. i understood what kept a man going after 30 kilometers with full battle loads, even when the body protests and the mind tempts you to stop. i learnt to push and discover barriers that could be broken, inside. i brought no medals back from the course, but i brought back a valuable lesson that, “Real courage is when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.” Simply put, “No Limits”. Back in the Valley, i climbed up and down the mountains with gay abandon. It was time to do it. i signed my Para volunteer application and sent it to the powers that be, hoping to get the call for probation. Weeks turned to months, but nothing happened. Maybe i am not good enough for them, i thought. Time passed and i reached the suburbs of Calcutta with my regiment after our two years in Kashmir. In the months that followed, i kept wondering if, when and how i could wear a Maroon and jump out of a plane. It became an obsession that could not be suppressed by other successes in career. The monotonous peacetime service didn’t help, and the air force base next door became a constant reminder.
***
“Come to the edge, Life said.
They said: We are afraid.
Come to the edge, Life said.
They came. It pushed them...and they flew”.
- Guillaume Apollinaire
1998
Towards the end of 1997, i was pleased when my Commanding Officer finally signed my Para volunteer application after a couple of months spent in discussion, dissuasion and delaying. There was no guarantee that i would be called for the Para probation, but atleast there was a chance and hope. This was the last time, i told myself. If nothing happened, i'd let go of the obsession to fall from the sky and stay firm on the ground. Hope floats, and man flies with hope. Finally it happened. As the year 1998 began, i received letters from both the Parachute Artillery Regiments that i was accepted to undergo probation. They gave me the chance and it was upto me to use it to realize my dream. The Army Headquarters ordered me to report to the First Airborne Gunners. Valentine’s Day was a good day to embark on a new journey. i travelled West from Calcutta to Punjab to find acceptance and an entry into the Airborne Brotherhood. Six weeks of sweating, swearing and suspense later, i made it. Wearing the Maroon Beret, I became a member of the best military clan in the world, the Paras. It was the beginning of a new chapter in my life’s book. Earning the Maroon is only half as hard as living up to it. Initiation done, there was one more step to consummation. For a month in the blazing summer of Agra, I went to the Paratroopers’ Training School, where jump instructors put a whole lot of newcomers like me through the month-long basic course.
It began with ground training – physical conditioning, learning the techniques of exiting the aircraft, flight under the canopy and landing. In between falling and rolling for two weeks, we learnt about the science and safety of parachuting, even I pondered on the eternal question “Why jump off a perfectly good plane, when it is going to land anyway?” I recalled my earlier experience during the symbolic “Para Jump” into the swimming pool at NDA and wondered if I’d be scared to look down from a plane. I passed the “Fan Test” which tested confidence to jump using a controlled tethered descent mechanism. When we were taken up in an Antonov-32 (AN-32) for our “Air Experience”, I was too excited to be afraid while standing on the edge of the aircraft ramp. Then came the D-Day, or rather P-Day, when we went up for our first jump. Fully geared up, I had everything from helmet-strap to boot-lace fully tight. A hundred checks later, we had moved from the emplaning hangar to the aircraft and then were on the runway. The plane roared and shuddered several times before probably finding the will to let go and fly away. It felt nice when we were finally airborne, free from the shackles of gravity. Very soon we were approaching the Drop Zone (DZ) and had reached the designated jump height of 1200 feet above ground level (AGL). The static line was hooked up in the plane and hung like an umbilical cord. The AN-32 noisily lumbered along in the sky and its insides, filled with first-time jumpers, were pregnant with animated anticipation. As an officer, I was first in line, an honour and a real privilege – first to get fresh air when the ramp opened, the best view down and early exit out – very significant on a hot summer day. It was “Action Stations”, and we got ready. The instructors did final checks and cries of “Chatri Mata Ki Jai” tried to compete with the aircraft’s drone. I had the poetic thought of the plane being the mother with whom I was connected by the umbilical static line, and I would leave the safety of her womb to enter the void outside, only to be reborn as a Paratrooper. But the cries calling the parachute “Mother” made neither poetic nor scientific sense to me. Fear and excitement made people use any name for whatever saves them from death, I guessed. There was a tap on my shoulder, one that travelled all the way from the end of the line of jumpers behind me. I looked back at expectant faces beaming smiles and gave a thumbs-up to the despatcher. “Yellow On” and we stepped forward, tensed like springs before release. The despatcher held me hard from my harness, but seemed to threaten me that he’d push me out if I hesitated. I was excited beyond words. This was the moment. “Green On” and I heard a go and felt a hand on my back. I held my reserve parachute like the love of my life and jumped out before I got pushed. I started yelling “1000, 2000, 3000, 4000,” and waited as I fell to the ground below… A long drop while I heard the wind rush past. There was the big tug on my body and I could feel the big canopy open and retard my fall, just as they promised. Looking up and around to see big green canopies pop into blossoms in a blue sky was beautiful. I was floating like a dandelion, and descending slowly. Enjoy the view, I told myself, before gravity reunites me with another maternal figure, Mother Earth. It was a short ride down, just a minute even for a lightweight like me. The DZ was below us, and now the ground safety staff started yelling, “Sakht Para Position”, reminding us to land properly as trained. I looked down at the ground rushing at me, tensed into the landing posture, and hit it with a light thud. I remembered to roll, got up quickly and cheered along with the others, to celebrate our successful first jump. I looked up at the sky and at the plane which flew away after dropping us. Leonardo da Vinci’s eternal words came to my mind, “When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.” Ever since, the big question has always been, “When is the next jump?”
We kept discussing each other’s experience, whether anyone was scared, whether eyes were kept open while exiting, about twists in the parachute’s lines and hard landings, and kept at it even as we progressed through the rest of the jumps. The night jump was special because it was the last one of five mandatory descents, and also for the unique experience of plunging into a dark abyss. Every moment crackled with electricity and the whole experience of parachuting was exhilarating. At the end of the course, we got our Parachute Wings to be worn proudly on the chest. Now, with my Maroon and Wings, I was one of the Airborne. After a long journey, I had arrived. I wasn’t the chest-thumping, fire-breathing, glass-eating type, but was a Paratrooper nevertheless!
***
“When we walk to the edge of all the light we have.
And take that step into the darkness of the unknown.
We must believe that one of two things will happen...
There will be something solid for us to stand on.
Or, we will be taught to fly.”
- Zen Proverb
2000
“Yeh Dil Maange More!” A great soldier immortalized that slogan the previous year. Everyone, like Oliver Twist, wants more, whatever it is that they need or fancy. So being a paratrooper was not enough. Like many of my comrades, I wanted to skydive and experience freefall. The laws of demand and supply applied even to the freefall training courses in the army. There was too much competition and I wasn’t progressing beyond the jump with a trustworthy round canopy and static line, where I’d literally be gone with the wind. It hurt more now, to look up at others freefalling for longer than the time I took to jump and land.
I was going on a vacation to USA to see my younger siblings, and asked them to find out about skydiving in that country. They hadn’t much of a clue but made enquiries to humour me. One fine weekend we decided to explore the realm of skydiving, and so drove to a drop zone in Greene County, Ohio. We got the info and decided to start with a tandem-skydive. I signed-up for a skydiving course with a tandem progression while my brother and sister wanted to try the experience. We paid the best price to go highest, got our briefing, watched a movie and then wore harnesses with no parachutes. As we waited, we observed the carnival atmosphere - animated people all around, manifesting for jump loads, packing parachutes, running after planes, jumping, watching videos, drinking beer, picnicking, generally having lots of fun. There were expert skydivers, enthusiastic students and expectant novices (like us), all congregated to enjoy the blue skies.
Our turn came and were escorted by our tandem-masters to a Beech-18 which was small compared to the AN-32 I was familiar with. The rickety and noisy plane filled up and we flew. The ascent was remarkably fast and even as we got to 14000 feet, each of us got hooked to our respective tandem-masters. Never before did my life depend to such an extent on a few metallic hooks and a Yank with his whole face pierced. It wasn’t comfortable but only he could prevent the fate of me being scraped off the ground. The fact he was a qualified, experienced jumpmaster and I was harnessed by space age materials made little difference in those moments of tense expectation. There was lot of cheering and excited waving, and the door of the plane opened. I could feel the plane slowing down and its drone changing pitch. At the door, I looked far below and wished I was master of my own fate. But the tandem-master and I, we were one for the time being. We swung in and out of the door and plunged down… For the first few moments, I thought I was in a surrealistic rock music video from MTV, and could not comprehend anything. Then I thought I was having a practical physics lesson on gravity and velocity. When I was on my belly, floating and getting a bird’s eye view of the earth and horizon, cognizance returned and I began to respond to my tandem-master’s signals. As I enjoyed the view, I knew I was falling at Terminal Velocity of the order of 120 miles per hour, but it felt like floating. The fall was long and slow over the longest minute I ever experienced. In retrospect, it was the best lesson on Time Dilation. Then the huge canopy opened up above us and we glided down to the ground after an amazing sight-seeing tour from the air. It was truly a happy landing. It was my first experience of sensory overload as my mind and body fought against every natural self-preservatory instinct, while I voluntarily hurtled down from the sky. But it felt great and I wasn’t going to stop.
Enthusiastically, I continued with my skydive education. But the weather gods decided to have things their way and I could log only four jumps before my vacation ended. I had to go back home to India and work before fully qualifying as a skydiver. Meanwhile, my siblings were bitten by the sky-bug and were soon addicted. While I toiled away at studying ballistics and gunnery in Deolali, they soared high and swooped low. But theirs is another story to tell. For me, things had to wait… And was the wait long!
***
“And wow! Hey! What's this thing coming towards me very fast? Very very fast.
So big and flat and round, it needs a big wide sounding word like... ow... ound... round... ground! That's it! That's a good name - ground! I wonder if it will be friends with me!
- Douglas Adams, ''Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy.''
2002
Having learnt why only skydivers know why birds sing, life in the gunnery classroom was not very appealing. But I did what had to be done, and ended up teaching others the mysteries of ‘Non Rigidity of a Trajectory’ and ‘Adjustment of Range for False Angle of Sight’. Amidst all that arcane academia, I had to contend with wise old gunners who didn’t understand why I had to jump out of a perfect plane when it was going to land anyway, and why I wanted to run away to Agra just to do that ridiculous thing. While I kept looking up at the blue skies with nostalgia, they turned dark and grey with war clouds looming. Our hostile neighbours pulled one of their dirty tricks and the Indian Army mobilized for an impending war. I was a gleeful kid when the School at Deolali closed to let me go back to the Airborne in Agra. I could die fighting a battle, but before that, I would live jumping a parachute.
As we planned, prepared and perspired for a war that fortunately wasn’t to be, I jumped a lot with the old faithful round canopies on a static line. I even got the opportunity to go “Geronimo!” with the United States Green Berets from their Hercules aircraft during a joint training exercise. It wasn’t skydiving, but on the bright side it was parachuting anyway. A thousand feet above was better than staying on the ground. But providence has its way, and jumping low made my day. The GQ Low Level Parachute was to be trial-tested for its “low” capabilities for the first time in India, and I literally jumped at it to be the leader of the trial team. I led the band of a daring dozen paratroopers and we joined our Air Force counterparts for a month of historic parachuting. We progressively jumped lower and lower till we got to the record height of 300 feet AGL. On a hot sunny afternoon in July, we made the mark with the shortest descent onto the muddy plain called Malpura. At close to just ten seconds, it was virtually a sprint! The anonymous jumper’s words, “When the people look like ants - Pull. When the ants look like people - Pray” rang loud in my ears that day. The long story of the short descent from “300” deserves a detailed narration. But putting it literally short, I got high on a low.
***
“More than anything else the sensation is one of perfect peace mingled with an excitement that strains every nerve to the utmost, if you can conceive of such a combination.”
- Wilbur Wright
2006
… And the wait was long. It was over six years since my first skydive and the only three that followed it. While I journeyed from place to place and one assignment to another, I got caught up in professional soldiering, and kept renewing the promise I made to myself of skydiving seriously, “Someday…”. I could not freefall and had to be content with being a “Wind Dummy” like an old friend from the Green Berets once remarked. Along the way in my time with the Airborne, I had become somewhat of an expert static line jumper, having jumped all the canopies in service in all possible terrain conditions. A couple of years ago, my mother made her leap of faith when she did a tandem skydive at the age of fifty. Every once in a while, we’d get around to talk about skydiving, and how much she wanted to do it again. “Someday…” I kept telling myself.
Back in Agra with the Parachute Brigade, it was jumping on the job again. Every celebration was marked by massed parachute drops. Each time, like the majority of my fellow troopers, I did my one minute plunge from just over a thousand feet and waited for the freefallers to descend gracefully. Unlike the static-liners who made a perfect example of the collective in their drop, the skydivers had individuality with difference in colour and style. Even after a long journey from the ground to the skies, I still had a crick in my neck while I looked up and waited for the freefallers to land and stand. Each time I drove back from the DZ and got home, I’d sigh and say “Someday…” After seeing repeat performances of mine several times, my wife said enough. She asked me when that “Someday” would come, and why it couldn’t be now. I shook my head hard and realized that the Someday was Everyday and the wait had been too long. Carpe Diem, I told myself and got going. In a few weeks, I took a break from work, hauled my rucksack and travelled half way across the globe… to skydive down under.
I flew to the Land of the Long White Cloud, New Zealand and headed for a skydiving center at near Auckland. I signed-up for the Accelerated Free Fall (AFF) course and opted for the package leading to the basic international skydiving license or the ‘A’ license. When I met the lady who was to be my instructor, I had no idea how bog she was in the realm of skydiving. I knew I was lucky when I found out in due course. Ground school was a breeze and after a couple of sorties as passenger in the Pilatus Porter, I was ready to jump. After briefing and rehearsing, we went airborne. In the plane, there were first timers going tandem for a thrill and there were veteran sport jumpers having fun. At 12000 feet the Porter slowed down, the door was opened, and it was my turn. With all my airborne experience, I was apprehensive to perform. At the door, I did my checks in and out, and made my exit. Time slowed down and my sensory perception magnified. I gave my instructors “a big arch” and we were on our freefall. I did all I was told, but my mind was tensed. My instructor made the sign for me to smile and relax. I did, and it was better. My jumpmasters peeled off once I pulled my pilot chute at 3500 feet. With a big 245 foot canopy above me and a radio to receive instructions, flying the parachute and landing it in the DZ were easy.
During the debrief I realized that I was being rigid and tense, a fallout of a long time in the military, where everything was about being “Sakht”. More than anything, I needed to let go, relax and enjoy. It wasn’t easy for me! During the next few jumps, I needed the sign to smile from the instructor before I’d relax and go with the flow. I had to find non-rigidity in my trajectory through the skies! It took a couple of additional skydives to get my turns right, but once that part was cracked, it was good progress. Soon I was going solo, and thanks to fine instruction from my jumpmasters and some guidance from friends at the DZ, it was time to be on my own. On the big jump at Level 8, I dived, docked, turned, flipped, soared and flared… and got it all right. The big smile and thumbs up from my instructor said it all! I turned, waved off and pulled, got sight of the beautiful canopy above my saddle and flew it happily to the ground. The last step was the low level “hop n’ pop”. It wasn’t as low as I was used to, but jumping below 5000 feet and dumping once stable, was quite different from the long beautiful freefalls from 12000 feet. That done, the next stage was consolidation jumps. An old acquaintance from India turned up literally out of the blue, and we became friends for good while we jumped through the next few days. The skydiving spirit was such that everyone at the DZ was happy to share their experience and get me to move further and jump better. By the end of two weeks, it was time for number 25. My instructor joined me for the ‘Graduation Jump’ and it was a great skydive befitting my personal landmark. "In a world in which we are all slaves to the laws of gravity, I'm proud to be counted as one of them freedom fighters.” A skydiver, finally! My “Someday” had arrived, but having accomplished what I’d come for, it was time to go. “Abhi na jao chhod kar, ke dil abhi bhara nahi!” went the old Hindi melody in my mind. I was addicted and it was difficult to let go. Apart from the will to step out of a plane flying high above the earth and plunge downwards, skydiving taught me the pleasure of living for the moment and beholding the wonder of the instant. Courage, perspective, joy… skydiving was the sport good till the last drop. I had learnt to “live in the sunshine, and drink in the wild air”. There was one more day at the end of my trip to the land of Maoris, and the last day was spent at the DZ. Clouds and rain didn’t deter the veteran addicts who got a load up through every window of opportunity, and I joined them till the last load over a glorious sunset. I had a burnt face during one of the skydives, this one through frozen clouds and rain. It was my badge of enthusiasm for an “airgasm”. Inspite of a swollen visage, I had a wide grin. Happiness! Those who do, can't explain. Those who don't, can't understand.
At the end of my aerial adventure in New Zealand, I reluctantly returned home, a lighter wallet in my pocket providing the necessary drive. But it wasn’t the end, but a new beginning. Shortly after, I revisited Malpura and threw myself down towards the hallowed soil from an AN-32, but this time around I had more altitude and attitude. There was more of time-space separating me from the mundane existence I left behind on the ground. After many a low and high, I could fly and kiss the sky! Ever since, the firmament above has been my refuge from the humdrum of earthly life. Those moments of clarity and peace that make one forget the inevitable death and the unavoidable taxes. There’s always something to look up to!
***
“Why does one want to walk wings? Why force one's body from a plane to make a parachute jump? Why should man want to fly at all?
People often ask these questions.
But what civilization was not founded on adventure,
and how long could one exist without it?
Some answer the attainment of knowledge. Some say wealth, or power, is sufficient cause.
I believe the risks I take are justified by the sheer love of the life I lead.”
- Charles A. Lindbergh
“Man small,
Why fall?
Skies call
That’s all.”
- Andy Keech
***
© May 2010
VERTIGO...
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
