Jumping

“Twenty minutes!”

My eyes flutter, briefly, then shut.

“Ten minutes!”

Fuck.  My hands are already unbuckling my safety belt clumsily in the shaking plane.

“Get ready!”

Finally unbuckled, I begin to unhook my static line.  Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.  Fuck.

“Outboard personnel, stand up!”

I rise, still unhooking that fucking thing from my reserve.  Already adrenaline has filled my bloodstream, and a nervous energy envelopes me.

“Inboard personnel, stand up!”

Fuck.  I step slightly back to accommodate the trooper ahead of me as I finally unhook that fucking static line.

“Hook up!”

I latch the static line in place, my stomach already queasy from the combination of fear, unspent adrenaline, and the shaking of a plane at 800 feet above ground level in 15 knot winds.  Shit.

“Check static lines!  Last two jumpers turn to the skin of the aircraft, second to last jumper check the last jumper’s static line!”

Well, I’m the chalk pusher, and that fucker in front of me is on his cherry jump, so fuck if his check means dickall.  I check his line, see no problems and let him pretend that he’s checking mine.  The rattle, by the way, is beginning to grate.

“Check equipment!”

I’m checking my straps and tie-downs, even as a safety clambers over us and our gear, looking for what us dumbasses missed in our checks.  He grabs a man ahead of me and pulls him aside, cursing both him and the man behind him for what they missed.  Thank fuck he caught it, and thank double fuck he can fix it.  Shithead’s got the 240, and I do not want to hear about it not being on the fucking DZ from anyone, not at this time of fucking night.

“Sound off for equipment check!”

“OKAY!” I scream at the cherry in front of me, giving him a generous slap on his scared ass.  The pattern repeats all up the chalk.  Now, it’s the shitty wait.

This is the worst of any jump.   This time is just the wait, the dread, the fear, the adrenaline.  Waiting and adrenaline never mix.  I’m tense, waiting for that green light to free me from this.  The fucking cherry makes to puke.

“Fucking don’t you the fuck dare!  I better not slip on your fucking chunder, cherry!  Keep it down or puke in your helmet, I don’t give a fuck which!”  He struggles for the former.  Jesus, I hope I had a sterner stomach when I was a cherry.

The door opens and the jumpmaster leans out.  I can barely make out the one minute signal.  The eternal minute.  My ears are filled with the roar of the engines, screaming wind, my heartbeat…and now the fucking cherry puking all over the fucking floor.  Jesus Christ.

Jumpmaster leans out again, 30 seconds.  The smell of the puke is wreaking havoc on my ability to not puke myself, as the shitty aluminum can we’re in shakes and rattles with the wind couples forcefully with the adrenaline surging through my blood unspent.  That fucking cherry.

The green light hits, and we’re moving.  I almost slip on that fuck’s vomit, that motherfucker.  I’m pushing is stumbling ass onwards, time to get the fuck out.  He barely makes it, and I’m glad I’m the pusher since he fucking forgets to hand the line off to the safety at the end.  I let him grab it, then walk into the abyss.