Jump 75: The Day Ed Hanson Fell to Earth — and Survived

My father, Ed Hanson, took up skydiving in the 1960s in Portland, Oregon. This account was written by him as part of a manuscript he titled I, Skydiver. At some point, my father made reduction copies of the manuscript, fitting nine original pages onto a single sheet. These reduced copies are the only version I have found among his papers; the original manuscript pages have not been located. He wrote this account sometime after the events themselves, reconstructing his experiences from his logbook and his own recollections. Jump 75 took place on February 20, 1965. Many members of our family were there that day when my father’s parachute malfunctioned. He fell to the ground—and survived.

JUMP 75
February 20, 1965 · 2:10 PM
Morningside Hospital Field · Portland, Oregon
Altitude: 7,500 feet
Aircraft: Cessna 180, N2468C

The Exhibition Jump

We finally got aboard the plane and took off, climbing steadily towards the west and then turning due south for the Portland area. All of this time, we were gradually climbing upwards to a height of only 2,500 feet to maintain a maximum flying altitude.

Ray Hughes, about to make his 12th jump, sat near the door, with TP kneeling right behind him. I was crouched up in the rear of the cabin behind TP, with a very nervous Percy leaning his back behind the pilot’s seat. Both TP and Percy had a smoke-bomb, and since TP was going to act as spotter on this closely calculated jump, he also carried two wind-drift indicators.

The sun was shining brightly on our right as we crossed over east Vancouver and headed out across the Columbia River. Shortly after passing Portland International Airport, we turned slightly on a heading with Rocky Butte, slowly passing it on the right side of our aircraft, with the Cessna’s altimeter now reading a full 2,500 feet.

Sitting crouched and cramped in the small rearward cabin compartment, I watched the scenery and also subconsciously kept an eye on my fellow jumpers. Percy was constantly checking and rechecking his new CrossBow, of which he had made only a few jumps with, as we half-heartedly tried to converse with each other. But our minds were a million miles out in the middle of nowhere, so we finally gave it up and remained silent.

TP was continuously looking out of the windows for signs of any stray aircraft or wind changes, looking at the ground below for these tell-tale signs. Since Ray was obscured by TP, I could not see him. Purnell was busy flying as usual.

Since I had already driven by a few weeks earlier to check out our probable landing site, it seemed on the ground to be very hazardous and a narrow piece in which to land. But as we started to approach it from the air, it didn’t seem so bad after all, for there looked to be various places in which to land if you couldn’t make it to the target area—that is, if the wind wasn’t too strong.

Looking down, I could see smoke blowing to the southeast. I studied the terrain below as we neared it.

Over to the east of the target was a large expanse of field, with 102nd Street running diagonally through it, bisecting it into two separate fields. The farthest one consisted of 10 to 20 acres, ideal for a misjudged landing. The one nearest the target was populated on its south side by houses and a road, with the east side having 5 to 10 acres of still-standing berry bushes and their posts with wire, not to mention some buildings and telephone lines. From the berry bushes to the target was 10 to 15 acres of more landing space—real close!

North of the target lay 10 acres of open field, with a schoolhouse not yet completed, as it was still under construction. From the schoolhouse on up to 92nd and Stark Street, it was gently sloping ground, gradually climbing up to Stark.

However, this land had its obstacles. A gravel road ran diagonally across it, 300 feet north of the schoolhouse, which linked up with Morningside Hospital’s southern wing and buildings, bordered by a row of trees. Over to the left of the target area, or the west side of it, was 92nd Street, with suburban houses and power lines on the other side of the road. Morningside Hospital lay on the north end of this field, and on the very north tip of it, bordering Stark Street, was 5 to 10 acres of Johnson’s Wrecking Yard.

The terrain below seemed to be fairly favorable as long as one stayed away from the field’s edges where the power lines were located and dodged the schoolhouse. Also parked near the gravel road were numerous school buses in a row. In other words, both the south and north sides of the target had suburban areas and power lines, plus paved roads. These were the main areas to stay away from.

TP had Purnell turn southeast and come around in a north run. Since we had left Scholl’s, it had taken us just 10 minutes to get here, with all of us now on edge and keenly alert. I myself was a bundle of nerves, midway between excitement and fear, and sweating profusely inside of the cramped and warm rear cabin compartment. Percy now seemed to be visibly nervous.

I tried to concentrate my thoughts on Natalie, but it was only temporarily, as she soon disappeared entirely from my mind.

This north run was to be the first wind-drift indicator drop, and as we passed over Division Street, above Hughes Food Market, approaching the jump field’s edge, we could see hardly any cars or people watching us down below. I kept looking for my blue Ford, signifying the fact that Stan, along with Della, his wife, and my three daughters were there, as I had expected them to be, for I did not plan on anybody else showing up.

But no Ford was in sight. I felt disappointed.

TP opened the door and started to signal Purnell towards the target. Directly over it, he then leaned out over Ray and threw the rolled-up indicator out of the door. Ray had to shove himself up against the instrument panel so that TP could spot and allow him to lean out of the door.

While TP was leaning out trying to locate the wind-drift indicator, which was just a 15-foot-long, 12-inch-wide piece of rolled-up crepe paper, I vacated my cramped rear compartment and moved up to kneel behind TP. Pressing my face against the rear cabin window, I tried to locate the area where the indicator was supposed to be falling, but I could not spot it.

TP then ducked back inside of the cabin, shaking his head. He had also lost sight of it. Apparently, the indicator had fallen without unraveling open and hit the ground below somewhere, as it only weighed a few ounces.

With that major failure confronting us, we circled around to the east to make another north approach attempt so that TP could throw out our last indicator, which would enable us to check on the positive direction of the wind at opening altitude, if any.

Since we had lost sight of the first indicator and did not want to take any chances with the wind in this crowded landing area, I made up my mind to follow this one all of the way down. The same reflection on the ground blinded us most of the time, and I prayed that when it came time for our last indicator to be thrown out, we would be able to spot this one with no interference whatsoever.

Out went the last indicator. I watched it whip away and unfurl itself open from the aircraft, momentarily losing sight of it and picking up its descent again. This time I stayed glued to it without blinking an eyeball, so to say.

It came down in the suburban area southeast of the target, from what looked like 500 feet away. We all became very excited, for this proved that there was hardly any wind. Being somewhat relieved, we started to plan our exit point.

We were going to exit over the field south of the wrecking yard, fall and open, and then hold what wind there was as much as possible, facing the northwest corner of 92nd & Stark Street, at least until a proper altitude was assured of hitting the target. Then turn around and glide towards the target, utilizing our own judgements.

We were going up to 7,500 feet on a southeast-northwest target approach, with all three of us rapidly jumping out. Since I was appointed to be the last man out, I would have to be on my toes and get the hell out of the aircraft before we passed clear of the field!

Ray was going out at 3,500 feet, as he wasn’t experienced enough to freefall from 7,500 feet, with TP spotting for him.

Circling around again for a northwest target approach to let Ray out, gradually climbing as we went, I still could not see my blue Ford, either at the Market or around the field perimeters. But a few cars were starting to park along the 92nd Street roadside, with dots walking down below.

How I wished that my family was watching, as it would be fun to show off in freefall to them. Oh well, maybe Stan and my kids might be down below somewhere, watching from another car, or they might get here before I left the aircraft? Some of my close friends might even be down below, for all I knew?

Trying to locate my other brother Ron’s house, I couldn’t spot it in the maze of houses now spreading out below me as we climbed for altitude.

I now concentrated on setting my altimeter, as I had forgotten to advance it 500 feet before takeoff to allow for the extra height of the Portland plateau region, which was higher than at Orchard’s.

At this time, unknowingly, I committed a grave error, for I had reset my altimeter according to the aircraft’s altimeter instead of just advancing my needle 500 feet more. Both I and the aircraft were 500 feet below par on our readings!

But TP and Percy had already reset theirs, although I did not realize this at the moment. As TP was the spotter for us, he was relying only on his own altimeter, not the Cessna’s.

We would get our 7,500 feet of altitude to jump out in, but on the way down, instead of opening at 2,500 feet, I would be opening at 2,000 feet, unknowingly!

We should all have checked our altimeters before leaving the aircraft as a safety factor, but due to the stress of this jump, we had all forgotten. Ray never had one on him. Since he was just going to make a quick jump and pull, he really didn’t need one.

All of this I finally realized after this jump was made and over with.

TP instructed Ray on what to do and reopened the door to spot, getting the target field aligned for his forthcoming exit. Now lined up, he ordered Ray out onto the strut-step. I held my breath waiting for TP to let him off, and as I looked down, the ground looked to be about even at this moment—a brown and hennaish-colored patchwork of fields and houses.

Slapping Ray hard, TP shouted him off, and I immediately edged near the open door to watch his exit. After hesitating a little to regain his student-taught position of one leg bent upwards and leaning forwards on the wing strut, he finally pushed off.

Down he went on his right side, then flipped over onto his back. Falling in that position, it seemed, for 5 to 6 seconds. Fearing that he might not recover, I was very relieved when I seen him roll over, facing the earth, and pop open for a good 8-second delay. That amount of time was sufficient for a safe descent at his freefall altitude of 3,500 feet.

All three of us watched his candy-striped 1.1 chute closely as we climbed upwards to our jump altitude at 7,500 feet, with the door again being closed by TP.

Ray came down about 100 feet south of the target, at the midway point of the field between the target and 92nd Street, his canopy coming up to meet him as he hit. A good jump for him in such a tight field. But then, I had always admired his canopy work, for he was a natural at it for a man with so few jumps to his credit.

At this time, we were about 5,000 feet up and still climbing.

Now it was our turn, as me and Percy checked and rechecked our equipment, save for TP, who was too busy trying to get Purnell spotted in on a line with the field as we started to approach the target, heading northwest. Me and Percy kept giving each other the thumbs-up sign, and I now started to feel sweaty and nervous. So did Percy.

Opening the door, TP leaned out and spotted. At the same time, he grabbed one of the two smoke bombs. Holding it outside of the Cessna, he pulled the primer to activate it, crushing the bomb to emit a fine reddish powdery smoke, which seemed to be, just at this moment, barely visible from inside of the Cessna as we watched it whip out by us.

Looking at it from the ground, it would look like the aircraft was afire and smoking, which would help in seeing our plane from the ground and also serve a purpose to attract any bystanders’ attention as they milled about down below. This was the main initial purpose of TP’s smoke bomb.

These smoke bombs usually lasted anywhere from 30 to 60 seconds, depending on what they sold for and what type they were. The ones that we were using lasted a full 30 seconds and ranged in price from $1.75 on up to $3.50, used mostly for exhibition and show jumps.

I must hasten to add that these smoke bombs that we had were not the fiery flare or magnesium types, considered by many skydivers to be highly dangerous due to a possible ignition of their equipment, but a powder-type, which looked and acted like smoke.

The second smoke bomb Percy would hold in his left hand and activate while all three of us were leaving the aircraft. While in freefall, the trail of smoke from the bomb would enable onlookers on the ground to immediately spot us and follow our descent downwards to the opening level of 2,500 feet.

At this point, we were all edging near the door, getting ready to follow TP the second that he left the Cessna, with my emotions now being a cross between excitement and fear—the fear arising in trying to exit fast enough so as not to overshoot the field. With that in my mind, I did not try to pinpoint my car, or any other, parked far below us, as I was now too busy preparing for the jump.

Now!

TP pushed off as we flew over the field south of Stark Street, with Percy throwing himself out of the door. I seemed to take forever to go out, stepping onto the strut-step in half-fear. Then I exited.

It was a half-assed jump-out on my part.

I was now in space, falling rapidly on my right side, and upon regaining my stability, I decided to freefall in this position and open my chute at the “red-line.” From the corner of my eye, I could see Percy’s powdery smoke trail erupting upward far below me and could barely glimpse their plummeting bodies.

From here on out, I was now on my own.

I was starting to have trouble breathing due to my cold, which caused me to lose my stable at terminal velocity and start going around in a slow spin. To keep my body from spinning, I went into a counteractive flat spin to the left, with my “viking” helmet buffeting on my head from the excessive speed.

But now I was starting to go into a spin to the left as I was coming down. Trying to correct this spin, I tried a right turn, whipping around almost out of control and dipping down earthwards to my right.

What the hell was the matter with me anyways? I never had this problem in trying to maintain stability in a long delay today!

Trying another way to get out of this panic situation, I arched my back as much as possible, only to go into a rapid spin to the left. This time I didn’t bother to correct it, as I now knew that I was falling out of control!

Looking at my altimeter that was bouncing up and down with my reserve as I was falling and spinning earthwards in a left turn horizontally, it read 4,500 feet. The horizons seemed to be gradually drawing together in the distance as I fell, and at 3,500 feet they started to envelope into a maze of earth, with square-cut fields, miniature trees and ribbons of roadway closing in on me and creating the impression that the ground was rushing up to meet my body.

With this weird illusion, it felt like I was just laying suspended in the air, still in a left-hand spin which had somewhat receded, with just a terrific wind blowing up at me, tearing at my equipment and flapping my jumpsuit. It made it at times very hard to breathe, as I had to keep ducking my head this way and that in order to gulp air, forfeiting my stability in doing so.

Now! To get ready to pull my ripcord as the needle neared 2,500 feet (actually 2,000 feet), giving myself a last good body arch so as not to fall out of control, I reached for the plastic red-tipped ripcord handle.

While pulling it out of the housing, I immediately flipped head-first towards the onrushing earth, now a kaleidoscope of colors, and waited for my pale-green 1.1 chute to deploy. I was now falling almost feet-first with still no familiar opening shock. Then I felt a gentle tug on my shoulders and groin where the harness straps were strapped around my body, as I was now in a direct feet-to-earth position.

Something Was Wrong

I did not feel a quick full opening jerk that I was accustomed to!

My helmeted head was caught between my backpack riser lines, which were twisted across one another like a vise, preventing me from looking upwards so that the canopy could be checked out and corrections made, if any. Now I knew what it felt like to have a hangman’s noose around your neck, thrusting your head forward and downwards, except mine was caught in a criss-cross pattern of riser lines, not the shroud lines, that I could feel with my hands even though I had gloves on.

Suspended helplessly, looking down at the fields below the wrecking yard, I started going into a slow gradual spin to the right, with it picking up in speed as my ripcord started flapping in my right hand. I put it around my right wrist and started picking my feet and trying to pull my head out of the risers’ vise-like grip, bruising my neck in trying to do so.

In a near-panic, I tried kicking out with my whole body and legs to get my head out to prevent that God-awful spinning, but to no avail.

A whipping and flapping sound up above me and a severe tugging on my suspension lines!

Fighting free, I finally got my head out of the risers’ grip and looked upwards at my canopy.

I froze in terror!

For there above me, my canopy was a mass of interwoven nylon bunched in a ball, violently whipping and flapping, with no inflated panels showing whatsoever.

Good Grief! I either had a streamer, Mae-West or something. I could not tell, as I was spinning around to my right so rapidly it felt as if someone was grabbing the top of what was left of my canopy and twisting me around and around, making me feel very giddy in the head.

All of this had happened in a matter of seconds, and glancing at my altimeter, it looked like it read close to 1,500 feet of altitude left. I really could not tell, as my eyes were starting to glaze over with films of tears, making it hard to see properly.

Get that reserve out, get it out! God no!

I kept saying it over and over as I reached for my reserve handle with a frantic haste. Feeling it, I hesitated long enough to try and lay my body back to give the reserve room in which to deploy outwards, and pulled, awaiting the white reserve canopy to pop out and save me.

This did not happen!

There was a white flutter as a panel of white started to show, then more panels. Since I was still spinning around rapidly to the right, plus falling faster and faster with my descent speed quickly increasing, this combination together threw the reserve panels upwards and into the twisted risers and shroud lines of my main chute!

I seen my mistake, for I should have reached in after opening my reserve with my hands and grabbed it from behind, throwing it out ahead of me all at once. In the process of doing so, the reserve shroud lines and canopy should have been shaken around to help its opening.

But now terror started to grip me.

I panicked again and started grabbing at the main bundle of white nylon, which was what remained of my reserve that was now all wrapped up in my main chute, still fluttering in my reserve mounted near my stomach. I tried in vain to shake it open so that I could throw it out.

But both of the ripcords—one around my right wrist and the other in my right hand—were banging onto and snagging the reserve lines and panels. I should have thrown both of them away under emergency conditions, but hadn’t. I had hung onto them.

Suddenly, the whole reserve partially billowed open and then whipped into and around my twisted suspension lines of my main chute malfunction, wrapping the reserve canopy around them as it spiraled upwards to come to a fluttering halt below my main bunched-up canopy!

God! God no!

Now I had a double malfunction as I plunged earthwards!

I grabbed and tried to pull the wrapped-up reserve away from my main canopy, but the ever-increasing spinning had created a wind vacuum which kept the reserve glued to my main shroud and riser lines, like paper on a wire fence during a windy day.

I looked at the ground below, a whirling and blurred patchwork of fields and colors, as I spun closer to the earth.

Forget the reserve, you have only one chance! Try to get that damn main untangled!

This was my only thought at the time. An impossible job for what few seconds that I had left before I hit the ground, but it was still a chance, as the reserve was so hopelessly tangled up it was pitiful.

Kicking and twisting in the opposite direction to my left and exerting all of my strength to counteract the spinning, it was a futile attempt, for I was still going around and around. It was like trying to stop a merry-go-round at full speed immediately!

All the while that I was doing this, I had my eye glued alternately between the ground and my main canopy. The canopy had at least opened a bit, showing a panel or two billowing and closing on the left, with the center still a bunched-up ball of nylon. The right had between 4 to 7 panels opening and closing at various intervals.

Looking up at it, the main canopy seemed like a whirling dervish, spinning itself around and myself also spinning. But it seemed like we were not united—that is, the canopy spun itself in a noisy, flapping sound, around and around, separate from my very own body, although we were one.

From the canopy on down to my backpack, the suspension lines were a twisted mess, save for those attached to some of the open panels, and even these, halfway down, were twisted. The tangled reserve also added to its appearance, with its lines dangling and whipping all over this conglomeration.

It was later verified by witnesses, reliable ones, that I only had, at the very most, 1/8th of a full canopy open when I hit the ground at various estimated speeds of 45, 50, 60, 70 and even 100 mph. Take your choice, as I do not know.

But I do know that I never hit at no 100 mph!

Still kicking and fighting my twisted lines, I could see that it was no use. Trying once more to reinflate my reserve, I collapsed and gave up, as I was so giddy from the spinning that I neither had reflexes nor energy left to fight anymore.

Looking helplessly at my altimeter, which was flapping around on the empty reserve container, I could see only a few hundred feet left.

This was it, as I now wrote myself off!

During my rapid descent, the only thoughts going through my mind are these as mentioned in my diary. That is all. When I was at 2,000 feet, opening and going down, the earth, sky and everything else seemed to draw together, creating an impression that I was going to come down miles away from our intended landing site, as you could see for many miles even when I was spinning downward.

My only thought now was, where am I going to hit?

Giving my canopy another look, I saw that it had billowed out to 1 or 2 panels on the left, with a huge ball of nylon still squeezing it away from the right, which now had 6 to 8 panels flapping and trying to stay open.

Not enough!

Rapidly coming down, I could see houses, power lines, fields and vaguely, even people running as I flashed around, and then a field…

Thank God! I was going to hit into a field!

Our target exit point! I had come straight down.

Suddenly, the field changed from slate-brown to grassy furrows. Then it rushed up rapidly to meet me.

“And Then I Hit”

All I remember was how quiet everything seemed to be, with the only noise I heard coming from onrushing spectators running out into the field to expect the worse, where I had fallen and lain still, without moving at all.

I was laying on my left side, gradually sensing, rather than feeling, that I seemed to be alive and not hurt. After my mind had accepted this fact, an overwhelming sense of relief started sweeping over me.

I wanted to just lay there and relax, enjoy the warm sun and ignore the loud shouting that was now going on.

Ironically, this was the most peaceful feeling that I had ever experienced in my whole life. Maybe it was because the adrenalin was completely zapped from my body.

I was thankful to be alive.

I had survived a double malfunction!

All the way down from 2,500 or 2,000 feet, give or take—actually, in reality, from 7,500 feet (according later to TP’s testimony concerning PCA regulations in the NW, his altimeter was correctly adjusted for that altitude). But it didn’t really matter, as few skydivers ever lived through these types of malfunctions, if any did, from any altitude… what luck!

Closing my eyes, I said a quick prayer to God for letting me live.

By now, there was a huge crowd encircling me as I still laid quietly on the ground on my left side, all tangled up in shroud lines and the nylon panels of two parachutes, which had fallen all over my body and the ground nearby, billowing and collapsing in the slight breeze.

After all the tugging and pulling in trying to reinflate both canopies, I still had both ripcords laying by my right hand, without losing any of them!

All wrapped up in my two malfunctions with my backpack harness still attached to me, I started to shake uncontrollably from shock and possible injuries, although I couldn’t feel any pain at present.

I did not want to move or get up, or let anyone near touch me, as I wasn’t going to take any more chances of killing myself.

I laid over on my back, moving very carefully so that if I had any injuries they could be felt right away, and then my movements would immediately cease. So far, so good.

Laying on my back and feeling thankful that thus far I never had any back or internal injuries that I could feel at the moment.

I started to answer scores of questions about my malfunction, thrown at me by the numerous and curious spectators now surrounding me. Some members of the PPC, which had preceded our lift out in order to lay out the target and rope off the jump area, had picked my backpack harness and helmet, without me being touched hardly or moved out of position.

I was thankful to them for a temporary emergency job which was well handled. They sure knew their business. One of them I knew only vaguely. His name was Chet Winchester, a solid member of the original PPC.

Someone covered me up with a broken OD blanket as I started shaking uncontrollably again from shock. I tried to close my eyes and sleep, but the excitement was too much, trying to recapture that feeling of serenity and contentment that I had felt shortly after hitting the ground and realizing that I was still alive.

Giving it up, I started moving my head slowly, scanning the crowd of onlookers. I could see a pale-looking Stan, my brother, and my three children, Cindy, Candy and Sally, who looked wide-eyed in shock at me laying there. Stan’s wife, Della, was standing next to my stepmother, Margaret, both of them pale with fear and concern.

That was all out of my whole family that I immediately recognized, although Butch, Alan and Steve were also watching my descent. I did not see them in the crowd.

I so estimated that the fall had taken me about 10 to 15 seconds from opening altitude all the way to the ground—a fast trip down!

Someone in the crowd asked me if I wanted an ambulance and I said yes, but one of the PPC members had already put in a call for one. Shortly afterwards, sirens were heard in the distance and an ambulance quickly arrived.

All of this time, I had not moved except to turn over on my back. After much ado, I was put onto a stretcher and hustled, somewhat bouncily, across the field towards the waiting ambulance parked on the 92nd Street roadside, with the now-huge crowd giving way.

Jesus, I thought, where did all of those people come from?

With Stan accompanying me, I was rushed rapidly to Woodland Park Hospital, located on about 102nd & Glisan, a good 3 miles away from the field.

Only a few seconds had elapsed upon our arrival there when I was rushed into the emergency room, where I was given a check-up and it was found that my left leg was in severe pain. After assuring Stan that I was alright, the emergency doctor then told me that I was not to move any part of my body until further examinations were made.

I was lifted from the stretcher onto a table, glad that this first initial examination was over with, for it showed promising results.

Shortly afterwards, a new doctor arrived and further examined me. After hearing my story, he told me that I was extremely lucky to be alive, which I already knew, and that all I had wrong with me at present was a state of minor shock, various facial, neck and body bruises and quite possibly a crushed or torn ligament in my left kneecap, plus two bruised legs.

Was that all? No internal injuries or broken bones?

Christ! How lucky could a guy get, as this turned out to be one helluva day for me!

Shock hit me again and I was told to rest a bit and then I could go home, or whatever. In a few minutes it subsided and Stan sat around talking to me.

Finally getting up to try walking, Stan gave me a hand this first time, but it was no use. With many sore bruises, my main concern was in my left leg, which pained severely where I could hardly stand on it, especially in my knee area.

I gave up and laid back down again, exhausted. We tried a second time, again giving it up.

Presently, Don Phillips arrived, as he was the Portland area A.S.O. for the PCA and wanted to know all of the facts concerning my malfunction first-hand so that he could send in a report to the PCA and FAA.

“So, you finally went all the way this time. How does it feel?” he said jokingly.

He asked me if I was a PCA member, which I wasn’t, and if I had signed a waiver for this jump. I did.

He looked and acted relieved, for in this situation PCA was not responsible for my damages or hospital bills accrued for this jump. As I was not a PCA member or insured with the PCA, I could not get nasty with them. I had signed a waiver and was totally responsible for my very own actions and debts!

But I had my Ironworker’s Insurance to get me off of the hook with, as there was no property damage or anything else involved.

I always carried my jump logbook tucked away inside of my jumpsuit inside pocket, and he wanted to see it. Showing it to him, he made me finish filling it out and then he put his signature down to verify jumps 73 to 75 for today.

I filled out the usual verification, inquiry, witness and accident forms, not for my benefit, but for his. Don was all business, for he was a lawyer when he wasn’t jumping.

This business and all taken care of, the three of us sat around and joked with each other for a few minutes.

Meanwhile, newspaper reporters and radio announcers started going into the emergency room to try and talk with me. But Don Phillips had top priority, and they were told to leave temporarily until he was finished with me.

He cautioned me not to tell them too much.

Percy, TP and Ray Hughes arrived. All three of them were relieved to see that I was okay.

I was very talkative and excited, as the six of us could not get a word in edgewise, with everybody talking all at once.

Presently we all calmed down and I explained to them what had happened, as only TP had a quick glance at me going down and then he lost sight of me, as he had to watch his canopy work.

Ray Hughes, already on the ground, had seen the whole thing from start to finish and told me that I was completely out of control before I opened. When my chute deployed out, it opened into a big ball of nylon, and he was praying for me to pop my reserve, as I was coming down spinning like a freight car gone wild.

When I did open my reserve and it wrapped up in my main, his heart sank, and from there on out he couldn’t bear to watch me hit. He was dumb-founded when he heard that I was alive.

Percy did not even know what had happened till after he had landed and gathered up his chute!

TP had a hunch that something was wrong, and immediately after he hit the ground he had asked some spectators and they told him. He ran all the way over to where I had fallen, but I did not see him in the crowd.

To make it official, both Percy and TP had landed inside of the target. I had beaten both of them down by quite a margin of seconds, and I was the last man out of the aircraft!

Don Phillips had also seen the whole show and reacted like Hughes, except that he watched me hit, saying that I plunged into the ground at around 60 mph! He didn’t think that I had survived the impact, and if I did, my body would be all broken up.

Stan was shocked at what he saw. However, his story was about the same as Phillips.

They all agreed on one thing: my double malfunction was unrecognizable. It wasn’t a streamer, Mae-West or anything that they could pin-point, but just a huge mass of nothing. None of the jumpers could ever recall any other skydiver that had survived a double malfunction at the height we were jumping today.

It was a Ripley’s Believe-It-Or-Not rarity.

My other brother, Ron, peeked his head around the corner and upon seeing that I had company, he promptly took off without even bothering to visit.

Such was my family.

Everybody started to leave except for Stan and Don Phillips. Then the reporters and the TV newscasters started to enter, and unable to handle all of them, I let Don do the talking for me as he ushered all but one reporter out of my room.

After interviewing me, he took a couple of flash pictures of me and Stan together and one with me lying down, pretending to write in my logbook. That done, he left and the room was quiet once again.

After settling down, I finally decided to leave and go home. With Stan’s help, I did a good, but painful, attempt at hobbling out of the emergency room.

We both headed for the Toy Tavern, our favorite watering-hole in Portland, and really celebrated with a lot of those beers.

As we were drinking away, the radio announced on KEX about my mishap, and later KOIN-TV on their Channel 6 news reports mentioned how I had survived a long fall. All of this I found out much later from relatives and friends.

However, the newspapers did not have any news whatsoever about it, except for The Journal, which ran a small article about the jump in Monday morning’s paper, when it should have been in Sunday’s paper.

Don Phillips apparently did a good job talking to those other reporters!

This had been quite a day for me: surviving a double malfunction, winning a pot-bet jump with a DC, 2½ freefalls made, one of them a free jump and a refund check, plus, I was alive.

Sunday, February 21 — The Day After

I stayed home Sunday nursing a hangover and trying to rest my injured left knee and leg. Scores of telephone calls started coming in, with relatives and close friends, not to mention other curious sources, wanting to find out in detail about my mishap of yesterday. It got to be boring after a while answering the telephone.

However, there was a certain call from a free-lance photographer that I was keenly interested in, concerning some pictures that he took with his 35mm camera showing my double malfunction. He just had enough time to snap off 2 colored pictures of me coming down and 1 of me laying on the ground covered with the OD blanket.

Since they were not developed yet, I made arrangements with him to have a double set of prints and have them enlarged. I would pay him well for his efforts.

He later did that, and a few weeks later he delivered the pictures to me personally, not even charging me a dime for them. I had more copies made later and gave them to my closest relatives, and I still have my set after all of these years. He had done an excellent job in photography.

I have long since forgotten his name, but according to him, he had heard about this exhibition jump through advertisements and had decided to watch it, taking pictures in the process, and that was how he got my pictures. Finding out my name and phone number, he had contacted me and did not bother in trying to sell them to the newspapers, as he only wanted me to have them first-hand.

What a decent fellow!

I had other crank calls concerning other pictures taken of the malfunction by a couple of amateur photographers, but nothing ever followed through on these issues and I soon forgot about them.

Ray Hughes, shortly after I was hauled away in the ambulance to the hospital, had decided to go over amongst the crowd after getting rid of the fear of seeing me come down. He gathered up my equipment and both tangled parachutes, bundled the mess up and stuffed them into his wife’s car.

He then collected Percy and TP together and they headed over to the hospital to see me. After they were done with their visit, he took them wherever it was that they wanted to go, headed over to my house to drop off my gear a while later and visit with me. But I was at the tavern about this time and no one knew of my whereabouts.

I also had many visitors and somebody, I don’t know who, had brought over a cane for me to use. I quickly learned how to hobble about with it.

Naturally, everybody wanted to see my still unpacked and tangled-up main and reserve mess of parachutes. They couldn’t believe how tangled they were. Words can’t describe it.

I finally had a visitor take the chutes out to my car and put them onto the back seat. When I felt better, when my body enabled me to drive, I was going to take the equipment over to Scholl’s and let somebody repack it all for me.

Yes, I bragged a lot about my malfunction and overexploited it at times, but in the long run it was really my own fault, due to my instability upon opening. I was the “hero” of the moment and I thoroughly made use of it.

Ralph Hatley, visiting with me and forgetting an excellent jumping day, mentioned the fact that he had never, in all of his years of jumping, ever heard of anybody surviving a fall that I had experienced and lived to talk about it, especially at that height, as far as he could recall at this present time.

This had to be some kind of a jumping record concerning malfunctions.

It was verified that in some cases there were jumpers who had not survived this same sort of thing, but they were at a helluva lot lower altitudes than I was at the time and they got all broken up, either to get back on their feet again or remained crippled for life. Very few, if any, returned back to making more parachute jumps, and those that did gradually faded away from jumping.

Dan Gorman was a rarity in this case, so was Hatley, after riding a Mae-West down and breaking his ankle.

I felt like being linked with an elite fraternity, such as the “caterpillar club,” an organization that awarded people with a caterpillar badge for making an emergency jump from a disabled aircraft. I decided to check later on this so-called “malfunction” record when I had time enough to do so.

With my accident so recent, on this very day I would have jumped again right away. But with a bum leg and a cane, I couldn’t, as the adulation and talk, etc., all in my favor, really spurred me on, making me forget entirely, almost, the dire consequences that my malfunction had imposed upon me.

A short time afterwards, when the “new” had worn off, the full realization of what had happened had finally set in, leaving me with a hollow feeling of gloom and dread inside.

Many of my relatives and friends, even some of the jumpers, had advised me to give up and quit skydiving. So did my scared and still-shocked daughters, who now started begging me to quit and stay home with them.

I was strongly debating this issue of conflict within myself and really didn’t know what to do about it at this time.

Deep down inside, I wanted to jump again.

Monday, February 22 — The PCA 

Bill Manning, the overall A.S.O. for NW Oregon and SW Washington, called me to find out how I was feeling during the early evening of Monday, February 22nd. Our conversation eventually drifted around to how I was going to pay my hospital and medical bills that had accrued with my malfunction, and I told him that my Ironworker’s Insurance would take care of the best part of it.

He gave me a lecture on how I should have listened to him in the first place and joined PCA, as for two weeks at least I would be unable to go back to work, and the PCA would have taken my claims immediately for processing without me using any of my other insurances, except for my benefits.

Now I finally realized how the PCA operated for a jumper, and it was all for his own protection. A $20-a-year membership would entitle me to insurance, licenses (both A and B), skydiving wings and a full evaluation of my jumps, with all of my non-PCA jumps being fully recorded and recognized. That is, if I had an infraction with the FAA, they would not let me join. Plus, a skydiving magazine mailed each month, showing where various jump meets were to be held and their results, etc.

Since I really had nothing to lose except $20, it sounded interesting.

Since I was still undecided about ever making another jump again and remaining a member of the W.S.P.C. (there were no membership fees involved with this club), with so many doubts, unsure feelings, promises and commitments to try and quit jumping forever, I just couldn’t generate enough interest in the PCA while talking to Bill.

He kept urging me to join the PCA. That way, if I decided to jump again or otherwise, at least I would be fully covered and recognized. It was not his job to talk me into quitting skydiving, as I had to make that decision myself. He wouldn’t commit himself into saying yes or no about it.

At last, I gave in and made arrangements for him to come over and have me sign the required forms for PCA membership. In the meantime, I was supposed to fill out the PCA forms that I had gotten from Hatley last weekend and he would take it from there.

He would be by Friday morning and, in a way, after making this decision to join the PCA, my spirits had buoyed up somewhat. But it had taken me a long time to do so.

Thursday, February 25 — Joining the PCA 

On Thursday morning, February 25th, he had changed his mind and dropped by my house, as he couldn’t make it for Friday morning due to a flying commitment with the ANG, of which he belonged as a Captain.

I was not at home, as I had a doctor’s appointment to keep concerning the injury to my left leg and knee, so he left a note upon my door telling me to mail him the PCA forms that I had already filled out.

My injury was still not fully diagnosed by the doctor, so I had another week of waiting before my next appointment, still hobbling around, handicapped with a cane.

Finally contacting Bill again, as I was unsure about filling out some of these forms, he came by that evening and helped me out. That done, he picked them up, along with my jump logbook, to have it all verified at the W.S.P.C., the PPC and the various A.S.O. and PCA Instructors in order to jump areas, for PCA license and insurance approval.

I then wrote him out a check to cover the expense of joining the PCA for the year 1965, as you had to rejoin each year, starting on January 1st.

So officially, on Thursday evening, February 25th, 1965, I had joined the PCA.

With that dilemma over with, Bill, in the meantime, was taking care of the paperwork that was involved in it. I still remained in a quandary about whether to continue jumping or not, being thankful that I was still alive.

It didn’t bother my sleep any, even with the many bruises and pain, for I was a sound sleeper. But during my awakening hours, I continued to think about my malfunction and close brush with death, and the sweat started to moisten on the palms of my hands, with a fast, rapid beating of the heart.

At times, I felt weak and nauseated with nervous tension, leaving me in a state of gloom and fear, and always thinking of what death was like, creating for myself a very quiet and morbid attitude at times.

When I got into this state of mind, I always wanted to be alone and by myself, not even bothering to converse with anybody. However, it did not affect my appetite for food or drink, so I remained healthy.

This skydiving was starting to become a burden and strain to me, with the ever-increasing fear of beating the odds, especially death.

By joining the PCA, I now felt like I was being coerced and obligated into jumping again. Now I wished that I hadn’t joined.

Was it worth it?

Bill, as the A.S.O. and his affiliation with the PCA and its records, could not recall a case of any jumper (non-PCA), like myself, or any PCA-related skydiver surviving a jump as high up in altitude like mine was and came out of it alive and still walk!

He was going to check into it for me, just to see if it was some kind of a record in skydiving.

That thought alone was the only thing that kept me interested in skydiving at this time.

By joining the PCA, I got my A and B licenses recorded and my PCA 1965 membership card validated to cover any more jumps that I made with insurance, plus fully verifying all previous 75 jumps that I had made.

Will I Jump Again?

Saturday, February 27 — Back at the Drop Zone 

On Saturday, February 27th, the weather looked to be in fairly good shape for jumping, but not for me, as I was still being supported by a cane. My sole object was to see Natalie, as I hadn’t seen her since last Saturday morning and she was probably wondering what had happened to me. Also, I wanted to get the pale-green 1.1 and the reserve repacked.

My main reason, in reality, was to take Natalie with me over to the loft and secretly impress everybody that was there about my experience of surviving a double malfunction, as the illusions of grandeur that was circulated around about it had gone to my head. Also, I wanted to collect my $16 pot-bet and pay off my jump bill completely.

Natalie wondered what had happened to me alright, and I told her the whole story, as she never heard anything about it on the news or in the newspapers. But then, I lived in Washington.

It really shocked her badly when I described in detail about my mishap, and she didn’t want me to finish my story. Her attitude about it sort of depressed me and set my bragging back a bit. Not wanting to discourage her into going with me out to the W.S.P.C., I smoothed it off a little.

When she had finally calmed down, after making me feel embarrassed, she agreed to go out with me. Meantime, Natalie urged me to forget about skydiving and to use my talents where they were needed the most before I killed myself, as there was nothing more that I could gain from it.

Little did she know, at least for now, that I had made up my mind to quit. But I didn’t want to admit that to her, for I was at the height of my glory and I never wanted to spoil it with admitting defeat.

It felt good having a beautiful young woman crying on your shoulders, just like in the movies.

But deep down inside, an inner voice told me that something was missing. What it was, I couldn’t put my finger on it.

In great pain, with me driving, we made it out to the airport. Earlier, heading out to see Natalie, I had barely made it to her house, being in such great pain shifting my 1949 Ford with my injured left leg.

If Natalie had everything else, she definitely was not a good driver, so to be safe I chanced driving myself, as after what I had been through, I sure did not want to be involved in a car wreck.

Pain knows no greater pain.

We had quite a reception from everybody still hanging around the loft when we finally got there around noon. I was the man of the hour, just like I expected it to be, with most of them all wanting to hear firsthand, from the man who had cheated death, my own account of the malfunction.

In a short while, I started getting tired repeating the same story to jumpers and bystanders alike. As they came and went, there seemed to be no end to it. They treated me with great respect and awe, like I was some sort of God or something.

I hated myself for being around this type of atmosphere, as it seemed so unreal to me and made myself feel ill at ease.

After all, it was me that caused the chute not to open properly, and I tried to explain that important fact to them. But it went in one ear and out of the other, with a few understanding what I was trying to relate.

I had entered the loft with an air of importance and arrogance, ready to brag and expound my ego. But after awhile, that had worn off and I felt like leaving with Natalie, only to be waylaid by more new arrivals.

Most of them had heard about it already from word of mouth, news and TV, and it started to piss me off.

Hell, if this was glory, what would a “hero” feel like?

Right now, I couldn’t tell anybody that I wanted to give up jumping entirely, as Natalie was right. It didn’t have anything more to offer me.

I had already joined the PCA, but since I had not yet received my A and B licenses, etc., in the mail, as it would take a couple of weeks yet to receive them, I couldn’t sign any logbooks for some of the students and skydivers that had recently made a jump today, as they wanted my very own signature for posterity’s sake and recognition in their logbooks.

Instead, I autographed my name in their “additional remarks” section and the date. A few of them wanted me to write a short note concerning my malfunction in their logbooks, but I refused, as by now I was tired of the whole thing.

Both Dan Gorman and I were the club’s walking casualties, both disabled by being injured in a jumping accident. Only he had his foot in a cast and I never wore one, although my left leg and knee was not yet fully diagnosed. It had me slightly worried, for I might still end up in a cast.

We both hobbled around with the aid of a cane, and it was sort of comical for bystanders watching us.

After I had collected my $16 bet that I had won last weekend and had paid off my jump bill, I brought in my tangled-up main and reserve chutes to get them repacked. I couldn’t do it, so Dean Spellman, Percy and Monkey did it for me.

It took them a full hour just to repack my main, with a lot of onlookers staring in disbelief at it.

What a jammed-up mess it was!

I couldn’t believe it myself.

My reserve was thrown into a bin to be repacked at a later date, as nobody wanted to mess with it at present, let alone the Riggers.

I never wanted to see, or jump with, these chutes again if I ever did, for that pale-green 1.1 had given me nothing but trouble lately.

Wednesday, at home, I had painfully crawled into my jumpsuit and had pictures taken of me with both chutes nearby, etc.

Ralph Hatley, Gorman and a host of other more experienced skydivers had examined my main and had come to the conclusion that my malfunction was caused by a spinning twist in the lines. It was not bad, but caused my chute not to open. Naturally, I explained to them the trouble I experienced upon opening, and that settled that issue finally.

Someone had finally listened to me!

There was an old saying in the paratroopers that if you had a malfunction and rode it all of the way to the ground without killing yourself, you can round the fouled chute and get set up for a free re-jump. But in the Airborne, all jumps were free.

I jokingly told both Hatley and Gorman that I had two “free” jumps coming, and since they were both ex-paratroopers, they understood. But I didn’t expect them to be serious about it, for they both informed me that when I was ready and able to jump again, I had two “free” jumps waiting for me, anytime that I wanted to use them!

Damn! Here I was, all ready to quit and now I had this on my mind!

Jumping today was so-so, with a low cloud cover up to only 4,500 feet, resulting in not too many lifts being made. Most of them were students.

It seemed to me that after my malfunction, most of the experienced skydivers were content with one or two jumps, probably figuring that they might be next. Anyhow, that is what I thought and felt.

Hatley told me that I was the closest one that they ever had at the W.S.P.C. for a near-fatal jump.

That didn’t make me feel too good about hearing it.

Getting tired of hanging around the loft, me and Natalie drove out to the DZ to watch a few lifts jump. But the excitement of watching was gone, for we both realized the consequences.

Both of us held our breaths every time somebody jumped, expecting the worst. The thrill of watching another body fall was too much for me. I wanted to do something also, as it was starting to get dark.

In the old days, I secretly wanted to witness malfunctions, as long as it wasn’t me, but now the shoe was on the other foot.

I saw myself for what I really was, a scared cowardly weakling.

Percy made his final jump for today and came over to my car, looking weary and tired, for the memory of last weekend had also haunted him. He told us that he was going to tell Natalie about my malfunction, but he did not know her phone number and didn’t know a way to get to her house.

After all, he was the only one in the whole club that knew where she lived, as I had taken him home one night and we had dropped by Natalie’s en route home.

We drove him back to the loft.

There was still a little daylight left, so to fulfill my obligations at the W.S.P.C., I wanted to go out to the DZ again to see if I could find the ripcord that I had lost on my 70th and near-malfunctioned jump two weeks ago, again with that damn pale-green 1.1 chute, over in the southwest corner of the field.

We never found it, even with the car’s headlights on. It was starting to rain when we finally left.

I said to hell with it and stayed overnight with Natalie, catching a lot of crap when I got back home late Sunday evening.

Will I jump again?

I do not know, as time and pride will tell.

Jump Details
Altitude	7,500 feet
Weather	Clear and sunny; slight breeze
Wind	Southeast to northwest
Aircraft	Cessna 180, N2468C
Pilot	John Purnell
Jumpers	Paul Edwards  (D), Kerry Henderson (C), Ray Hughes (student-novice), Ed Hanson (unlicensed)
Main parachute	1.1 TU Main, sleeve deployed
Reserve	Irving T-7A chest reserve #183103, with altimeter
Freefall	FF–TI, second delay

Jump record

Jump verified: Don Phillips (D-736)

Logbook: Exhibition jump for Hughes Market… double malfunction… wrapped reserve.

Additional Remarks: Exhibition jump… main failed to open fully, 2 panels on left & 6 on the right open… popped reserve… tangled in main… hit ground!