by John Meadows
Intrigued, I sidled in a roundabout way over to Alan and asked him in whispered tones about the mysterious scrap of paper on the parquet floor. I was thinking that perhaps a candidate had been caught cheating and the paper contained damning evidence in the form of simultaneous equations or the noble gasses of the periodic table. Perhaps answers to questions were being passed around surreptitiously. The answer to my question was considerably less academic. The paper marked the furthest point that an invigilator had managed to walk to... with eyes closed. It was a little game which was devised to alleviate the boredom, a ‘chicken run’ for somnambulist exam invigilators.
I was dreading my initiation test as I stood at the back of the hall. The walk never started from the front, in case someone looked up from writing to see one of their teachers sleepwalking, zombie-like, straight towards them. As l closed my eyes I felt as though I was being forced to walk the plank by Blackbeard or a medieval ‘trial-by-ordeal’ over a bed of burning coals. I managed a meagre five steps before I chickened out. Alan, watching from the front of the hall just gave me a woeful shake of his head. Only once has an over-confident invigilator stumbled into the back of a candidate’s chair, but he recovered his composure by apologizing and looking back at an imaginary slippery patch on the polished parquet floor.
“Careful when you get up to leave,” he whispered while pointing at the floor.
“Thanks sir,” answered the grateful candidate.
Come Fly with Me
Fundraising and sponsorships have always played an important role in school life. Probably at every school, pupils and staff will have taken part in a wide range of sometimes bizarre activities. My favourite is when pupils are doing a sponsored silence, worth every penny. I have had my head locked in medieval stocks while pupils (and staff) have thrown wet sponges at me. I have impersonated Elvis Presley at a school charity concert, with three female members of staff as a backing group singing into hairbrush microphones. There have been numerous sponsored walks, fun runs, half marathons and, I am proud to say, I completed a full marathon. Far and away, my biggest challenge has been a parachute jump.
Imagine my surprise as I walked into the staff room one Monday morning for the weekly staff briefing.
“John, how do you fancy doing a parachute jump?” asked my friend and colleague Steve Frost. I didn’t get chance to reply as the headmaster was about to commence the meeting, but I was intrigued and during school assembly it dominated my thoughts while croaking my way through ‘Morning has Broken’.
“See you at break,” I said to Steve as we made our way to the first lesson of the week. “You can tell me more over a cup of coffee.”
As newly-appointed teachers, Steve Frost and I had met on the first day of the academic year and became friends straight away. So when the parachute jump was suggested, I thought, why not? As I collected my morning coffee from the old geyser in the corner, not Steve, he sat next to me and eagerly showed me the brochures which he had been given by a friend of his in Liverpool over the weekend. Flookburgh Aerodrome in the Lake District near Grange-Over-Sands was inviting volunteers to take part in a parachute jump in aid of charity. I quickly perused the impressive-looking glossy booklet, but I didn’t have time to digest any details. A noisy staffroom in a large Comprehensive School is not an environment conducive to making a life-or-death decision, but, nevertheless, I just shrugged my shoulders and agreed to do it.
“I assume that we will be strapped to an instructor,” I asked as an after-thought as the bell rang.
“No, we will be jumping solo,” Steve replied with a laugh. “It tells you that in the brochure.”
As I walked trance-like to my art room, I felt strangely dry in the mouth, even though I had only just finished a cup of coffee. What had I got myself into? Over the next few weeks I sort of hoped that the whole thing might just go away, but Steve was relentless. He brought me more and more information as the days went by, various consent forms, disclaimers, and personal details and, ominously, name of next of kin.
We had approached the headmaster for permission to seek sponsorship from staff, pupils and parents. Since it was likely to raise a great deal of cash for charity, he readily agreed with a whimsical smile and a disbelieving shake of his head. The pupils in particular seemed eager to pay for their teachers to jump out of an aeroplane at 2,500 feet. Should I have read something into that?
Usually during term time, everyone, staff and pupils alike, tends to count down the weeks. I have met quite a few teachers who announce everyday how many ‘get-ups’ to the next holiday. However, as the weekend of destiny loomed closer, I wanted the weeks to actually slow down. Of course this had exactly the opposite effect, and the time just flew by. I wonder if Einstein formulated his theory of relativity after agreeing to do a parachute jump.
I dedicated myself to achieving a certain level of fitness by road running, cycling, and sessions on the school multi-gym, in order to withstand the impact of landing. More importantly, I tried my best to lose weight, anything to slow down my rate of descent. One morning Steve came into the staffroom and put his sports bag on the coffee table in front of me. Then, with the panache of a magician pulling a rabbit from a top-hat, he proudly held up his new skydiving suit. He had borrowed it from the same friend who had suggested the parachute jump in the first place. It was an orange one-piece with diagonal blue flashings across the torso, with matching lines at the ankles.
“Would you like to see me try it on?” he asked rhetorically, since he had every intention of doing so. Following a quick change in the adjacent staff toilets, he entered the staff room with a ‘Ta-dah’ and a flamboyant twirl, which prompted much laughter and quips from many of the teachers.
“Are you auditioning for ABBA?”
“Are you the new ‘lollipop lady’.”
“Are you moonlighting as a bin man?”
Yes, working in a Comprehensive School can be a great laugh, when the kids are not there. Steve had always taken pride in his appearance, and always had the appropriate outfits for any activity. During summer evenings we would often host staff from other schools, ostensibly to play friendly cricket matches, but in reality it was a prelude to the much more important business of a night in the pub. Players would wear white trainers and a white shirt or polo shirt. Steve’s sense of sartorial elegance was on a different level and he would turn out immaculately attired, suitable for the Oval. Proper cricket boots, white flannels, white shirt with white knitted sweater draped over his shoulders and loosely tied at the front with a knot in its arms. This was all rounded off by the pads and gloves, and, as Steve walked out to the crease, I remember a female member of staff commenting that Steve Frost would make a superb model for men’s clothing catalogue. It was the same on any activity or trip; skiing it was fashionable salopettes and designer sunglasses, and for Lake District Camping it was Gortex designer-clothing all the way.
Following Steve’s fashion show, a colleague turned to me and asked, “What are you planning to wear John?”
“Oh, er, I haven’t given it much thought, well, any thought to be honest. I’ll probably just wear jeans and a jerkin.”
“No, you’ve got to at least look the part.”
Another friend, Phil, came to my rescue and told me that he had got a one-piece suit which would be ideal and that he would happily lend it to me.
“We can’t let you be shown up by Frostie,” he whispered conspiratorially, but to be honest my outfit was the least of my worries.
Phil was a geography teacher who was also involved in outdoor pursuits. He was qualified to teach water sports such as kayaking, canoeing and sailing. The following morning, as promised, he handed me the outfit
“This should do nicely for your parachute jump, and it’s the same bright orange as Steve’s. You will look like a team.”
I held it up and said, somewhat ungratefully, “Where are
the diagonal flashes?”
“And what’s this big patch?” I asked, as I pointed to a sewn-on dark patch of about 12 inches square across the arse.
“It’s not actually a skydiving suit, it’s my yachting suit,” Phil explained, “and the patch is rubberised specifically for sitting on wet seats in a dingy. At least it will be better than parachuting in your everyday clothes.”
The fateful weekend finally arrived. Steve and I had decided to drive up to Cumbria straight after school on Friday, and we were surprised to be waved off at the school car park by quite a few well-wishers. Many of the kids shouted, “Good luck Sir,” as they made their way to the school buses.
Steve was driving. As we made our way north on the M6, I looked up to a beautiful late-afternoon blue sky in May and tried to work out exactly how high 2,500 feet actually is. After a couple of hours we arrived at Flookburgh Airport and were welcomed by the organisers of the weekend training programme. I suppose the term airport over-emphasises the scene, since it seemed to be a collection of wooden huts, a tower, and a hanger. We were escorted to a hut, which was to be our dormitory accommodation for a couple of nights, and as we entered we were greeted by several other trainees who had arrived earlier. Feeling as though I had stumbled onto the set of the television series ‘Colditz’, my first thought was to ask who the ‘Escape Officer’ was. Adjacent to our hut was the ladies’ accommodation, and in total there were about twelve of us ready to take our lives in our hands.
A meal was provided in a small canteen, and then we were asked to assemble for a briefing to outline the weekend’s activities. We sat in a couple of rows facing our instructors who were sitting behind a trestle table. Behind them was an easel with a paper flip-chart and a screen for slides. It was all very hi-tech in its day. I wondered if they were going to re-enact the scene from ‘A Bridge Too Far’ where Edward Fox outlines the drop-zones for ‘Operation Market Garden’. I looked around and half-expected everything to fade to black and white, with Kenneth More or Richard Todd appearing in the doorway. The briefing was really a welcoming session, and we were told to report after breakfast the following morning for a full day of training, and the actual parachute jump would take place on Sunday.
Steve and I socialized with our new colleagues over a couple of glasses of wine on the Friday night, followed by, hopefully, a good night’s sleep. You know when you dream? And you feel as though you are about to fall off a cliff? And then you wake up with a start and a grunt or a shout? Well believe me that happened quite a few times that night, and, judging by the sounds in the dormitory during the night, not just to me.
The curtains on the dormitory windows didn’t quite fit, in any direction, so we were awakened bright and early by the sun streaming in. After breakfast of cereal, toast, and coffee, we all assembled in the briefing room to be cheerfully greeted by our hosts. We were not required at this stage to wear our skydiving suits, so it was simply jeans and T-shirts, even though I suspect that Steve was disappointed not to be wearing his fleece-lined World War II RAF flying jacket and Biggles-style leather helmet.
Standing on the trestle table was a large goldfish bowl filled with water next to a couple of large saucers, which made me wonder if we were going to be asked to do the washing-up. The three instructors re-introduced themselves and outlined their qualifications and experience. Reassuringly, they had made an impressive number of parachute jumps over many years. They explained the training course which was comprised of the theory of the aerodynamics of a parachute drop, followed by physical training, and practise for the rest of the day. The first instructor began by explaining the need for stability and control during the first phase of the jump, prior to the parachute opening.
“What do you think is the most stable stance to adopt as you clear the aircraft?” he asked.
Steve put up his hand immediately.
“Would it be a saucer shape?” he answered pointing to the trestle table.
“Very good,” replied the instructor who then went on to demonstrate that a saucer will indeed stabilize itself and remain horizontal when dropped from any angle into a bowl of water. After a little rocking and to-ing and fro-ing (I should point out that these are not actually technical terms in the world of aerodynamics), the saucer gently sinks to the bottom. Following this demonstration we were shown slides of parachutists in the saucer position, that is: head up, arched back, with hands up as if the victim of bank hold-up, the knees bent with feet apart and as far behind you as possible. I couldn’t work out if the expression of the parachutists was a smile or a grimace. It was like watching a swimmer from the beach: is he waving or drowning?
We were then taken over to a long table at the back of the room where a brightly-coloured parachute was laid out for our inspection. Will this very light, flimsy material take my weight, I wondered anxiously? My facial expression must have betrayed my thoughts as the instructor explained that it was indeed incredibly strong and that there was nothing to worry about. He then demonstrated how the parachute is packed ready for deployment, which would be automatic by static line. We trooped back to our seats for the remainder of the slide show, which illustrated the various stages of a parachute drop: clear aircraft, four second count, check canopy, if not open (what!?) release emergency shoot, direction controls, watch for ground rush, and finally the four-point technique for an injury-free landing. So after about an hour we had covered all the basics in theory. The session finished with our instructor reassuring us that everything was going to be just fine. He told us not to worry because they have had hundreds of successful jumps by people of all ages, shapes, sizes and disabilities.
“We have even had blind people making parachute jumps,” he announced proudly.
I nudged Steve and whispered incredulously.
“Blind people...? Parachuting...?! How would they know when they are going to hit the ground?”
“Easy,” quipped Steve. “The dog’s lead goes slack.”
It was now time to put all this theory into practice, and we were passed onto the next instructor who escorted us to a small hangar which housed a training mock-up section of the aircraft. Our first exercise was learning how to land safely, and we began on the ground and simply jumping up and coming down with a four-point landing: feet together, knees bent and together, fall to one side by making ground contact with the side of the knee, then hip, then turn over to the other hip, all in one continuous movement to finish as if lying on your side in bed and, hopefully, waking up. Even though we were working on mats, after doing this for about half an hour, I started to feel the impact throughout my body. I was glad I had made an effort to get reasonably fit. The instructors then announced that we were ready for the next stage, which was exactly the same technique, but this time from a platform which was about three feet off the ground, as this would be simulate the impact we would feel when we do the actual parachute jump.
We spent another thirty minutes or so taking turns to jump from the bench, and I was starting to feel a little weary as the first beads of sweat began to appear on my brow. We completed the final stage of this part of the training by wearing small rucksacks to simulate the sensation of landing and rolling with something strapped to our backs. I couldn’t help wishing that it was going to be an instructor rather than a rucksack. Just as I felt that my knees, hips, and shoulders were crying out for a rest, the instructor told us that he was satisfied that we had reached the required standard, and it was now time for lunch.
The afternoon session was in the hangar, training in a replica aircraft. It was getting too close for comfort I thought, as reality began to kick in. Our instructor explained that we would be trained in how to jump out and the general procedure in the cabin area prior to our exit. I was put into a group of seven, selected on the basis of a suitable cross-section of height and weight. I was pleased that Steve was in the same group, and his smile and nod in my direction told me that he felt th
e same as our names were called out. We boarded the training plane and were shown the configuration of how we would be sitting: three rows of double seats, with one person at the front sitting on the floor, back to the fuselage facing the exit door. The area between the front seat and the pilot’s cockpit was about eight feet square and was covered in linoleum.
“Can’t you afford carpets?” we joked, but it was explained to us that linoleum was ideal for sliding across to the doorway in a sitting position, ready to jump. We were allocated our seats and Steve was on the front row with me directly behind him on the middle row. The short straw seemed to have been drawn by quite a timid girl, who had hardly said a word all day. She was to sit on the floor at the front, the first to jump. Thank God it’s not me first, I thought. The instructor then explained to us that when we reach the drop zone a red light would come on, and the pilot will ‘cut the engines.’ That is when the first candidate slides forward and goes, but he told us not to worry because he would be up there with us to direct operations.
He guided us through the procedure as if we were in the air and explained that we would jump in two’s, with about thirty seconds between us, and then the plane would climb and come back to the same spot for the next two and so on. When it was my turn to jump, the instructor signalled to me to leave my seat and step forward and take up my position sitting on the lino with my back to the fuselage and feet towards the door, which will remain open throughout the flight. The red light then came on and I was instructed to slide towards the door, which I did without hesitation, no problems, after all we were still on the ground. The technique for leaving the aircraft isn’t jumping while shouting ‘Geronimo,’ more like slipping off the edge of a swimming pool into the water.