JUST CHUTE ME

There are a half-dozen skydiving schools within two hours of Washington, and all have good reputations. I chose Skydive Orange in Orange, Va., because it's only a few miles from a friend's house in Culpeper, VA. My wife and I thought it would be fun to drop in afterward and wait for them to ask what brought us to the neighborhood.

I learned that there are three options for a novice's first jump. The traditional method, the static line jump, is now considered passé. The skydiver jumps at about 3,500 feet: a line attached to the plane pulls the handle to deploy the chute, and there are only a few seconds of

These days, the most popular method for a first-time jump is the tandem jump. The student and instructor are strapped together and jump from about 14,000 feet, experiencing about a minute of free fall before deploying the chute. The instructor provides guidance from top to bottom.

The third method is the accelerated free fall, or AFF. Using this method, the first-timer also leaps from about 14,000 feet, but he or she is not directly attached to anyone. Two instructors leap with the student, holding onto his or her leg straps, and the student comes down alone after chute deployment at 5,500 feet.

Most skydivers recommend the tandem method for the first jump. "You're entering a totally different environment and falling at about 120 mph," explains instructor Tonney Boan, co-owner of Skydive Virginia. "You never know how someone will react or who will succumb to sensory overload. We had a Marine pilot with over 2,000 hours of flying jet fighters come out for an AFF. If anyone, we thought he would have no problems executing the tasks during the AFF. But he completely zoned out and we had to pull his chute for him. The Marine had brought a buddy along who had no flying experience. But the friend performed flawlessly."

Our training at Skydive Orange began at 8 o'clock on a dreary, overcast morning. I opted for the AFF and my wife for the tandem. Her training took less than 45 minutes, while mine lasted seven hours. Along with three other AFF students, I was guided through each phase of the jump repeatedly--exiting the plane, the proper body position for the free fall, parachute deployment, coping with equipment malfunctions, landing approach patterns and the final touchdown. In addition to the requisite chalkboard, our instructors used various mock-ups and simulators: A harness was suspended from the ceiling for practicing emergency measures and controlling the chute after deployment and there was a wooden model of the airplane door outside the hangar for rehearsing airplane exit procedures.

By 4 p.m., the clouds had given way to blue skies and I had passed the written test. Wearing helmet, goggles and a rather stylish purple jumpsuit, I boarded the twin turbine aircraft. When the plane reached 13,500 feet, instructors Teresha Thames and Rahlmoz Meegan assisted me to the door as the jumpers in front of us took the leap. Standing at the edge, I got the okay and it was "Ready, set, go!"

I jumped way too hard, sending the three of us into a backward tumble. After a second tumble, my brain kicked in and I strained to move into the arch position; I could hear Meegan shouting "Arrrch, arrrch!" above the roar of the air. As soon as my body arched, we immediately stopped spinning. I performed the tasks I'd rehearsed in training: determining my altitude, adjusting the position of my body and touching the deployment handle to ensure that I could reach it when the time came to pull the chute.

A videographer dove down and parked a few feet away from my face. I had to check my altitude and position every couple of seconds--and also smile and wave at the camera. At 6,000 feet, I fixed my eyes on the altimeter as instructed. I had to watch it until I reached 5,500 feet and then deploy the chute. Time slowed to a crawl: 5,900 feet . . . 5,800 feet.

At 5,700 feet Thames shook my arm and signaled me to deploy. Since we still had 200 feet to go, I ignored her. At 5,600 feet, her signals became a little more adamant and I waved my arms to indicate that I was about to deploy. Boom! I was all alone as the chute shot out and Thames and Meegan were yanked free.

I remembered to look over my shoulder counting one thousand, two thousand, three thousand while inspecting the canopy. The chute is supposed to open fully by the count of three, but it was a crumpled, tangled mess. I realized it looked just like the photo of a line twist problem we'd seen in training, so I grabbed the straps connected to the risers, pulled them apart and twisted them in the opposite direction. Yes! The chute opened.

It was time to locate the airport and fly toward it--and it was a long, long way away. With the brake handles up as high as possible for best glide, I began to scout out alternate landing fields. Fortunately, I made it to the drop zone--but without sufficient altitude to use the planned landing approach. I had been fitted with a radio in case I had trouble at this point, but modifying the plan to arrive at the proper altitude for the final leg of the approach was easy.

I touched down next to the hangar and fell to my knees in the parachute landing fall, or PLF. Whew.

When my wife's turn came, her experience was completely different. Back on the ground, she talked about the great view, the exhilaration of falling and the sensation of flying. I hadn't experienced any of that--I was too busy with the numerous tasks that a solo jump entails. On my next jump, I'm going tandem. Not because the AFF is too demanding, but because the tandem jump sounded like a lot more fun.

I'd like to try sky-surfing, too, but was told that I'd need to complete about 500 regular sky-diving jumps first. That'll take a while. Maybe for my 50th birthday?