Best day of the year: BRC at twelve thousand, 2010.
FLYING IN A SKYDIVING PLANE FUCKING RULES ! !! ! !! ! (but Im getting ahead of myself)
A brisk walk, (or as brisk as the noonward sun over the playa allows for race), brought us to Burning Sky where as luck would have it, a pull up tool was located
and before long, John was cinched, we made the roster
and climbed into the art car for the anxiety building 5 mile per hour scream to the black rock city spaceport. The sound of the polymer wheels attached to the rear plywood door/loading ramp (which is always down) bumping all along the way particularly marks these rides in my memory.
Rigged up, safety briefed, the terrifying possibility of last year became this year’s trebuchet of excitement. Standing still became less and less possible with the heart beating faster and faster and that slow numbing of the face that the anxiety tends to bring. But then there is that moment of truth, the assembly of the flight group and that last look out onto the dusty runway, the last chance to chicken out, the guarantee of a big pussy tattoo across your shoulder blades.
pssh. we’re in. and there’s no turning back now.
It was a delight to mount the creaky ladder and see George in the cockpit of the plane. Immediately I greeted him with, “George! You are the person who scared the most shit out of me in 2009!!!”.
Hindsight being 20/20, this was a mistake to share in a plane full of sky divers…
The ignition of the turbo prop brought that oscillating vibration through the plane which has defined flying over BRC for me. Its about this point where the total fear, panic and excitement just makes everything go numb. Adrenaline is without question, the ultimate drug. Why would you ever doubt Raoul Duke?
Few hundred meters down the playa, George pulls down and latches the canopy, gives as much throttle as the engine will allow and seconds later we are up with a cheer.
Knowing what to expect makes all the difference in the world. There’s things, like, kissing a girl, not kissing the girl you should have kissed, firing a gun, driving 140mph on a California freeway, playing the first guitar chord out of the tube amp you just built, having your passport stamped, breaking a bone, you can only do these things for the first time once. With experience, perspective changes and you can become slightly expert, if only in your own world.
With so much of the high speed panic out of the way, some little steps towards expert allowed for a breathe to enjoy the beauty up there, in slow motion. And just about when Im realizing this, John jabs me on not freaking out and the jumper in front of me on the left there turns and ponders “What did George do that freaked you out so badly last year?”
Fuck me. “The banking turn on the final, thats the most G’s Ive ever felt”
“You hear that George? You gotta do a wingstand for this guy, he’s worried he wasnt going to get completely freaked out this year”.
Fuck me.
Now, by this point, the jump door is open, its fucking LOUD in that plane, all engine, all velocity, all the time with the ringing undercurrent of fear and survival. Yet, over the din, there were two words critically communicated: Wing Stand.
Somewhere, ducky Josh, the other Misfit in the plane, has some video of what would come next, I sure dont have any pictures, sorry, too busy freaking the fuck out. Because thats what happens when your pitch changes 90 degrees in one second and your face gets smooshed against the side window of the plane under the weight of your parachute and yer looking directly at the ground. Yes, wingstand. Thank you George.
There’s nothing that will quite compare to bumping along the air 12,000 feet above Black Rock City. There isnt *anything* about this experience that isnt *entirely* unique. It also only lasts for just a few moments. The 18 minute steep climb, straight up is only met with a moments pause of level flight so the lucky can jump. And then, as a passenger (who knows whats coming next) there’s that real moment of truth. A moment to toy with extending on a time line where split seconds feel like minutes.
“Are all the jumpers out?”, the moment where I thought I knew what was coming next, but really had not half a fucking clue…
And there you go folks, the best photo I took of the flight. Wingstand. Full Freak out. Tim Paige, Henri Huet, Larry Burrows and Eddie Adams all going up a notch ’cause I clearly can’t shoot shit under duress…
Around 3,000 feet I half got my shit together. Eighteen minutes to jump altitude, two and a half minutes to wheels back on the playa. George provided, once again, the ride of a lifetime. Challenge now is topping it again…
Man’s gonna burn in (!!!) thirty days.