Recreation: Jumping for Joy

“There are few activities today that are legal, moral, unfattening—and habit forming. Parachuting is one of them,” explains Jacques Andre Istel, 34, French-born Princeton graduate and the U.S.’s prophet of sport parachuting. According to Istel, it’s as easy as falling off a log. Thousands of feet in the air, of course.

Jumping for the sheer joy of it hardly seems like recreation. Back in 1957, only 200 Americans had tried it for fun. But in 1962, some 15,000 jumpers racked up 80,000 descents. Federal Aviation Administrator Najeeb E. Halaby loves it, and so does Brigadier General Joseph W. Stilwell, son of Vinegar Joe.

Interstate Commerce Commissioner William H. Tucker dropped golf to take up the practice of plummeting. His reason: “I found it more relaxing.” Three Hours to Learn. At Lakewood, N.J., where Istel last month opened his second paraport, a beginner is bundled into elephantine jump boots and white coveralls, then given an hour-long lecture on the theory of one-man flight: how the body can be kept from spinning by arching the back and spread-eagling the arms and legs, how to look up to make sure that the chute is blossoming overhead, and what to do if it isn’t (yank the ripcord on the emergency chute strapped to your chest). He practices leaping from a dummy aircraft and how to land. After three hours, he is ready for the real thing.

At 2,500 ft., the jumper sits with his legs out the plane door. “Go,” says the jump master. As one neophyte tells it: “I flopped out, toppling over on my left side in the air. To shout ‘Geronimo’ is strictly for the birds. Instead, you’re supposed to smile back at the plane (smile to relax, backwards to get the right arching position). I did, but it must have been a ghastly rictus. Then the harness tightened, and I was swinging beneath a big orange-and-white canopy. The sensation is dreamlike. The air is very quiet—you can’t even hear the plane’s engines. Suddenly the radio in my helmet came alive, and a voice sounded in my ear. ‘Turn to the right.’ I pulled the right toggle hanging above me, and the chute moved easily to face me into the wind.” Following instructions from the ground, the jumper is guided down to a 60-acre circle of soft sand, landing with no more impact than stepping off an automobile hood.

Only Himself. In five years of operation in Orange, Mass., Istel’s Parachutes Inc. has had no fatalities. But not all jump sites (there are a total of 300 in the U.S.) are so carefully supervised. In the past two years there have been 32 fatalities. Among the most frequent casualties are novices trying delayed jumps. Entranced by the effortless fall, they forget to open their parachute in time. Another hazardous practice is jumping too near bodies of water, trees, or power lines.

By insisting on safe techniques, Istel has reaped half the $500,000 business that sport parachuting totaled last year.

A first jumper lays out $30 for instruction and the right to take a dive. Once he has mastered the essentials, a parachuter pays from $5 to $7 for a drop (plus $9 for equipment rental) depending on how long he wants to free fall.

Istel has imported improvements. The jolt of the opening chute is eliminated by the use of a German invention, a sleeve that slowly deploys the inflating canopy instead of letting it snap open with a jerk. Open gores, or pie-shaped sections cut out of the canopy, developed by the British and Russians, permit the parachutist to steer by tugging on the wooden toggles attached to the risers. He insists that for the first five jumps the chutes be opened automatically by a static line attached to the aircraft. After that, the adventurous jumper can essay the free fall, and look forward to the day when he can perform swanlike maneuvers in thin air, until the onrush of solid ground—or his own nervousness—makes it advisable to pop his chute. A parachutist needs no license. After all, he can only hurt himself.