Recovered from the archives, we share Clare Alder’s account of the Charity Parachute Jump 1995.

CHARITY PARACHUTE JUMP

SUNDAY, 16th APRIL 1995

By Clare Alder

One thousand, two thousand , three thousand , four thousand , CHECK CANOPY!

It was only at this point in the training that I began to ask myself whether I was really standing in a tasteful orange boilersuit and white crash helmet. Looking around at the others for reassurance I realised that this was it - there was no going back now. I had managed to get myself int~ this situation completely of my own accord, and furthermore, had persuaded eight others to join me.

Having survived the rigours of getting up at 8 a.m. on a holiday morning, we met beneath the rusting Parachute Club sign, synonymous with the surroundings (which can't have changed much since the 1930s). A man strolled up to us with a dangerous (verging on the psychotic) look in his eyes. Thinking that I could get away with politely avoiding him, he introduced himself as Clem - our instructor. 'Great,' I thought.

The morning training took us through the basic jump procedures - including the essential countdown on leaving the plane (see above). Clem aimed to familiarise us with the Drop Zone - this is an area three fields large designed specifically for landing in. 'Well there's no harm in them trying to brief us,' I thought - convinced that we would all end up somewhere between Dover and Calais.

 A quick lunch consisting of endless plates of chips sustained us for the afternoon training. The next three hours were devoted to describing what could go wrong and how to cope with the following situations:

Landing in/on: a sloping/flat, or oast house roof; a hedge (of which there was an example cutting across the Drop Zone); a set of overhead power lines; a road of any description (including the main route to Ashford running parallel to the Club); and a river (conveniently running around the perimeter of the Drop Zone).

Feeling confident that we could tackle any obstacle-Clem confirmed that if we hit the electric railway (Ashford - London route), we were 'gonners'- we returned home a little shaken up.

Sunday morning brought on an attack of uncontrollable butterflies in our stomachs, quenched (we soon realised) by countless stodgy doughnuts and games of volleyball. The boredom whilst waiting for the wind speed to drop was relieved by Tom's video camera . That afternoon we truly did justice to what there is of a British film industry by making our own version of Point Break. Paul was the irresistible stunt man (skydiving without a parachute) and I was the jealous girlfriend. Olive provided the snow-storms (no thanks to Tate and Lyle) and Tom proved to be a gifted cameraman. Scripts were assumed unnecessary as spontaneity was the only option. The result was an Oscar-winning performance of a hunky F.B.I. agent jumping 4ft. from a cardboard plane.

 At last the the loudspeaker summoned us to get ready to jump - the fated moment had arrived. Dashing off to find our blue boiler suits (we had graduated from orange), we lined up in anticipation. Our parachutes were checked twice (and most of them a third time) by the terrified individual. Waddling over to the plane was truly our first taste of stardom. The paparazzi (terror-stricken parents) got through rolls of film to ensure they kept us on celluloid if not in the flesh.

We reached the plane and found it was covered in black masking tape. Clem assured us that it was not holding it together.

Describing the next ten minutes is impossible (yet Olivia , when asked, comes up with 'classic') I will, however, give you a quick rundown of events and emotions. The rush of the engines and the cramp in our legs whilst cooped up inside the plane. Our shuddering bodies with legs cemented to the side of the plane, ensuring we didn 't fall out prematurely (coupled with the lack of any interior comfort padding). The ascent: panic-stricken faces, parents on the ground becoming indistinguishable and the bitter wind whipping through the doorless plane. The shared feelings of extreme exhilaration, intense rushes of overpowering joy and an indescribable surge of adrenaline that were unbeatable. Clinging white-knuckled in the door of the plane with our legs dangling, Clem reminded us to smile for the camera as we fell.

It is the first few seconds of falling, and the black-out when you realise you are no longer in the plane. It is the frantic search for the Drop Zone and the astonishing view of the South of England. It is the sudden realisation that you are about to hit the ground at a terrifying speed. It is the feeling of complete freedom and indescribable achievement.

This first parachute jump was all of these intense feelings packed into under two minutes. I cannot even hope to explain it sufficiently, for words seem unsatisfactory. It is a rush that must be experienced to be understood.

The jump was organised to raise money for the Environmental Investigation Agency, and took place at Headcorn Parachute Club, Kent. Those who took part and raised money were: Claire Alder, Tom Morton, Olivia Kirby , Paul Wharton, Lenny Samuelson, Stephen Bushnell, Tom Harrel, Tim Mitchell and Ross Wingfield.

This article was published in the 1995 issue of the Cantuarian. You can browse our online Cantuarian archive here. (Log in required)