By David

This week I received a copy of the Constitution that every Region is expected to endorse. Uniformity and bland sameness, it seems, are going to be the defining features of the Miskimmin and Renford swimming empire. Already we can only vote for the “dear leader’s” chosen followers. Constitutional monotony is the next step in crushing individual flare and personal initiative. Mind you, the constitutional game was lost the minute Miskimmin and Moller imposed, because that’s what it was, the new national constitution on the sport of swimming. I look forward to the day when another rebellious Coalition of Regions calls a Special General Meeting and ends this whole sorry chapter in our swimming history. A few well-chosen remits would quickly restore power to the regions by means of a federal democracy.

Why? Because Swimming New Zealand is beginning to smell. Like garbage in the kitchen it’s time to put their issues in a black plastic bag; out on the footpath for Rubbish Direct to dispose of in the morning. God, I do hope they don’t go to a recycling station. There must be something better to write about than that the misfortunes of that sorry crew.

I thought about writing a story about Arch Jelley. Now there is an uplifting subject; Arch Jelley, coach of a score of international athletes, including my wife Alison. He is always labelled as the coach of John Walker. But prominent as that is, coaching Walker is also only the tip of the Arch Jelley resume. I owe Arch plenty. Through the course of a thousand telephone calls he changed me from a pretty harsh, uncompromising, bad coach to something a bit better. I would have to sell the house and the car to pay for the hours Arch Jelley patiently explained the error of my ways. Yes, Arch Jelley, he would make a fine subject for a Swimwatch story. Then I discovered Athletics New Zealand had beaten me to it. On their website they have a super piece on Arch. I recommend it. Here is the link: http://athletics.org.nz/News/ArtMID/4639/ArticleID/543966/Jelleys-Long-Stint .

That idea lost, I thought perhaps I could indulge in a little nostalgia and tell you about my first, and only parachute jump. I have done a bungy jump. I’ve been paragliding and I have over 2000 hours flying experience, including an engine failure at 9000 feet just east of Stratford in Taranaki, but, for me, nothing comes near the terror of leaving an airplane on my own at 4000 feet. This was before the days of cushy tandem jumps and the like. This was “alone, alone all alone” and down you go.

The idea of a parachute jump came to me on a suburban train traveling between Waterloo Station in central London and my home in the village of Sunningdale. An advertisement in the Evening Standard newspaper told me that an ex-member of the British SAS had recently opened a parachute school based at the Thruxton motor racing circuit airfield in Hampshire. I determined that the next weekend Alison and I would drive to Thruxton and I would take their weekend parachute training course; the conclusion of which I was assured included a very safe 4000 foot jump.

The weekend was quite demanding. It didn’t take long to work out that the ex-SAS sergeant was not one to be messed with. While that was a bit of a pain it was also reassuring. If anyone was going to get me through this alive, this guy was probably the one. We were taught how to control the parachute. We spent a couple of hours learning how to land without breaking a leg. We were trained on how to exit the airplane – “one thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three, one thousand and four, one thousand and five and look up to check that the parachute has opened.”

Then we began studying a long list of things that can go wrong. More importantly we were told how to react to each of the problems. It was terrifying. Do you know how many horrible things can potentially happen when you jump out of an airplane? Your parachute can open in the airplane. That’s a serious problem for you and the airplane. Your parachute can get caught in the airplane’s door, or its landing gear, or its wings, or its horizontal or vertical stabilizers. Your parachute might not open at all or the lines might get tangled. You can land in a tree or on the roof of a house. For every difficulty the correct response was emphasised and drilled.

We were allowed two hours for lunch. Alison and I visited Stonehenge and had lunch in a lovely pub called the Boot Inn. I can even remember what I ate; thinking it might be my last supper – a beef and oyster pie, a sticky toffee pudding and a pint of beer from a local independent brewer. The condemned man ate a hearty meal.

Sunday was set aside for the jump. I was on the second flight. It seemed to take forever to climb to 4000 feet. I was freezing and my legs were in agony kneeling on the airplane floor. I was nearest the door and was therefore first out. This involved holding on to the Cessna’s wing strut and climbing onto a small ledge that had been welded to the bottom of the fuselage. The SAS type had told us he would count down from five. On zero I would let go of the airplane. And he lied. Sure, he started at five and went four and three and on two he hit me on the shoulder with incredible brutality and roared, “Go”.

I got such a fright I let go immediately. “One thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three, one thousand and four, one thousand and five and I looked up to check that the parachute had opened. You have no idea the utter relief, the elation beyond belief that a nicely formed circle of parachute silk can provide. I was alive and the chances were good that this would end well. Carefully I guided myself down toward the many acres of grass that made up the Thruxton raceway infield. But I got that wrong. Thruxton is an area about 1500 meters long by 1500 meters wide; most of it grass. True a relatively narrow car racing track snakes around the perimeter. However with unerring accuracy I guided my parachute slap, bang into the middle of this concrete and asphalt path.

The landing bump was suitably painful and my trousers split cleanly through the crutch, but I was intact and I was alive. They asked me if I wanted to go again, for a second jump. No thank you, I had risked it all and survived. I was happy and I was going home. And that’s my parachute jump. Pleased it’s done. Pleased it’s over. Take it from me, swimming is much more fun.