August 27, 2024
The last time I was officially at the Ranch was way back in the summer of 2005. By then, I had racked up a little over 2,300 skydives. I wasn’t exactly meticulous about logging them into that little handwritten book they give you; I was more of a “napkin math” kind of guy, checking my dropzone bills and using my audible altimeter, which also recorded the number of dives. Honestly, I wasn’t too bothered about keeping detailed records—I was more into the thrill of the jump. For a few years, I was diving pretty regularly, mainly at two spots: Skydive deLand and the Ranch in New York. But I wasn’t a one-dropzone guy; being in the skydiving scene meant jumping all over the country.
I did get injured in '95 after around 600 jumps, mostly because I was unfamiliar with the terrain at a new dropzone and I was barefoot when I hit the tarmac on a crosswind landing. Fun fact: worrying about the ground while you're hurtling towards it at terminal velocity does add a certain spice to the experience.
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This morning, around 6 AM, I had one of those skydiving dreams. You know the kind—deep, vivid, adrenaline-pumping, set in Florida, with my 55-year-old self bumping into faces I hadn’t seen since my skydiving days. It was like a reunion tour for my subconscious, featuring cameos from folks who’d passed away in all sorts of ways—natural causes, motorcycle accidents, skydiving accidents. The whole gamut.
These dreams are always detailed down to the last altimeter beep. In this one, I exited the plane solo, finding myself in freefall at around 13,000 feet. I spotted a few groups ahead of me deploying their parachutes, and at about 4,000 feet, I noticed another group finishing up their formations. I thought, “Why not open high today?”—mainly to avoid an impromptu mid-air formation. Plus, I wanted some canopy time. More time to fly my parachute, fewer chances of becoming a human pancake.
In parts of my dream, I was having a bar mitzvah in freefall, and I felt like some of the rednecks I knew in the sport weren't comfortable having Jewish people around. So, this was a great dream. Of course, the sport was very welcoming to everyone.
In the next dream sequence, when I pulled my chute, there was an entanglement in my brake lines. Not ideal, but it’s just a dream, right? So, I calmly decided to cut away. I grabbed my cutaway handle, pulled it, released the main, and pulled my reserve. It deployed perfectly. I tucked the handles into my jumpsuit and watched my main chute drift away, casually planning my landing so I could retrieve it later. Also, there was the $200 free bag to think about—no sense in letting that go.
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I was having one of those lucid dream moments, feeling totally in control. I picked a nice soft landing spot right by a swimming pool and touched down gracefully. Then I rolled up my lines, daisy-chained the reserve, and ran out to grab my main parachute and the reserve deployment bag. Next thing I know, I’m at a party with all these skydivers, some I hadn’t thought about in years. I walked up to them, giving hugs and saying how happy I was to see them alive and well. I even told them how much their presence in my life had meant, even if we were just casual acquaintances. You know, the typical deep dream stuff.
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Then I wandered back to the room where I’d left my parachute, trying to reassemble it so I could bribe a rigger to pack it first thing in the morning. I saw Bob Hallett, the drop zone owner of Skydive Land. I always thought of him as the ultimate Floridian skydiver—tan, chill, and with over 10,000 jumps. He was there, of course, along with Bill Buchman, who was still surrounded by video equipment, wearing his signature tiny shorts and Tevas. It was like he hadn’t aged a day, or maybe he had, but he was still rocking the same look. Classic Bill.
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The dream was so accurate that everyone looked exactly as they would in real life, just aged up. It felt like a gift to be there, alive and aware. When I woke up around 6:30 AM, my heart was racing from the dream’s intensity. I lay there, thinking how grateful I was to have survived such an extreme sport. I knew so many more experienced jumpers who hadn’t made it. Legends like Tom Piras, Rob Harris, and Patrick de Gayardon. Their deaths hit me hard back then, and even now, it feels surreal. In my younger days, I didn’t fully grasp that we didn’t have to risk our lives. But, hey, we were young and wild, each with our own reasons and styles.
Being in the skydiving world, I met a lot of people, but I always felt like an outsider. Maybe I was a bit arrogant, but then again, so was everyone else. We were all a bunch of thrill-seekers, each with our own quirks. Despite that, I got close to a lot of folks and believe I left a positive mark with my training materials and videos. I was running ads for parachute gear in the major skydiving mags, and honestly, those ads were pretty good. I shook things up in the industry a bit without even trying too hard.
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I’ve never really explained why I left skydiving. It was around 2004, and I was spending all my time at the drop zone in upstate New York, managing a retail operation and a rigging loft. I wasn’t doing the technical work, just overseeing it all. But the truth is, I left because I was lonely. I wanted to get back to city life and find a meaningful relationship. The skydiving world wasn’t exactly conducive to that—too many dudes and not enough “normal” women. The few women there were either taken or not interested in a guy like me.
Skydiving was an all-consuming lifestyle, leaving little room for anything else. I felt like an outsider because everyone around me was into heavy drinking and partying. No judgment—I loved them all the same. But after 10 PM, unless you were up for some serious partying, there wasn’t much to do. Drugs, booze—it was all part of the scene.
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My exit from skydiving was gradual. I got a place in New York and was doing the two-hour commute back and forth. Around 2003, I started training in Muay Thai kickboxing. Within six months, I had my first competitive fight. It was terrifying but somehow felt a lot safer than jumping out of a plane. Kickboxing gave me the adrenaline rush I needed without the constant threat of gravity. Plus, I liked the idea of bragging about it—it was adventurous, athletic, and a good outlet for my pent-up anger. I was a better boxer than a skydiver, though maybe that's not saying much.
Skydiving kept going without me, though. It still feels like a very "year 2000" sport. Not much has changed—the planes are the same, and the equipment has only had minor updates. Gravity still works the same, although if you listen to physicists, they’ll tell you gravity isn’t a force; it’s an effect. Nobody’s quite sure what it is, but we all know what it does.
It’s been years since I’ve been part of a sport or scene like skydiving or Muay Thai. Those activities were essential for me when I felt hollow inside, in my 20s, 30s, and even into my 40s. They filled a void, gave me a sense of identity. Despite my low self-esteem, at least I wasn’t a criminal or completely antisocial. I was always trying to help people avoid mistakes, stay safe, and make smarter choices. I wrote "The Skydiving Survival Guide, Second Edition" after I retired, compiling all the knowledge I’d picked up over the years. It was comprehensive, and even now, I’m proud of it. I tried to make complex information accessible without inserting my ego, much like a 12-step recovery program.
Reflecting on that book and those dreams, I feel lucky to have walked away from that life unscathed. I’m grateful. And maybe, in a strange way, I feel like I owe something back. I don’t write about skydiving anymore; I’m irrelevant in that world now. But I write about anxiety and recovery, probably for the same reasons I used to feel empty. It’s my way of belonging. I’m a weird mix of asshole and guru, compassionate yet anxious, just trying to get through life with some meaning without needing to be the center of attention. I’ve had enough of that.
If I focus on my audience—people aged 22 to 100—I think I’m more on target. In the end, if I get my poetry and punctuation right, whatever I write might stand the test of time and help others. That’s all I can hope for, right? I might not have a big audience; my writing might not be commercial enough or could even be considered boring. But it’s for me. This chapter is for me to put some closure on my skydiving years. It’s been decades since my last jump, but the experience is still in every fiber of my being.
If I could change one thing, it wouldn’t be to make more skydives; it would have been to make more friends and connections. I don’t say this lightly, but the sport was filled with people battling their own demons—cross-addicted alcoholics, drug addicts, and adrenaline junkies, no judgment. I could have helped more of them find sobriety, but I kept that part of my life separate. I didn’t want to be the buzzkill. “When in Rome, pretend to do what the Romans do” seems more fitting than the original saying.
It’s important to reconcile the major events and phases of your life through writing. Understand the flow, the connections—how a scrawny Jewish kid from a divorced family ended up in a predominantly white, male sport for a decade. It might not be an interesting story to the rest of the world, but it is to me. There’s a lot of humor in it, and if I ever decide to venture into entertainment, I could turn it into a comedy.
Imagine a fictional skydiving community in upstate New York run by Hasidic rabbis. They’d be serious about it because it’s a moneymaker, but they’d shut down early on Fridays for the Sabbath and close on Saturdays, making skydiving a 5 1/2-day-a-week sport. Maybe one day, I’ll write that ridiculous screenplay. It might not be a Hollywood blockbuster, but it sure would be a fun ride.
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Special thanks to my favorite skydivers, Kim Emerson and Maddog Mike Maguire, two surprisingly gentle and friendly jumpmasters who guided me from 1992 to 1994. They both became great friends—an unusual pairing of people, but that’s skydiving for you. Kim Emerson not only taught me how to exit an airplane and deploy a parachute at the right altitude but also helped me write both editions of "The Skydiver's Survival Guide." Big shout out to Mike Truffer as well. Mike, the publisher of Skydiving Magazine, was instrumental in getting me started with selling skydiving videos. He bent over backward during my first 3-4 years, helping me with everything I needed to get my materials and products into the hands of skydivers. Sadly, Mike passed away skydiving some years ago.
And since I'm doing tributes, here's to Joe Stanley, Albert "Gus" Wing, and Scotty Carbone: Rest In Peace
Now for the non-fatality tributes: Billy Weber, you are such an amazing character. I can't even begin to express how well you turned skydiving into a spaghetti western for me with your clichés and passion for the sport. To Bill Buchman, Bill Weber, Bob Hallett, Billy Richards, Sonic & Donna Bayrasli, Joe Josephs, Jeff Provenzano, Troy Woodri, Dan Smith, Russell Smith, Bill Boothe, that lunatic Jenn who ripped me off for $20k out of the gear store (long story), my cousin Morris for introducing me to the sport—cheers to all of you!
Oh, more thing: I rarely tell this story because it was such an unfortunate experience. My father, who was not known for being physically courageous, had to cope with the fact that I had been skydiving since 1992. In 2001, I finally convinced him to take a drive upstate New York to the drop zone to watch a parachute landing competition. This was a major event in the sport, drawing the best skydivers from around the world to compete in the pond swooping nationals. It may not sound impressive, but believe me, it was.
My dad showed up in early August. If I recall correctly, there were some bleachers set up at a safe distance from the pond. He came with his wife, Linda, and his little teacup black poodle, which he was clutching under his arm. With his jet-black hair, black silk short-sleeve T-shirt, and black slacks, he looked like a mafia crime boss.
On this random day in 2001, during the first round of the swoop, Lisa Gallagher's purple Crossfire canopy collapsed due to rotary turbulence over the tree line. Tragically, she crashed into the ground and died instantly.
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I had captured the whole event on video from five different angles, but of course, I never did anything with it; that would have been distasteful. Can you imagine? The first time my dad comes to watch skydiving, he witnesses a fatality. Lisa Gallagher was 41 years old and left behind three young children. It was a truly sad event.