James Boole: Fell 6,000 ft and lived to tell the tale
Photograph: Francesca Cao
By any reasonable standards, people who jump out
of planes are reckless or suicidal; and people who jump out of planes flying at
low altitude over volcanos, well, they're beyond help. But that was our plan
that day.
I was working on a documentary, filming an athlete
skydiving over the Kamchatka
in
During my 12 years in the sport, I've completed around
2,500 jumps, and at that time I was doing it four or five times a week. But
there's no room for complacency. Our plan was to exit at 6,000f t, fly past the
steam, open our parachutes at between 150 and 200 metres, and land. But after
we jumped out of the helicopter, the plan wasn't followed.
I was very focused on my filming and had a viewfinder
over my left eye, to help frame the video. To gauge distances, you really need
both eyes, and because of the snow covering the volcano it was very difficult
to sense height—all we could see was white.
Quite suddenly, I realised I could see the texture of
the snow and ice, meaning I had two or three seconds before I hit the ground. I
can't have been more than 20 metres up. Terror gripped my heart and
stomach, the darkest of darkness. Then I had a clear thought of my wife and
three-month-old daughter, and was overwhelmed by sadness as I felt the
parachute lift from my back. I'd opened it without even thinking, just as you
might instinctively hit the brakes in a car, and experienced a brief sense of
hope. This is going to hurt a lot, I thought, or not at all.
The parachute barely unfurled, but swung my feet up
above me, like a child on a swing. Then the ground hit me full in the back with
the force of a truck. The impact left me unconscious for a few seconds, and as
I opened my eyes two overwhelming emotions raced through me. The first was
elation at having survived, the second black, jagged fear. I was certain,
straight away, that I'd broken my back—the pain in my spine was so immense that
I had no doubt about this at all.
We had a crew of about a dozen, mountain guides with
first aid and a stretcher, but it took some time for the helicopter to
find a safe spot to land and for them to carry me to it. I left a 1m-deep
crater in the snow. Meanwhile, the athlete had drifted safely down beside me—his
parachute had opened at the correct time.
I'd become very cold, and one of my lungs had filled
with blood, which gurgled in my airways. I thought it likely that I had
serious internal bleeding and was about to die. I tried to decide what my last
words to my family should be—"I'm sorry this has happened, I love
you"—then wondered who in the multinational crew to pass them on to.
I ended up choosing an Austrian guy who seemed to have the most fluent English.
It took an hour to reach the local hospital, where a
diagnosis wasn't forthcoming, and another nine to fly on to
I flew back to the
In a month or so, I should be fit enough to jump again.
I'll definitely do one more, then see how I feel. My conflict at the
moment is to define a balance between having a family and following my
passion. I really miss it. How could I not? It's the closest
realisation of Icarus's dream—you put on a suit and you fly.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/dec/19/fell-6000-feet-survived
The Guardian, Saturday 19 December 2009