The Case of the Sugar City Jumper

This is a tale about “a friend.” Who am I? That’s not important. What is important is what happened to my friend, once upon a time, in a sweet little place called Sugar City.

“All right! Let’s go get some Vitamin A, adrenaline.” Hippie Tom cheered. “Woo hoo! DOOR!” Josh shouldered open the Cessna’s door, secured it, and stepped out onto the strut. The thin, cool air at eleven thousand feet screamed through the yawning wound. Woozy and helpless in what would best be described as an outsized Baby Bjorn, Hippie Tom carts a dumbfounded Max to the fury in the vacant doorway. Josh holds fast to the strut, his body undulating. Left foot, left foot, right foot, right foot, one by one out onto the perch. One last bemused game of Twister…there in the ether. Arms compact Max’s body, “ready,” rock forward, “set,” rock back, “go,” rock forward and . . . Josh falls, Max and Hippie Tom tumble after—terminal velocity, a freight train roar then…unexpected silence.

“All right! Let’s go get some Vitamin A, adrenaline.” Hippie Tom cheered. “Woo hoo! DOOR!”

Hours earlier, Max’s Camry had eased onto Louisiana Hwy 668 on its final approach to Sugar City. Jeanerette was her given name, but “Sugar City” is how people knew her best. Situated on the banks of the Bayou Teche, she earned that name two hundred years ago, when cypress lumber cooled and sugar cane got hot. Three sugar mills remain active today. Max was curious about this town just down the road from Avery Island, home to Mcllhenny Tabasco. He promised himself he’d visit the Jeanerette Museum, the LeBeau Petie Museẻ, but for now, cultural adventures would have to wait. He drove on, to Louisiana AirSports, to seal his skydiving fate.

Arriving early, he parked outside the fence surrounding Le Maire airport. Just beyond the fence stood two very tired looking corrugated metal buildings. “Hangers,” he guessed. His wife’s friend—who had recommended this place and accompanied her son here months earlier when he first skydived—had said the place looked “run down” and “a little bit scary.” On this relentlessly gray morning, he concurred. But he remembered what else she’d said—she’d snooped around and confirmed that “these guys were in business for years, the best in the business and knew the skydive business like nobody’s business.”  Max smiled, calmed that this was only the “cover” of the book. A book he couldn’t wait to read.

Just after 10 a.m., a white compact rolled up, followed by a pickup. The driver of the compact exited his car and walked to the gate. He pushed the gate but it clawed the ground, shuddering to a stop. Max’s mouth twitched an amused smile. The driver pondered briefly then gingerly finessed the gate fully open.

Max idled the Camry through the gate. The pickup driver, who, it turns out, was the pilot, Jerry, directed him past a faded green Cessna. Max parked, killed the car engine and gathered his thoughts. Steeled, he went to make nice with the men, the strangers, who would hold his life in their hands.

Max idled the Camry through the gate. The pickup driver, who, it turns out, was the pilot, Jerry, directed him past a faded green Cessna. Max parked, killed the car engine and gathered his thoughts. Steeled, he went to make nice with the men, the strangers, who would hold his life in their hands.

There was Josh, the gate wrangler. Turns out he’d be the shutterbug who’d shoot the jump. But right now, he’s less than chatty. Max decides he’ll circle and approach later.

Jerry was busy opening up for the day, but happy to gab. “Flying, not jumping, is my thing,” he told Max. “So why flying?” Max offered. Jerry answered easy, easy like an off-speed pitch. “Flying was something I’ve just always wanted to do,” he said simply. “I love anything to do with aviation. When I was seven or eight, I tried to fly off my grandpa’s barn with cardboard wings.” Jerry fell hard that day; for a dame named “flight.” But since the barn, he got his first private pilot’s license in ’79 and “has been flying ever since.” “Why jumpers?” Max wondered. “My dad was a paratrooper in WWII and Korea, so I was raised hearing paratrooper stories.” In the early ‘90s, Jerry instructed flyers in Gonzalez, Louisiana. “These skydivers’ regular pilot was out of town, so I started flying them. That was ten, twelve years ago and I kind of been stuck with it ever since.” Being “stuck with it” worked out. Jerry owns Louisiana Air Sports, and flies strictly jumpers. So, the kind of guy who flies “just always wanted to.” Jerry still jumps sometimes, but prefers flying. Max was comforted knowing the pilot preferred flying the plane rather than jumping out of it.

Max was comforted knowing the pilot preferred flying the plane rather than jumping out of it.

Max faded into the interior of the high, humid hanger, watching, wondering and quelling second and third thoughts. Other first timers, mostly dads with teenage sons, sheepishly meandered in. Max smiled knowingly at their shared, yet unspoken, delight mixed with trepidation. “An exclusive club without a secret handshake,” he mused.

The jump Max would make is called a tandem. “That means,” I’d explained earlier to Max, “the instructor straps on a parachute, straps himself to your back, then you both fall out of a plane.” “Just who’s gonna be the strapper to my strappee?” Max demanded, clearly rattled.  I slapped him, hard. But then I answered his question…

As Max sat in the hangar, working out that secret handshake, in strode a stranger. Whatever age he was, he looked young for it. Long, thick, dark hair like the kind thin-haired guys buy off late night infomercials, only this was the real McCoy. He had a confidence more charismatic than cocky. “I’m Tom,” he said, shaking Max’s hand. “Hippie Tom?” Max asked. I’d queried the local chute jockeys and they’d all recommended “Hippie Tom Tharp.” “You’re the guy I’m jumping with, right?” “That’s me.” Like Jerry, Tom immediately got down to business, prepping for the jump. These guys were pros. Max stepped outside to wait.

What seemed like a minute later, Tom was there with Josh, who by now was sociable and ready to chronicle Max’s adventure. As Tom helped Max into his tandem jump harness, an ominous conversation ensued, almost imperceptibly. “Josh,” Tom said, cinching up Max’s harness, “take a look at this.” “Me look at something?” Josh replied, “Don’t know if I’m qualified.” “Is this any good?” Tom asked, cuing Josh. “Is that any good?” Josh replied, “I think so.” It was Tom’s turn. “Good for one more jump anyway.” And Josh, “Yeah, I’m sure. Pretty sure.”

Max knew schtick. “Whaddaya know,” he said, “a jump and a floorshow.” But that “floorshow” wasn’t just “for show.” It was a critical element designed to keep Max from losing his cool because losing your cool somewhere between heaven and earth might mean the “Tom and Josh” show was your last laugh and who wants to laugh last at material like that?

Max had a question. He’d seen the dads and sons queuing up to jump, but “who else got that itch to step out into sky?” Tom has been skydiving about fourteen years. He jumps solo, tandem, with precision teams, etcetera, etcetera, and trains lots of jumpers. Long story short, he’d have the straight dope on “Who.” “Everybody,” said Hippie Tom. “Upper class, lower class, middle class, no class. My students are mostly men, but I’m getting more women. Right now I teach about sixty percent men and forty percent women. My oldest tandem student was a ninety-three year old woman, but most students are between eighteen and forty.” Josh chimed in. “According to The United States Parachute Association’s most recent survey, nationally, eighty-five percent of students were men and fourteen percent were women.” Only fourteen percent nationally, huh? Guess Louisiana women are just more audacious than most.

“According to The United States Parachute Association’s most recent survey, nationally, eighty-five percent of students were men and fourteen percent were women.” Only fourteen percent nationally, huh? Guess Louisiana women are just more audacious than most.

Tom continued. “Women are best because they admit when they’re scared and they listen to my instructions. Men put on the big macho thing and don’t listen. So when it’s time to jump, women have listened and know what to do. The men didn’t listen, so of course now they’re scared. I had a big, tough guy with tattoos—when it came time to jump, he was crying for his mama. He was actually crying for his mama.” (I checked, and statistics for big, tough, tattooed guys crying for their mama are currently unavailable.)

At last, the Cessna’s engine clamored to life. Reflexively, Max did a Casablanca head turn towards the plane. Tom, Max and Josh joined Jerry on board. As the Cessna climbed, Tom & Josh’s late show began. It featured a “Tandem Jumping For Dummies” brochure. On the inside it read, “don’t look here for the joke, the joke is strapped to your back.” Approaching target altitude, Tom secured his harness to Max’s, then pointed out a window, “You see the airport?” “Yeah,” Max replied, “It’s smaller than I remember.” Tom smiled, “It’s good when the people look like ants, but when the ants look like people,” He trailed off. Then, “Alright! Let’s go get some Vitamin A, adrenaline. Whoo hoo! DOOR!”

Having never jumped, myself, I had the obvious questions: “Why skydive,” “Were you scared,” and “What was it like?” Max couldn’t wait to spill.

“I am honestly not sure ‘why.’ I just remember, always thinking how fun skydiving looked, never dreaming I’d get to jump. But on my fiftieth birthday, my wife and kids gave me ‘the gift of skydiving.’ Be careful what you wish for.”

He continued. “My skydive was a tandem. My instructor, Tom, strapped himself to my back with special tandem harnesses. At eleven thousand feet, our cameraman, Josh, stepped outside and hung onto the wing strut. Tom and I moved into the open doorway, rocked forward, back then forward again, somersaulting out the door. Josh let go at the same time, and we were all in freefall. It’s such a rush! You rocket towards earth at 120 mph, deafening wind rushing past your ears, but still, there’s no sensation of falling. Then you pull the ripcord, and for a moment, it goes totally silent. At THAT point, falling much more slowly, it feels more like falling than freefall.”

“Drifting down, we cut back and forth, heading for our target. Just feet from the ground, Tom slowed us down dramatically for an incredibly soft landing. I’ll admit that, on the way down, my stomach did a turn or two and my ears plugged a bit, but that’s minor. Skydiving was like the best roller coaster ride ever. I sincerely recommend it and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

So that’s my—er, Max’s tale. A tale about a wife, a gift and a group of guys, a group of pros that made one man’s dream come true. As for me, if I ever do get that itch to fall from a plane and bolt through the blue, you can bet I’ll be landing in Sugar City.

Bill Martin is usually acting or child wrangling, but welcomed this chance to share his “friend’s” skydiving adventure.

For Further Exploration:

Louisiana Airsports

Le Maire Memorial Airport

878 St. Peter

Jeanerette, LA

1-888-YOU-JUMP

337-879-0122

225-921-8040

www.jump.homestead.com