January 24th, 2012 | 1 comment | Blue Skies Magazine, Skydiving

For those of you outside of the skydiving world, there are, to my knowledge, two publications that are dedicated to all things air sports: the USPA’s Parachutist magazine, as well as the super-funky, uncensored Blue Skies Magazine. While I haven’t been published in the former, I am pleased to share with you my third installment in my “The Beginning of the End of My Flourishing Career” column for Blue Skies.

While they do have an online presence, Blue Skies saves the good stuff for the magazine. You can (and should) subscribe here. Seriously – even if you aren’t a skydiver, the magazine will provide oodles of entertainment, if not for the pictures alone. Pinky swear.

The premise of my column? We’re following my journey through AFF and beyond. From “zero” to “hero” as Kolla described it. That being said, a lot of what you’re about to read is old news, as it’s the going back from when I started skydiving to present day. Also, keep in mind a lot of this is very much tongue-in-cheek (i.e. I don’t really think I’m the PR queen of the universe) and this is tailored to a skydiving audience, so if there are bits that don’t make sense, let me know in the comments and I’ll translate for you.

On with it, shall we?

The Beginning of the End of My Flourishing Career: From Cutaway to 3Ring 

Originally published in the September 2011 issue of Blue Skies Magazine. 

How do you cutaway once you’ve realized everything has pretty much gone to shit and your beloved canopy (or life, for that matter) is one big malfunction? As baby skydivers, we’re trained to look at the cutaway handle, then pull it, look at the reserve handle, then pull it, or some variation of that. The point is, it’s a very robotic thing once you actually do it in real life. However, if you’re cutting away like one of the Baldwin brothers, it’s a bit different. Some people just yank the handle and then don’t really know where the reserve is or what to do with it or how it works. Or in my case, you chop that bitch and the RSL does the rest.

This is the story of how I actually cut away. Fade to “cutaway” montage from the movie that said “cutaway” one too many times.

We left off at January 2nd, with me sitting on the bench near the swoop pond at Zhills, having just decided that I’m quitting my awesome job in Austin and going after this whole living the dream thing.

Well, let’s rewind for a second, shall we? Flashback to November, a balmy 70 degrees (compared to 30′s in Chicago) and I’m all sitting at my fancy ass computer at my superawesome agency job in Austin. I ordered my rig earlier in the season and it wasn’t ready by the time I left Chicago, so I had it delivered to the office, because I was living in this gigantic swanky ass apartment complex and I didn’t want it to get lost. Obviously. So my rig arrives and I call Doug, the DZO at CSC, and we shoot the shit for a bit, mostly me squealing about how pretty my rig is. I had been working with Doug since the middle of the summer, so once CSC shut down and Doug wasn’t as busy as he usually is in season, the emails started piling up.

So we’re on the phone and I’m giving him shit about how there’s a good chance I’m doing more work for him than I am my clients when he asked me how everything was going since the big move. I ramble on about how I’m working like a crazy person, billing 300 hours in November. For the record, 300 hours = 37.5 8-hour working days. In case you didn’t know this, there aren’t 37.5 8-hour working days in November, or any month on the planet Earth, but that’s what I was billing. I was used to jumping Friday at sunset, all day Saturday and Sunday and leaving the DZ for the city on Monday morning. I had been in Austin for six weeks and hadn’t jumped yet. Unacceptable.

Doug: “So, that’s not exactly what you signed up for, huh?”

Me: “Honestly, I’d rather just work with you full time, and come back in the spring when season starts and take care of all of your marketing and stuff.”

I said that. To Doug. Sitting at my desk at my shiny new job that I had been at for oh, maybe four weeks.

Doug said that was entirely possible.

I hang up with Doug and call the boy. He’s pumped. His wheels are turning. He thinks this could be a really great opportunity for me.

I hang up with him and call my parents. Mom and Dad listen and tell me to call them later when I get home. So I do. They think I’m insane. They say that there’s no way I’m ready for this and that I JUST got to Austin and I have an obligation to them and I should stay and that the skydiving industry isn’t a great place to start out on my own in the marketing world. My parents, who have never told me that I couldn’t do anything, think it’s probably the worst idea I’ve ever come up with in the history of ideas.

That was November. Bring it back to January and my dad has just told me I’d be stupid not to go with this plan.

For the rest of this column, head on over to BlueSkiesMag.com for the full shabang. 

Tags: 3Ring Media blue skies mag cutting away skydiving