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 Freefalling
© Dave Ferruolo

It was sometime in the winter of 1989, and my SEAL unit was deployed to the Mediterranean onboard the USS Whidbey Island.  We were in port at Rhoda Spain and scheduled for some jump training.

 During the early morning we suited up, packed our shoots, yes we packed our own shoots, and got ready to leave.  As usual, everyone else took longer than we did to get ready, hence the famous SEAL saying of; “hurry up and wait.” 

 After a few hours of just sitting on the tarmac roasting in the sun, the C130 aircraft arrived.  We happily boarded and off we took into the blue.

In the US we barely can get past 10,000 feet without the use of oxygen due to military standards, however things are a bit more lax overseas.  We sat in the jump seats, with the tail of the C130 open at an altitude of 15,000 feet.  We were all a bit light headed, so we passed around the oxygen from one to another.  “THREE MINUTES” the jumpmaster yelled, and we all stood up, took a last hit of O2 and got ready to fly!

 Our jump was an easy one, supposedly.  It was a clear day and we could see the landing zone, even from 15,000 feet. We were to freefall down to 5,000 feet and deploy our shoots, giving us ample time to float down using some compass skills and commanding our shoots to the DZ (Drop Zone).  Easy Day, as we would say.

 “GET READY,” the jumpmaster yelled, and he dropped his hand down and screamed, “GO, GO, GO.”

 Heart pounding I followed the few team members in front of me out the door.  The air was cold and thing, as we plummeted down towards earth.  I looked to my right and say Eric and Scotty. We tried to hook up, but missed several times for some reason.  Traveling over 100mph towards the ground, I could see the DZ in the distance.  I looked over and say several teammates waiving off, signaling that they were going to deploy their shoots, and bang they were gone as I flew by them.

 I looked at my altimeter and it read 5000 feet, I looked over at Eric and waived off.  That’s when the problems started.  Expecting to feel the pull of the shoot instantly slowing me down from high speed to only about 25mph, I felt nothing.

 Falling swiftly to earth, I used my elbows to bash the sides of the shoot—this usually pops it open, however not this time.  I then reached over my head and viciously yanked and hit the top of the shoot, to no avail. 

I looked at my altimeter, and saw just over 2000 feet.  I had time, not much, a few more seconds, but enough. I tried to elbow my shoot open again—nothing.  It was time to pull my reserve shoot.  My heart was pounding as I grappled the handle and yanked.  The speed of my fall continued, as the reserve also failed to deploy.  Well, I’m dead, I thought, and started to panic.  I flailed my elbows, hitting the packed shoot on my back violently as hard as I could.  Nothing.  I saw the ground coming quickly.  I had maybe a few seconds left to live, and poof, my main shoot opened at about 100 feet.

 Startled, that I was still alive, I looked down—(inset swear word here!) I hit hard and rolled and tumbled maybe 30 yards before coming to an abrupt stop.  Frantically, I pulled my knife out and started cutting the shrouds from my back.  My face planted on the hot tar, I looked to my right and saw an F15 zooming towards me.  Lucky me, I had landed on an active military runway with a fighter jet landing on top of me. Really, this is a TRUE story!!!!

 The jet or me I thought, as my shoot was floating in the breeze in the middle of the runway.  I grabbed the cut shrouds and started pulling and running.  I got the bulk of the shoot under control and off about three feet from the runway, just as the jet sped by me.  It was so close, I could see the sweat beads running down the pilots face as he starred at me. I smiled and waived.

 Safe at last, and alive. No wait, there is more!  Yelling in another language, what the hell now…

 I soon was surrounded by a dozen Spanish Army forces with loaded guns in my face, thinking I was a terrorist.  Great, I thought; I survived the fall, lived through the jet ordeal, now I’m going to be shot by the Spanish Army.  Just not my day, I thought.

 One soldier came close to me and tried to hit me in the face with his rifle.  I had enough and took the rifle from his and yelled. AMERICAN, and showed the flag on the right arm of my jumpsuit.  They were confused enough to not shoot me and just arrest me.

 After a few hours of interrogation, a friendly Marine Gunny Sergeant who knew me noticed what was going on and bailed me out.  As we walked to his jeep to take me back to the ship he said, “perhaps this was not your best day.”  I retorted, “Perhaps actually it was.”

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