Jolly Duncan Goes Sky Diving.
Alan "Catman" Moll
Jolly was a Theta Chi contemporary and friend of mine (one Pledge class
younger), eventually married Debbie, a sorority sister of Leah's and in
one of my life's most memorable moments ... we did our first sky dive
jump together.
The sky diving incident is now part of Theta Chi legend.
Several of us were apparently experiencing an over abundance of
testosterone one afternoon and wondered what to do about it. "I've got
it" said a not-to-be-named Brother after consuming mass quantities of
who knows what, "Let's all jump out of an airplane! The idea being
instantly and unanimously approved, we quickly found a place southwest
of Denver that was featuring a "Get Started Special, This Month Only
$25" with professional training and orientation, all necessary equipment
and your first jump from about 5,800 feet. That's less than a half cent
per foot! Too good to turn down, wouldn't you say? About eight of us
signed up including Jolly Duncan, Brad Condo, Paul Wallace, Chris Reade,
several others and, since I was bored while coming off of a shoulder
injury from crashing my motocross bike off of some too-high cliff, yours
truly.
The "professional training" that was included in our fee consisted of an
almost one hour session primarily spent jumping off of hijacked milk
baskets, fooling around and drinking Coors 16 oz talls. The "trainers"
were not too experienced, probably not licensed to do that and
surprisingly drank far more than we did. The training was of no value
whatsoever, but we vowed to show up for our first jump early the next
Saturday. After all, this first time would be a static line jump so we
weren't even responsible for pulling our own rip cord. What could go
wrong?
During the week, a few of the guys actually sobered up and said that
they might not be there. We didn't believe them. Jolly's then girlfriend
Debbie went a step further and let him know that she didn't think this
was a good idea at all and that there would be "consequences" for him if
he took part. That might have gotten Jolly's attention, but didn't seem
to phase the rest of us. We were going!
The big day rolled around faster than we expected it to and I remember
getting up to make a quick breakfast for the brave Brothers. But where
was Jolly? Not awake yet? There was no sign of him. The entourage
marched to the door of his room, which was in the basement area, just
down the hall from the Greg Turpie Memorial Sauna. We gave the
traditional shouting/pounding wake up call. No response from within ...
then a subdued "I'm not going. Go away."
"Like Hell" was the answer, in Greek Chorus quality that would bring
tears to Mom Silver's eyes (that wasn't too hard as you recall). He said
it again, "Go away". And then a weird sort of mob mentality took hold of
us and we did the only thing we could think of - we kicked in his door
and dragged him out. Jolly reluctantly got dressed and joined the
caravan out to the foothills.
It was a beautiful day, clear and very cold. Not too windy; Perfect
conditions! Our crack team of OX divers suited up, slipped on our chutes
and climbed into the airplane, a relic from WWII I suspect. I was lined
up to jump out first, then Chris and the rest. As we climbed to the
desired altitude, the instructor pointed to the target sketched out on
the ground and explained the drill. "When I say "Go', swing out the door
and grab on to the wing strut and hang there 'til we are over the target
and you hear me call 'Drop'". "No problem" we chimed, although I suspect
we were all wondering why we were in this position.
When I got the signal, out the door I went, along with everything I had
learned in the entire 45-minute training session. As I grabbed the
strut, my shoulder dislocated (from the recent motorcycle injury), I
went tumbling sideways and immediately commenced to drop. The static
line snapped up between my legs, compressing one testicle like a
Titleist golf ball at the moment of impact with Tiger Woods' driver, and
spun me in a reverse somersault that made me black out for a couple of
seconds. The static line did its job, however, the parachute opened and
there I was, floating toward Mother Earth, and only a quarter mile or so
before the plane reached the target.
I had only one minor problem. The shoulder dislocation had rendered my
left arm useless, leaving my to steer the thing on only one side. I
descended in a sort of corkscrew pattern without much control and then
realized that the ground was rushing in my direction at a faster than
expected rate of speed. They had told us in the training that the
altitude and thin Colorado air would make the impact similar to that of
jumping from a second story window (then why did we practice the
important jump-fold-and-roll maneuver using a 15" high milk carton?).
Too late to ask questions, I had a date with the dirt to think about.
Well, my landing was more like a 175 pound (then) sack of Idaho Russets
falling from a loading dock. There was no discernible "fold", more of a
crumple. Sorry, no "roll" either. I'd say it was really more of an
audible thing than a visual one, at least from my perspective. The
ground came up much too fast, sending both knees shooting upward in
unison right into my chin, triggering a sickening chain reaction that
drove my teeth pretty deep into my tongue. I tasted blood immediately
and felt a warm dripping against my frozen chin. I was down, though,
alive and enjoying a head rush that would only be duplicated a year
later during a day trip to Deckers with Tim McCaughey, JJ and the boys.
Once I got my eyes focused, I could see the plane passing and Chris
Reade floating Earthward. He was going to land no closer to the target
than me but off in a different direction and while he was too far away
for me to actually hear his touchdown, I could tell that the result had
been similar to my own. Chris later described his as a "crunch landing".
He did not get up from the ground and when I reached him he looked up
and stated the obvious: "Alan, you're bleeding from the mouth and my
legs are broken". The real guys over in Vietnam had nothing on us. We
were staging our own Greek Week version of
Apocalypse Now.
The others made the drop, one by one, except for Jolly. A few bruises
and sprains. Somebody came precariously close to landing in a
half-frozen pond and barbed wire fencing came into play for another. But
where was Jolly? We had all gathered together on the ground near the
target. The plane made one pass after another but produced no jumper. We
figured Jolly had paid the pilot to take him back in the plane. Then
finally we saw a black speck exit the plane and begin to drop.
At first we failed to comprehend that something was terribly wrong. Then
the instructor with us on the ground said simply, but very slowly, "Oooh
Shit!". We immediately realized that Jolly's static line had not done
its job. He was free falling toward us at terminal velocity and it
occurred to me that instructions on how to handle this circumstance had
not been included in the $25 Special. His main chute was still not open
and he was already half way home. "Pull the cord Jolly", chanted the
Greek Chorus, "pull the goddamn cord". It didn't look at all like he was
going to make it.
With only a few hundred feet to go, Jolly reached for the ripcord of his
emergency parachute and pulled. It opened and a little handkerchief of a
thing popped out and caught air. That event apparently drew out the
primary chute which instantly entwined itself around the first one. Not
good, but better than a second before Jolly's imitation of human space
junk reentering the atmosphere was quickly upgraded to that of a
wrecking ball who's cable had just snapped. He hit, hard, and the silky
white trail behind him fluttered to the ground around him like a funeral
shroud. He didn't stand up either but we saw him move, then wave, then
smile his patented Cheshire Cat best.
The Denver Post had front page coverage the next day featuring a photo
of Jolly and Chris bedded side by side, legs in plaster casts and raised
by traction supports in a sort of ghoulish, in-your-face salute. Debbie
didn't speak to Jolly for some time or to the rest of us ever again.
Chris says he still thinks of that day every time the weather changes.
The screws and pins that the doctors used are still there and serve as a
reminder of those happy times at Theta Chi.
