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StoppieJoe

Fear

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For those of us who have witnessed a fatality first hand, I want to ask some advice. How do you deal with the fear and fucked up mental state that witnessing a fatality causes? I love skydiving. It has been a part of my life for ALL of my life and I want to keep doing it for a long time, but After watching a fatality in October, I have had an extremely hard time mentally. How do you deal with that image and fear that stems from it?
Carpe Diem, Even if it kills me -- "Dead Poet's Society"

"Are you getting into trouble over there?" --- "Nothing that I'm going to admit to!"
____________________________________

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Lol I love Brian and have asked him this same question in person. What I am looking for is more of how people deal with it on the ground, when you’re not jumping. I’m wanting advice from personal experience, not psychological training for when I am in the air. The ground time, when I am actually in my head, is what is getting to me, not the jumps.
Carpe Diem, Even if it kills me -- "Dead Poet's Society"

"Are you getting into trouble over there?" --- "Nothing that I'm going to admit to!"
____________________________________

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StoppieJoe

For those of us who have witnessed a fatality first hand, I want to ask some advice. How do you deal with the fear and fucked up mental state that witnessing a fatality causes? I love skydiving. It has been a part of my life for ALL of my life and I want to keep doing it for a long time, but After watching a fatality in October, I have had an extremely hard time mentally. How do you deal with that image and fear that stems from it?



I watched a man who was basically my mentor bounce when I had about 50 jumps and was still a novice. The spot was "straight up" so he was just a few hundred feet from us. We were a very small DZ that only jumped on Sundays but we got everyone together to jump the next Saturday which was as soon as possible or us. We needed to get back up on the horse. That next jump helped a lot. Not as much as I'd hoped, but a lot.
Just keep skydiving. That's about all you can do.

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I understand. So for those of us that have experienced what you have; this will not be your last witnessing account if you stay in the sport long enough. I hate to say this, but it becomes a part of the culture to accept it. Many of us have lost friends (and some have lost family) in front of us while pursuing our passion. And yet, we still get in a vehicle or on a motorcycle to go home.

To add to Bob's advice of jump more; make sure your have no gear fear. Trust yourself.
Nobody has time to listen; because they're desperately chasing the need of being heard.

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Seeing first hand what can happen in this sport is difficult. Initially, the advice of "keep jumping" works really well, but over time, you do need to process the incident. The big part of that talking to some more experienced jumpers and understanding what happened to that person most likely will not happen to you. It's okay to feel your mortality, it makes you check your gear just a little bit better.

This is why I don't like it when jumpers talk about doing something stupid and shrug it off as "it's my life, I can do what I want." Someone dying, even if they are unknown at the DZ has an affect on everyone involved- witnesses, people next to them on the plane, people that respond to the scene, those that write up the incident reports, and everyone that has to call their family members that day and tell them it wasn't them.

Good luck!

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BIGUN

I understand. So for those of us that have experienced what you have; this will not be your last witnessing account if you stay in the sport long enough. I hate to say this, but it becomes a part of the culture to accept it. Many of us have lost friends (and some have lost family) in front of us while pursuing our passion. And yet, we still get in a vehicle or on a motorcycle to go home.

To add to Bob's advice of jump more; make sure your have no gear fear. Trust yourself.



When I started jumping the Spanish Fly and Green Star (not Green Star's fault. I always point that out) fatalities had just happened and when the beer light came on we'd talk a lot about how to survive a bounce. And we were only half joking. When I watched him go through a couple of hundred feet with his hand on his chest strap but his blast handle back behind his ear I had that eerie feeling of looking at someone who was alive but dead. Then and during the bounce I mentally saw all of that crap go out the window. After that we spent the time we used to talk about surviving a bounce going over our gear and emergency procedures. Reality had just landed, at 120mph.

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Ive been on the DZ, and had a close relative be the survivor in a wrap many years ago. It took awhile. But I did find that if I started re-processing things, if i actively focused on something else — not moving away from the thought, but moving to another thought that was important, it helped.
At the dz, go talk to manifest a bit; if you’re packing, take the absolute worst-tangled rig that means you have to focus hard. Teach a student how to pack. At home, always have a good book, or go vacuum or something. Personally I hate vacuuming, but you get what i mean. Something that either is noisy enough to occupy you, or that takes enough focus that you have to.
Good luck. With time it does get better. You can’t tell day to day, but after awhile, you realize that it’s better than it was six months before.

Wendy P.
There is nothing more dangerous than breaking a basic safety rule and getting away with it. It removes fear of the consequences and builds false confidence. (tbrown)

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From my perspective, I never tried to deny the fact that I was doing something dangerous. I accept the fact that it can be me that will get killed in this sport someday, I try to be real about it. It is far from what I want or what I will accept if it comes to it. Heck I'll probably watch in terror and struggle like mad till the last second, but I accept it to the point that if it will happen I can't change that.

So, did you accept the fact you are in a sport that can get you killed "for no good reason"?

I'm guessing your main fear doesn't stem from the death of your collegue but from that hard, cold wake-up call that the danger in this sport is real.

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I have had 46 friends go in skydiving over the years. Another 10 have gone in BASE jumping.

I have had to investigate fatalities as an S&TA. One was a kid sitting next to me on the ride to altitude, that I probably could have prevented if I checked his gear before he boarded. I high fived him on climb out. His two way followed us. His AAD was off. He didn't pull anything but his cutaway handle.

I spent 20 minutes talking to a good friend, and my back was killing me that afternoon, so I didn't get on his jump. I watched him burn in after a canopy collision on break off 30 minutes later..

As an EMT, I have patched up some of the most gruesome injuries I have ever seen at various DZs,

I have been a DZO and I organize international events. I'm very immersed in the sport.

I handle the fear with the utmost respect that I have for gravity. You will never get the images out of your brain. I try hard to spread a culture of safety across this sport. It helps with handling the bad stuff. If my guidance saves one person, I have done my job and it helps me to deal with the ugly side of the sport.

I think in this day and age we make jumping so easy for everyone. Everyone gets a trophy after AFF. The gear is pretty amazing now and AADs have given people a false sense of security.

So I try to put the bad images on the back shelf of my pea brain and focus on the good, like keeping people alive and healthy by passing on some old fart wisdom.

It really helps.

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wmw999

Ive been on the DZ, and had a close relative be the survivor in a wrap many years ago. It took awhile. But I did find that if I started re-processing things, if i actively focused on something else — not moving away from the thought, but moving to another thought that was important, it helped.
At the dz, go talk to manifest a bit; if you’re packing, take the absolute worst-tangled rig that means you have to focus hard. Teach a student how to pack. At home, always have a good book, or go vacuum or something. Personally I hate vacuuming, but you get what i mean. Something that either is noisy enough to occupy you, or that takes enough focus that you have to.
Good luck. With time it does get better. You can’t tell day to day, but after awhile, you realize that it’s better than it was six months before.

Wendy P.



I'm just quoting this because it is really good advice.

OP, I hope you can find what helps you.

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If I was as worried about it as you; I guess I'd have quit jumping. Then if I did that I'd have quit, driving, swimming, flying (commercial and private), riding motorcycles or bikes, skiing, etc, etc. I've seen or known people die in all these things.

Its your choice: stay or take your participation trophy and go home.
U only make 2 jumps: the first one for some weird reason and the last one that you lived through. The rest are just filler.
scr 316

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I don't have any answers, but I did go through something similar.

The first fatality I saw happened when I had about 50 jumps. Harry lost power at 1000 feet on Skydive Long Island's old 206. He was facing a sod farm - but decided to try to make it back to the runway. There's an old saying that it's better to land in a forest under control than on a runway out of control, and there was never a better example of that maxim. Harry's last act was to hit the runway.

He died; I worked on him for 15 minutes but all the signs of profound brain damage were there. Davy (JM) was paralyzed from the neck down.

One of the things that made it harder was that all of us could have seen it coming. Harry was not good under stress - Ray yelling at him could reduce him to a shaking mess. If any of us had thought about how we would have reacted under a real emergency we might have reconsidered flying with him. But we really needed a pilot and we were all kind of dumb in those days.

The second happened when I had about 300, at Eloy. Both John and Lupe were friends of mine. That hit me a lot harder because of how well I knew them. I had also helped plan the dive and tried to keep John alive, so I felt like I had failed twice.

This is a thing I wrote right after that day. I don't know if it's helpful or not.

==============================



Man, it's hot. I heard someone say before that it was supposed to get to 110 today. I'm not even wearing a jumpsuit and I'm sweating my butt off.


The rest of the load kind of mills around, looking for nonexistent relief from the sun. Looks like the 4-way team, an eight-way, a few assorted 2 and 3 ways, and me. Steve didn't get it before - he kept telling me I didn't have to jump solo, I could get on their five-way, we could do this and that - I felt a little bad just telling him no, but I'm not sure he'd have understood my reasons. He probably just chalked it up to my state of mind.


The plane is dropping out of the sky now, diving so steeply you can see the tops of its wings. Can't waste a second, even if it takes hundreds of hours off the engines. If they could figure out a way to load the plane without having to stop, I'm sure they'd do that too. Maybe they could put a ramp on the side of the bus and drive next to the plane. . .


The BRRAPPP of the engine feathering wakes me up. I run up to the door, ducking so the exhaust doesn't blast me in the face. I often wonder how to explain skydiving to whuffos at moments like this - "yeah, I was waiting to load, but I was standing right behind the jet exhaust, and it was really hot . . ." I don't think my friends believe my stories any more.


I slouch my way up to the cockpit and poke my head in. The pilot points one end of his sandwich at the right seat, so I sit down and fish out the seat belts. The plane is rolling before the last jumper is all the way inside. Can't waste a second. The plane taxis to the active and turns into the wind. The pilot shoves the strange overhead throttles to takeoff power, and the otter surges ahead. Habit makes me scan - RPM, torque, EGT, airspeed - but the readings on the gauges don't really register in my brain. The plane shakes tremendously, staggers off the runway, then starts climbing like a rocket. I look out the window, past the right wingtip, and see the landing area, full of just-landed canopies. Is that the same place I landed yesterday? It seems like it was a different place, or maybe the same place years ago. I wish to God that I could look at it the same way today.


The pilot is having a bit of trouble eating and using the push-to-talk on the yoke at the same time. I'd offer to fly while he ate, but he doesn't know me, and today wouldn't be the best day for me to be flying otters. He manages, and only a few crumbs escape his mouth. I look back through the cabin and see one guy sitting alone by the door. Looks kind of like Paul.


I wonder what Paul thinks of what happened yesterday? He's so new at this. I know he still thinks he's immortal, that his equipment won't fail him, that Jennifer and Carmen and I can teach enough that he'll never get hurt. I hope that when he does get hurt, it will be something serious enough to scare him, but something that will heal well.


Good thing he can't read minds.


It's funny - I spent so much time with him, coaching him, telling him horror stories about other boogies, thinking that if anyone was going to get hurt, it would be him, the low-timer. Even on that last load yesterday, it was him I was worried about, because he'd gotten in last instead of first and he was doing a solo. I guess I felt kind of responsible for him.


The air starts to cool off. The OAT gauge says sixty degrees, but this is a jump ship, and all gauges on a jump ship are to be viewed with suspicion. The sky outside is screaming blue, and we're above the puffy cumulus that keeps promising shade, but never delivers. I check my altimeter against the plane's, and against someone behind me for good measure. Someone in back is planning a three-way, using his hands to indicate the slots. He's having trouble since he only has two hands.


The planning for the fifteen-way yesterday was a little more thorough, but not by much. It was Steve's 500th jump, and we wanted to do something special. It would be a good break from my endless coach dives with Paul, anyway. We did a jam-up, and I got stuck in front-front again. The dive was to be a five-way base with five two-man pods, transitioning to a ten-way with five pods, then a BFR. The Steves were organizing it (all three of them) and kept arguing about exit order. John was just leaning against the mockup, watching, laughing when Riggs changed the floaters for the third time. Almost all of the San Diego people were on the jump, along with a few I couldn't place. I planned on leaving a half second early and lurking around the base. There was even a chance that it would build - stranger things have happened.


Altitude: 9000 feet. I look back again and see Christen, the videographer for the 4-way team, putting her camera helmet on. Yesterday I remember looking at her and thinking "my God, she's beautiful," but today I feel only an echo of that memory. Nothing seems real today. The world seems covered with gauze, just a little out of focus.


I check my pilot chute for the tenth time. I just got a new collapsible and I don't like it. The bridle's too thick, and doesn't like to stay put against the velcro. I'm going to be doing some freestyle-type stuff, I think, and I don't want it waggling in the wind. I stuff it down into the pocket one more time. I was worried about it yesterday, too, more because of the front-front float position than the freefall. The bridle can get bashed good when you're front floating, and I kept fiddling with it then, too.


"What the hell you keep fiddlin with that thing for?" Steve asked me at one point.

"Dunno," I said. "It worries me." We were at about the same altitude - 9000 - and John had just put his camera on. The helmet didn't quite fit, and was squeezing his face.

"John, that helmet makes you look all squinty," I told him.

"You mean it makes me look asian?" he asked. He laughed, and that just made his eyes squint more. He was convinced that his tandem passengers didn't like him because he was asian. No one could talk him out of that, for some reason. We did an exit count, and John had to lean way over to get his hand in.


Altitude: 13,000. Jump run. There I go, not paying attention again. The plane lurched as the 4-way left. I took my seatbelt off, stood up, and did the usual pull-look-reach-pull-look-grab-cutaway-look-reserve. I do it almost without thinking now. Hopefully if I ever find a ball of shit above my head it will be just as automatic. I look at the GPS: .3 miles. I'll have to open a little high - i'll be a good mile out before I exit. The eight-way takes forever and a day to set up, and then they're gone. Someone in the next group yells "check out this exit!" which I've learned is skydive-talk for "We may be a while." After fifteen seconds they go out. GPS: 1 mile. Is that bad? Man, I'm out of it today. After yesterday . . .


The 15-way started out about as I expected to. John and I left a half-second early, and I had a good view of the first funnel. A three-way base rebuilt, and held for almost five seconds until someone took it out again. I hovered about twenty feet away, feeling sorry for Steve. Looks like there's no magic in a 500th jump that makes things work better.


I turned away from the mess at about 5000 and started tracking. Looked like everyone else had gone the other way. Fine with me. I flared, waited until the altimeter in my brain clicked, and pulled. Nice opening, slider down just under 2000. I cranked my 190 around and looked for Paul - he had had to exit first, and I wasn't sure if he'd make it back. There he was - green canopy, my altitude, going the right direction. Good. Now where's Riggs? I should harass him under canopy. . .


. . . then I saw that green canopy, flying along in the wrong direction, brakes still stowed, arms dangling at his sides. No, I thought, not Paul - I tried so hard . . .


I took two wraps on my toggle. My 190 was shaking and wobbling, unused to the descent rate and the bumpy desert air. I saw him land, no flare, and collapse like a bag of flour about a quarter mile from the landing area. Just then I saw Paul out of the corner of my eye, now above me. What the hell? Is that John's Nova?


Someone landed next to him, and I had to land about 20 yards past him to avoid bushes. I dumped my rig in the sand and ran over. Edge was already there, trying to figure out what to do next.


My other part was starting the checklist - pulse, breathing, bleeding, shock - as I dropped down next to him. Pulse - pulse - I felt for a pulse, but he was still on his stomach, and Edge was trying to pull his helmet off. Why was he trying to do that? Finally I got a pulse, around 50 and very strong. Not good. I pulled my fingers back and they were covered with blood. Breathing - no chest movement, no breath visible in the dust. I had to turn him. I got my hands around his neck to support his CV spine, and told Edge to roll him over. As he came over, some teeth and flesh stayed on the ground. His lower face had collapsed. My other part started the list - broken teeth, lacerations and evulsions on chin and cheeks, no lower lip, broken jaw, no airway. Another part of me was screaming. I ignored that part for now.



I had Edge turn him on his side. I used my free hand to try to clear his mouth, my other hand still supporting his neck. I really wanted a collar and a backboard. I tried to start rescue breathing, but he just didn't have enough of a mouth left to get a seal. Just then the first real EMT arrived. He had a mask that covered enough of his face to get a seal. On my first breath, a hole in his neck blew open and spattered my face with blood.


"Well, this will be fun to deal with later," another voice in my head noted. I felt like a pilot during an engine-out, just a machine following a checklist. I got someone to hold the hole in his neck closed. Matt, an EMT from San Diego, checked his pulse again. Nothing. Someone started chest compressions, and it took a few seconds before we worked out the rythm.


"Tell me if you get tired," Matt said, before he went off to dig through a big box, looking for oxygen. Matt, it really doesn't matter if I'm tired or not. I'll get over being tired.


It started to look more and more like a regular EMT call, and that reassured me somehow. We got a collar on, and put him on a backboard. Someone came up to us and asked us if we'd seen a foot. I looked down at John's feet. He had two, and they looked much better than the rest of him.


"Huh?" I said.

"Someone went in, over there, and they're looking for his foot." No, I thought, he's just excited is all, and he made a mistake. I looked over where he was pointing and saw a canopy draped over a bush. no no no . . .


We were ready to move him. We loaded him into the ambulance just at the life flight helicopter was landing near the other canopy. They shut the door.


Suddenly my checklist had run out. There was nothing else to do, All the voices in my head that had been clamoring for my attention started talking. "He's dead, you know." "That could have been Paul." "That could have been you." "Someone else is dead, too. Maybe it's Carmen. Maybe lots of people are dead."


I walked away. I realized I was walking into a bush, so I walked the other way. People were talking to me, but I don't remember what they said.


We headed back for the landing area. Nobody said anything. I was watching the ground, afraid to look up and see someone's leg lying in the dust. When we got back to the landing area, everyone stood up and just watched us walk. The talking died away and left dead silence. I think the crowd was staring at all the blood on me, wondering if I was the one. I got into the hangar, took off my jumpsuit and hat, and realized I didn't know where to go next.


I don't really remember the next hour. I took a shower at some point, and watched John's blood go down the drain, like a scene from an old hitchcock movie. I threw my altimeter at something and broke it. Finally Jenny (thank you, thank you Jenny) took me and dragged me out to dinner with her. It didn't change anything, but it made me think about something other than blood going down a drain.


It's just me now in the plane, watching the last 2-way fall away. I give them six seconds then I dive out the door, Get stable, turn, track - without thinking I'm tracking towards the base. Old habits die hard, I guess.


I turn and watch the plane fly away, and slowly the world pitches around me until I'm facing the ground. That doesn't seem right, so I flip over and face the sky.


John, if you're anywhere now, you're here. You lived a good part of your life up here, and you died here. You brought a lot of people into this strange and amazing sport, and you loved it, I could tell.


Thanks for trying to set me up with Jaqui. It didn't work out, but it was a good idea, I'm still waiting for all the chicks to come swarming, but it looks like your theory on jumpmasters and women isn't holding up too well.


I'm sorry I couldn't get you that job. You looked pretty funny in a suit, by the way, when you dropped your resume off. Somehow I couldn't see you sitting behind a desk, anyway.


By the way, nobody cared that you were asian. Okay, maybe one or two of those WWII vets that you trained had some old prejudices, but most of your tandem students were just plain freaked out. It wasn't your squinty eyes, you idiot.


And I still don't want that damned camera! I don't care if it's the camera to have at Z-Hills. I'm going to wait for George to sell one of his TR-101's. Now THAT's a camera.


I'll see you again someday, John, and I'll have a load of stories to tell you. No time soon, I hope, but someday. Until then, blue skies and godspeed. And keep an eye on us, would you?



I turn to face the ground. 5000 feet. John died here, as he chased Riggs to film his opening and wound up in the middle of Lupe's canopy. He died well, doing what he loved. And he died among friends. But damn it, it wasn't his time. He had about a thousand more students to teach, a thousand more beers to drink, and a million more stories to tell. I'll miss him. Damn, I'll miss him.


Pull time. I fumble for the pud, toss it, and feel the familiar drag as my porous, oversized, tired old canopy saves my life yet again. I'm about a mile out, upwind, so I leave my brakes stowed and let the wind push me back for a while. I look down at John's legacy - the people he trained, now teaching other people to jump, doing tandems, flying video. That's not such a bad thing to leave behind. I cross over the place he landed, and try to see the marks made by his landing. Nothing. The desert has already smoothed it over.


I see Carmen below me. She's looking around, no doubt wondering where I am. I hope she's not mad - I told her about an hour ago that I was ready to leave, then realized I hadn't said goodbye to John. This was the only way I could think of to do it.


"Be right there!" I yell down. She looks around, puzzled. Well, I'll see her in a minute. The peas are approaching, and I'm about to leave the Arizona air for the last time. Good-bye, John. You'll always be with us.
==============

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For those of us who have witnessed a fatality first hand, I want to ask some advice. How do you deal with the fear and fucked up mental state that witnessing a fatality causes? I love skydiving. It has been a part of my life for ALL of my life and I want to keep doing it for a long time, but After watching a fatality in October, I have had an extremely hard time mentally. How do you deal with that image and fear that stems from it?



I suppose I was never under the illusion that I wouldn't witness a fatality or that it couldn't happen to me. So when it happened, it didn't bother me.

I've long thought that people that change their lives after a near-death experience were previously living in denial about their own mortality. When confronted with it, they started living knowing they would die one day. I get it, no one likes to think about their own death, but seems a bit silly to deny it to yourself.

Knowledge dispels fear. Why would witnessing a skydiving fatality create fear? Did you think it would never happen? What do you fear now that you didn't before? Address those issues with knowledge and training. Fear your reserve won't work? Get your rigger's certificate and pack your own. Fear of a free fall collision? Get some tunnel time, be selective with who you jump with and what jumps you do. Fear of landing incidents? Take a canopy course. Fear of a canopy collision? Fly like you want everyone else to fly and read Bryan Burke's article about not turning.

Evaluate the risks, mitigate the risks, make honest choices, and get on with your life.

Derek V

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Why would witnessing a skydiving fatality create fear? Did you think it would never happen? What do you fear now that you didn't before?



It’s not really a fear in the sense of “I’m scared to go skydive”. I’m perfectly fine once I get on the plane. It’s more the flashback of what i saw that is lingering creating an extremely uneasy feeling that i can only call “fear”. My question is less about fear of the sport and more about dealing with the mental image of my friend riding a reserve pc all the way in. The image and sound is what i am having trouble getting over.

I guess I could probably say I have a small amount of gear fear because of it. I have always been told “trust your gear, your eps will work” and then I watched it not work. As much as I remind myself that what happened was a 1 in a million accident, and that most of the time it will work and I will be fine as long as I stack all f the odds in my favor and don’t royally fuck up. But still that image persists in my head.

Being around this sport since I was 3 years old means I’ve known people who have gone in. I’ve been on the dz when things have happened before. I’ve just never witnessed it until 5 months ago.
Carpe Diem, Even if it kills me -- "Dead Poet's Society"

"Are you getting into trouble over there?" --- "Nothing that I'm going to admit to!"
____________________________________

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Ive been jumping awhile, and Ive never actually watched someone die on the dz. The two times I thought I was going to, I turned away. In neither case then did the person die, but I’d do exactly the same thing again.

One doesn’t always know ahead of time; stuff happens fast. But I see no reason to actually watch. Doesn’t help now, but worth considering in the future.

Wendy P.
There is nothing more dangerous than breaking a basic safety rule and getting away with it. It removes fear of the consequences and builds false confidence. (tbrown)

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StoppieJoe

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Why would witnessing a skydiving fatality create fear? Did you think it would never happen? What do you fear now that you didn't before?



It’s not really a fear in the sense of “I’m scared to go skydive”. I’m perfectly fine once I get on the plane. It’s more the flashback of what i saw that is lingering creating an extremely uneasy feeling that i can only call “fear”. My question is less about fear of the sport and more about dealing with the mental image of my friend riding a reserve pc all the way in. The image and sound is what i am having trouble getting over.

I guess I could probably say I have a small amount of gear fear because of it. I have always been told “trust your gear, your eps will work” and then I watched it not work. As much as I remind myself that what happened was a 1 in a million accident, and that most of the time it will work and I will be fine as long as I stack all f the odds in my favor and don’t royally fuck up. But still that image persists in my head.

Being around this sport since I was 3 years old means I’ve known people who have gone in. I’ve been on the dz when things have happened before. I’ve just never witnessed it until 5 months ago.



Your description echos early stages of PTSD. You should go talk to a professional to take care of that before it develops.

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I agree with Hooknswoop. I have seen and responded to injuries and fatalities. It seems to affect me the same way as when I have seen some knarly industrial accidents at work. One that sticks with me the most, my co worker got his hand sucked into the printing press we ran. I had to pull what was left of his hand out and try to cover it up and get him into the production managers vehicle. I then went back to see if I could salvage anything. Then I had to clean the press.

I could not get the image of his mangled hand out of my mind for about 2 days. But with some help from friends and learning what happened, and staying busy, as time went on I saw the image less and less.

Time will help.

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wmw999

Ive been jumping awhile, and Ive never actually watched someone die on the dz. The two times I thought I was going to, I turned away. In neither case then did the person die, but I’d do exactly the same thing again.

One doesn’t always know ahead of time; stuff happens fast. But I see no reason to actually watch. Doesn’t help now, but worth considering in the future.

Wendy P.



I also turned away when he reached about 100 ft. I knew what was going to happen and I heard the sound quite clearly as it echoed off of the rocks. I’m so so so happy I didn’t be keep watching for the impact. One of the the hardest things about it in the beginning was the fact that when I saw him pitch and start spinnng, I got excited because I had also never watched a cutaway frim start to finish. I thought “it’s rick, he’s got this, awesome I get to seen EPs in person.” And then it very quickly hit me that I wasn’t going to see them work. I’ve made 15 jumps since the incident and it’s getting easier but it’s still so rough. It fucked me up.
Carpe Diem, Even if it kills me -- "Dead Poet's Society"

"Are you getting into trouble over there?" --- "Nothing that I'm going to admit to!"
____________________________________

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billvon

I don't have any answers, but I did go through something similar.

This is a thing I wrote right after that day. I don't know if it's helpful or not.


==============



This may have been one of the most thoughtful things I've ever read on Dizzy.com.
Every new jumper should read the entire post. Go up-thread and read it.

Thanks Bill.
Every fight is a food fight if you're a cannibal

Goodness is something to be chosen. When a man cannot choose, he ceases to be a man. - Anthony Burgess

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This may have been one of the most thoughtful things I've ever read on Dizzy.com.
Every new jumper should read the entire post. Go up-thread and read it.

Thanks Bill.




Reading that left me with nothing to say. I'm still chewing on it. It is an extraordinary thing to read. It should be fiction, and I know it isn't.

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