Yikes, Shawn!
My story hearkens back to my reckless youth (22) when I was sport parachuting with a fellow reckless Navy friend. Our drop zone used Cessna 206s which required us to position ourselves on our left butt cheek while holding the door frame, with our legs dangling out. We would hurl ourselves out by heaving with our arms, leaning forward so we would end up face down. It was my 3rd or 4th jump, I think, because I was still on a static line, which pulls the ripcord for you. All you need do is drop. I must have been leaning back somewhat on exit, or else my head was not tucked enough, but my exit found me back to earth, but falling nicely. Then I saw the pilot chute, a small parachute that pulls the big one out of the backpack, coming up between my legs. "Uh oh," I thought, and spread my legs wider to keep the main chute from getting tangled up in my legs. Fortunately, it didn't. 3000 feet about Antioch, CA one summer day in 1979, that chute zoomed up between my legs and cracked me like a whip. It all took about 1-2 seconds, but it was memorable. The next day my jumping buddy, who was still laughing about it, gave me a prescription for Darvocet for "parachutist pains" (he was a corpsman). I swear that I was 2" taller for about a week!
