Dialing in the last digit of the 4-digit combination lock, I hear a click and give the thing a yank. It unlocks and I proceed to open up the door, which reads STAFF ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. The automatic lights kick on with the sound of a click and a droning buzz as I step through the spring-loaded door and let it slam shut behind me. More automatic lights mimic the first as I walk through the tandem staging room and proceed to my own natural environment: the packing room floor.
It's a Thursday, and the whole place is cluttered with colorful nylon. I'm lucky that it isn't a weekend, when there's actually business; otherwise, I'd be screwed at this point. However, I'm the only one here, nobody is scheduled to come in on this day, and it's already past sunset. Basically, I'm in the clear to get this out of the way with no interruptions or stress. So after emptying my pockets of my regular belongings and filling them back up with rubber bands (necessary for packing), I get to work untangling a parachute that was cut away after a windy landing and not put back on the harness properly.
Once I have that figured out, naturally I leave the rig there for Jimbo to pack. Since the rig is Winkler's, the Master Rigger at the drop zone whom Jim is close friends with, Jimbo regularly does Wink's free-of-charge (along with Sherry's, one of the owners of the drop zone, whom practically anybody would do anything for). I walk over to a tandem rig, a parachute roughly 2 or 3 times the size of Wink's, and get to work stowing the breaks. I walk the lines, throw it over my shoulder, count the cells out, give it a shake, and go to work organizing the canopy material and lines appropriately. By the time I've done that, wrapped the canopy around itself, and set it on the ground, I hear the grumble of gravel being run over. Sure enough, within a minute or two, I hear the creak of the spring-loaded door followed by a slam, and in walks Jimbo.
As usual, Jimbo is dressed for packing: he has his worn-to-hell jeans on and his crappy shoes, as well as an old skydiving t-shirt. The only thing unusual is the cowboy hat atop his cranium, which isn't necessarily unusual for Jim, as this is his travelling hat. We exchange salutations in the regular manner of random combinations of old, cliche greetings, and with a quick switch of Jimbo's hat we both go to work on rigs. We began cracking the usual series of jokes, and the nylon slowly disappeared before we even knew it. With Jimbo and I having several years of experience each under our belts, even a tandem was no match for our parachute handling skills. Within a few hours, the ten or fifteen colorful canopies had disappeared into their containers and were now haning on or leaning against the wall neatly.
Jimbo and I share a square and are off with the slam of a spring-loaded door and the sound of the combination lock clicking into place. The weekend promises good weather, BLUE SKIES, and plenty more unpacked parachutes.
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