Learning to Fall: On-the-Job Training in the Sky

Overcoming fear and embracing adventure comes to those who keep calm and control their minds. Do you have what it takes?

We gain job skills and knowledge by actively performing tasks, usually under the guidance of experienced colleagues. This hands-on method, known as On-the-Job Training (OJT), goes beyond theory, involving direct use of tools and processes. Quality OJT is key for newcomers to build a strong foundation and grow into experts over time.

But how do you do OJT while free-falling from the sky? How do you train for jumping from a functioning aircraft, thousands of feet above the ground? A Formula One driver climbs the ranks—karting, then F4, F3, and F2—before reaching F1. A typist doesn’t start at 100 words per minute, and a fighter pilot first trains in gliders and turboprops before soloing a jet. OJT is almost always gradual and supervised.

When falling, gravity treats novices and experts the same, pulling all down equally, even first-time solo skydivers. In 12 seconds, a stable belly-to-earth position reaches terminal velocity—about 193 km/h (200 ft/s). After that, you fall roughly 1,000 feet every five seconds. Even in the first ten seconds—the slowest phase—you drop about 1,000 feet. It’s during this brief solo fall that beginners must learn on the job, without an instructor.

We were 30 paratroopers who began skydiving training in February 1994. After five static line jumps from 1,250 feet AGL, we each did two jumps with a D-5 parachute from 2,500 feet. The D-5’s stabiliser chute deploys by static line before the main canopy, giving more air time. Ground training, led by experienced instructors, ran alongside. We practiced freefall positions—spread-eagle, semi-frog, and full frog—on mats to build muscle memory and drilled responses to high-speed and low-speed emergencies. Still, nothing truly prepared us for the real plunge.

The spread-eagle position—with arms and legs extended—gives beginners maximum stability, helping them maintain a belly-to-earth posture. Tumbling or spinning causes disorientation and danger, so presence of mind is crucial. Our first three jumps were one-second freefalls in spread-eagle, then pulling the ripcord to deploy ram-air parachutes. We counted aloud—“one thousand” to “five thousand”—before pulling the ripcord on the right harness side. Stability ensures clean deployment; instability risks lines wrapping around limbs or body, causing malfunctions.

The day arrived. As sunlight lit the Drop Zone, our AN-32 climbed to 5,000 feet AGL. The ramp opened, and we ran through emergency checks. One by one, we grabbed the centre bar, faced inward, and stood on the edge—ready for the instructor’s “thumbs up and go.” Within minutes, all had exited and completed our first five-second delay freefall. From the deafening aircraft to the sudden stillness of open sky, with the AN-32 fading behind, it was a true butterflies-in-the-stomach moment.

By the end of the first second, training took over. After one tumble from the slipstream, I stabilised face down, watching the Earth as I counted to five thousand. I pulled the ripcord and, seconds later, hung securely under a sky-blue canopy. The fall had been stable and well-controlled. Compared to those five thrilling seconds, flying the canopy and landing felt like a walk in the park.

The second, third, and fourth jumps followed quickly, and our confidence grew. By the fifth, improved body awareness let us read altimeters—impossible at first. We stopped counting seconds, instead monitoring the altimeter and pulling at the right altitude.

We began doing “flick exits”—stepping out and instantly stabilising. Freefall delays increased to 7, 10, 15 seconds, and more. Our positions shifted to Semi-Frog and Full Frog, offering smaller profiles and better manoeuvrability. Soon we were turning, tracking forward and back, and watching others fall.

By the tenth jump, we executed “dive exits”—headfirst, straight towards Earth—an indescribable experience. Instructors watched each jump from the ramp for the first 6–7 seconds and gave feedback in debriefs. Most corrected faults and moved on. Sadly, three couldn’t stabilise the tenth jump and had to withdraw.

The rest of us progressed to High-Altitude High Opening (HAHO) jumps with oxygen and battle loads, including night and standoff jumps, and later to High-Altitude Low Opening (HALO) jumps with 50–55 seconds of freefall. By the end of our 50-jump course, freefall felt routine. Many more jumps would follow, and each was its own adventure.

There were no body cams, no GoPros to record falls, and no Vertical Wind Tunnels (VWTs) to simulate freefall on the ground. There were no replays—just you and the sky. Minor mistakes could be corrected, but major errors weren’t an option—they could be fatal. You had to learn by taking the plunge, staying calm, and trusting your training.

Skydiving OJT in those days was pure adrenaline—an unmatched rush. I was among the lucky few to learn the ropes in such thrilling times.

(The writer is an Indian Army veteran and Vice President CRM, ANSEC HR Services Ltd. He is a skydiver and a specialist in Security and Risk Management. Views personal.)