Our good friend, Jorge Rivera

There are some friends who you value so much it is really hard to qualify into words.

I met Jorge Rivera three years ago in the same city where he ended his career: Nashville, Tennessee. For that fight, RU was not his largest sponsor, we were a small company that very few people knew, and given the general state of the MMA industry even now, there was no reason to believe we would even exist for his next fight. Furthermore, while fighters are generally very reclusive and private during the buildup to a fight, Jorge had also just lost his seventeen year old daughter, a pain that I can only imagine, and hope to never have to go through. In short, I didn’t expect any of his attention when I arrived at his hotel door to drop off shirts. I wanted to give him his gear, shake his hand, and get out of his way.

Instead, when that hotel door opened, I was greeted by an incredibly hospitable, thoughtful, and giving person who treated me as if we had known each other for years. He refused to let me excuse myself, introduced me to people in the industry I would have never known otherwise, and was incredibly open about his life. By the end of the day before weigh-ins, I felt like I had known Jorge, Matt Phinney, and Tim Burrill for years. I could see in Jorge a man that had made mistakes in life, but through them had acquired incredible wisdom and perspective, and wanted to impart that on those around him. For a guy who had achieved this level as a professional athlete, I was truly amazed by his humility and kindness.

By the time he entered the cage with Nissen Osterneck, hiding a broken hand and partially dislocated shoulder I might add, I felt like my brother was stepping in there. I don’t remember wanting anyone to win so badly in my life.

And he did.

It wasn’t pretty. He gassed early on and we all thought he’d get finished as a result, but he kept on pushing and pushing and refusing to quit. He did what Jorge does best: he fought.

And I don’t mean that in the sense of MMA. Jorge’s had every reason to give up in his life – sometimes because of self-made bad decisions and sometimes because of chance, but I can tell you honestly, he’s had a rough go at it. What makes him special, and what makes me look up to him, even as I examine situations I’d never be in, is that he has never shied from the struggle. When life hits him, he hits back harder. When he can’t hit anymore, he still manages to stand up. He’s not afraid of the fight – he embraces it.

I can’t explain our relationship exactly. Sponsor is almost an afterthought at this point. For my part, I’ve received middle of the night calls about strategy, business, stress, and anything else you can imagine (Jorge, like me, let’s his mind wander at night and can’t sleep). I’ve been there for the highs like beating a very game Nate Quarry in Charlotte with 50 vets cheering him on. I’ve been there for the lows, like watching my friend get kneed in the head and then be disrespected in Australia. Through it all though, it’s just been an honor to be here, to be counted as one of Jorge’s inner circle and to support him as best I could.

So as I sat cageside and Jorge’s last fight started in the same city our friendship had begun, I just wished to God that he would come out on top. As the fight started, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, as if I was the one about to fight. They began and Jorge had a bad start, but he hung in there, and although he lost the first round, he looked confident going into the second round. He shrugged off a takedown and landed a strong right hand. Moments later, Jorge Rivera’s last fight in the Octagon ended via TKO.

I can honestly tell you I don’t think I would have been happier if the win had been my own.

The first trip to Nashville saw us all go out to a swanky nightclub and party into the night around people we barely knew, seeing people and being seen and all that nonsense. This time around, it was just a small group of us renting out the top floor of a tiny bar: friends, family, and a few loyal vets that have supported Jorge for years.

“I just want to be around the people that matter, Nick,” was Jorge’s guidance.

I remember thinking simply, “I hope to always be on that list.”

Congratulations to a true warrior (in the Cav and in the Cage)on an incredible career. On to the next challenge, sir. We’re here every step of the way.

Love you, brother.

In today’s day and age, we are bombarded with a corrupted image of “peace.” Peace signs appear on clothes and every child has heard in school that violence never solves anything. When war does break out, we see hordes of people marching to oppose it (sometimes using violent means to do so); people who are oblivious to the results of retreat or surrender. Echoing the sentiments that cropped up during the War of 1812, we hear “peace at any price” over and over again, or even the naïve sentiment that there can be no negative results from retreat, only positive; while fighting on to win will be not only bad for the nation but also immoral. They ignore the sentiments of great military minds that understand war more than they ever could, such as Eisenhower who said, “When you appeal to force, there’s one thing you must never do – lose.” They care not that they might be helping people that intend to kill them, as George Orwell explained, “Pacifism is objectively pro-fascist. This is elementary common sense. If you hamper the war effort of one side, you automatically help out that of the other. In practice, ‘he that is not with me is against me.’”

It is easy to understand the repulsion that people feel to violence and war. Dave Grossman explains, with his analogy of sheep, sheepdogs, and wolves, that the vast majority of people are incapable of doing violence to others except under great stress or duress. For those like me, who have seen it first-hand it is horror enough to be described as hell on earth.

It is silent tears shed while standing in a hot metal building, staring at the rifle braced between two boots and holding up a helmet, representing a fallen friend. It is the same emblem tattooed on a back to mark the memory permanently on skin in ink, or a black bracelet with a name and date, or a simple memory of one who fought next to you and never made it home.

War and violence is dead innocents; men, women, and children. It is bodies shredded by a bomb with flesh and bone and guts scattered by the blast of some random explosion in a random and God-forsaken place while blood pools on hot pavement or soaks into thirsty ground. Its bodies pierced with bullets or blades and unbearable agony and fear, suffering and cruelty beyond what any normal person can imagine.

It is also acts of sacrifice, courage, and superhuman bravery and love. It’s the calm smile on an old NCOs face as he crawls over a rooftop for fear of snipers in order to offer his soldiers some more ammunition; or the slightly sadistic grin on his face as superior firepower pounds an enemy’s defenses into dust while he stands there offering his troops the first hot food they’ve tasted in days. It’s a soldier fighting back exhaustion to simply stand his post and watch for a threat that may or may not materialize in the dark. It’s an officer putting a brave face on an impossible situation; men sharing their last bit of water and food with each other along with the raunchiest of jokes to lighten the mood when anyone else would be screaming to be let out of this horror. Its men and women putting their own lives on the line for someone they’ve never met, to try to simply give that person a slight chance at a slightly better existence than what they enjoyed before.

In its simplest form, war is simply killing other people for the sake of one’s country. As General Patton put it, “The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other bastard die for his”. In its simplest form, violence is simply applying force to another to achieve a desired result. George Washington said, “War – an act of violence whose object is to constrain the enemy, to accomplish our will.” In Law Enforcement and the military it’s called “Use of Force”. It’s so effective that we create all sorts of necessary and sometimes self-defeating rules to govern it. If violence never accomplishes anything than why do we have to create rules to control it? “Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor and the contrary opinion are wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and freedoms.” -Robert A. Heinlein. For those who love to quote (and in the case of modern Libertarians, misquote) the founding fathers of America, I offer up the words of Thomas Jefferson; “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants”……

Keep reading “The Case for Violence”

A lot has been said about the current USMC scandal where four Marines were videotaped urinating on dead Taliban fighters. Here’s Chuck Z’s two cents on the subject:

1. Not since weinergate has the wikiLEAKS been so appropriate a website for sharing video.
2. We’ve all had to review the CG’s policy on Laws of Warfare, etc. Pretty sure it didn’t change from the last time I read it, it’s always been not okay to piss on the dead.
3. Not sure if the DADT repeal had anything to do with it, but back in the old days, when we pulled out our dicks for any reason, whoever grabbed a camera was stuffed in a paint locker and thrown down stairs, 4. So, is it okay (in keeping the faith with our muslim brothers) to drag the bodies of the dead through the street, hang them, and then burn them?
5. Aside from law of warfare, I think these marines could use a few lessons in proper aim.
6. The marines can claim PTSD from having watched R-Kelly videos.
7. I really want the prosecuting attorney to ask “Did you know that urinating on the dead would be highly offensive to the Muslims?” So the Marine can respond “Do you know trying to kill me is highly offensive to me?”
8. These guys all need to demand trial by jury–because urine is pretty damned far from desecration, in my book.

Maybe people would be far less apt to get froggy with us if, instead of taking the “high road” and holding ourselves to a higher standard, we made a point of holding ourselves to a far, far more grim standard.

Sure, the high road is where we want to be, and when fighting a civilized country, we should take that road. But when you fight 13th century barbarians, who believe that terror is the best way to fight, then you fight them with terror.

We should pay no heed to their moral or religious beliefs, we should always desecrate their bodies after death in every way possible, and we should do everything we possibly can to insult the religious beliefs of the insurgents before death, because they are NOT good muslims, they are NOT true believers, and they are on a false path.

By treating them and their carcasses with dignity and respect for the way they believe, we actually acknowledge their faith and beliefs as valid–the same faith and beliefs that drive them to attack us.

If instead we said “you have perverted your faith and the teachings of muhammed (Piss Be Upon Him, too), and we will not honor and respect perversion in any way, so welcome to hell, you bastards, our bombs and bullets all contain pig fat and we’ll be burying you all wrapped in chitterlings.” We might have one guy decide that he doesn’t want to risk his eternal soul fighting us. And that’s one less guy we’d have to piss on.

Check out Chuck’s website here

This weekend, as the clock struck midnight, Ranger Up launched our new Rugby brand, American Sin Bin.   It’s an idea that sprung up as early as January 2008, when then LTC Kelly Crigger invested in a fledgling Ranger Up.  At the time, there was frankly no way in hell that we could handle the idea.  We were a small apparel company focused on existing.

I was working a corporate job during the day and Ranger Up every night until about 2AM.  Tommy was living in the spare bedroom of my old house and getting paid in high-fives and attaboys and whatever we could spare after the bills were paid.

Nearly four years later, we find ourselves with an amazing operations team, an incredibly talented design team, and frankly, all of you – an Army of incredible support (and candid criticism when we deserve it) and we’re about to take on an incredible challenge – we’re going to set the conditions to bring home a Rugby World Cup Championship.

To people in the Rugby community, this may seem like an absurd notion, but that’s how we like to roll. The same month Crigger decided to invest in our idea the first article was written about RU in the Fayetteville Observer.  They asked me when I decided to start an apparel company.  I answered the same way that I do now: “Ranger Up isn’t an apparel company.  We’re a force created to make a difference in the veteran and military community.” I went on to say that they’d see us making some serious inroads in the non-profit community and eventually have the ability to affect change in government.

A lot of people wrote in online and scoffed at the idea.  One in particular, pissed me off:  “Give me a break.  These guys make funny t-shirts.  It takes a lot more than that to make a difference.  They need to get over themselves.”  I keep that quote on the Desktop of my computer.

I don’t really care what people think about me or our company.  I never have.  I revel in some people hating us, to be honest.  But I am a patriot and I look often to our nation’s past.  I find people who aggressively try to stamp out the efforts of others to be the lowest form of human parasite.  Not only do they not do for themselves and chase their own dreams, but they attempt to dissuade others from conquering their own.  This country was founded on the principle that one man can make a difference.  We are a land of opportunity – a land of frontiersmen cutting our current world out of the wilderness.  We are the world’s immigrants, arriving by sea, land and air, hoping and fighting for something more.  We can do anything, so long as we don’t quit, so long as we don’t allow ourselves excuses, so long as we don’t allow pessimism and self-hatred to stamp out the passion for something better.

Fast forward to present day. Ranger Up is a multi-million dollar company that has donated hundreds of thousands of dollars in apparel and cash to military charities, I have been honored to be elected to the Board of Advisors for Soldiers’ Angels, we’re working on developing a Veteran Housing Program as well as an Entrepreneurial Bootcamp for Vets, and we’re ready to take on the next challenge.

With that in mind, I am thrilled to announce that we’ve successfully lured New York Times Bestselling Author Kelly Crigger away from the public relations world and he has accepted a fulltime role as President of American Sin Bin.  If you’re a Rugger, know that this means we are guaranteed success because the man may be more of a workaholic than I am and twice as talented.  If you aren’t a rugger and find this American Sin Bin stuff to be a nuisance, know that RU has 100% of my attention and we’re going to keep pushing in some amazing directions in the next 365.

If you’re asking “Why are you sharing this?” it’s for the same reason that Tom and I personally answer every message sent our way on Facebook, Twitter, email, etc.  As I said in 2008, Ranger Up isn’t a t-shirt company. It’s the idea that motivated patriots can make a difference.  And this very important idea doesn’t work
without you.  We believe Ranger Up is your company too.  And I always want you to know what is going on in your company and why we are doing it.

Thank you, as always, for your support (and criticism).

RLTW

Nick

Did I just kick the crap out the welterweight champion? Hell yes I did.

Liz “GirlRilla” Carmouche is no stranger to living overseas. In fact she’s spent more of her life outside the continental US than she’s spent inside our shores. From age three, Liz was raised on the Japanese island of Okinawa where her step-father taught school and where Karate was born. “I loved it,” Liz says. “It was a great island lifestyle and the people always were helpful and inviting.”

Okinawa is also known for the several thousand US Marines stationed there, so Liz was exposed to the military lifestyle early on. Liz’s first job was on a Marine base, but it was her best friend’s father who really influenced her. “He was a Marine and represented everything I wanted to be, so he was very instrumental in my decision to join the Corps.”

At the age of 20 Liz joined the US Marine Corps as a helicopter electrician and spent the next five years in San Diego at Camp Pendleton. Well…some of those five years were in San Diego. Twenty-one months of her enlistment were in the hot sands of Iraq.

At the age of 25 Liz left the Corps and enrolled full time as a student at San Diego Community College to get her degree in Kinesiology when a co-worker suggested she try MMA in December, 2009. We’d like to think she drooled over the thought of punching people in the face, but she’s too humble for that.

“Actually I was looking for a physical challenge after the Corps and thought MMA would be fun and fulfilling,” she says. “I love how the sport constantly evolves. People who have been in it for years are still developing. There’s always room for growth and change.”

Fifteen months and five straight wins later, Liz got the call to step up and fight Strikeforce women’s welterweight champion Marloes Coenen on two weeks notice. It was March, 2011 and many would have shrunk from this challenge, but Liz embraced it and gave the champ a beating that she won’t soon forget. Liz mounted Coenen twice and delivered some hefty ground and pound before getting caught in a triangle submission. It was her first loss.

“I wanted to win, but I learned so much from that fight. Marloes has been fighting for 11 years and had four times more fights than me and I did so well against her. It’s hard to be disappointed with that.”

Liz aspires to fight full time, be a personal trainer, and teach kids MMA and Muay Thai after she gets her degree. But she can’t go back to Okinawa. Her parents moved to Guadalajara, Mexico. Time to trade in those sake cups for tequila shot glasses.

Follow Liz on twitter @iamgirlrilla

At first it

It’s crap and I get irritated, but it’s also something that I should expect at this point. Television and movie makers RARELY get our uniforms right and seem to randomly throw anything shiny on a suit to militarize some actor who’s never served. It sucks, but it’s something we all notice and all live with.

Right now you’re thinking, “Dude…chill. It’s just a Bud Light commercial.” And you’re right. On the scale of things that matter, it’s pretty low. I should let it go.

But I can’t because it’s so easy to avoid. In our high-speed, superconnected world it takes mere seconds to Google “Army uniform” and get a link to AR 670-1 which outlines exactly ho to wear the uniform. I’m sure it’s the same way for the Navy, Marines, and Air Force, but I’m on a rant here and didn’t want to take the time to find out…which is exactly the problem.

People (probably some lowly grip) get in a hurry and figure “close enough is good enough.” I can’t count the number of times I’ve watched a movie, TV show, commercial, or whatever and seen a uniform that was being worn not just incorrectly, but stupidly. I even saw a Special Forces patch upside down in an old Vietnam flick once. I always chalked this up to ignorance, told myself we were better than that, and let it go. I even ascribed to that urban legend that the uniform was not allowed to be portrayed correctly…that it was required in Hollywood to make military uniforms off just a little bit for national security.

Bullshit. There is no such law.

There are uniforms in film that are just a little bit off and then there are the ones that are grossly schmaplicated. To me the really jacked up ones are downright disrespectful. All it takes is five minutes of research and a little respect to get the wear of a military uniform correct. We wear these uniforms with pride and put a lot of care into maintaining them. So when I see some actor portraying anyone from Private Ryan to General MacArthur looking like a dirtbag, it’s disrespectful and I’m going to boycott that product.

No more Budweiser for this curmudgeon. Who’s next?

Dick Winters, a highly decorated World War II hero who became a household name when his heroics were chronicled in a Stephen Ambrose book that later became the HBO miniseries “Band of Brothers,” has died. He was 92. A very private and modest man, he died last week but requested that the news be withheld until after the funeral, a family friend told the Associated Press.

After enlisting in the Army on Aug. 25, 1941, the Pennsylvania native was deployed with fellow soldiers in Easy Company — the 506th regiment of the 101st Airborne Division — to land by parachute in France on D-Day, June 6, 1944. By leading the takeover of a German artillery bunker on Utah Beach, Winters and his company saved countless lives from relentless cannon fire — an action that earned him the Distinguished Service Cross, the second-highest honor an American soldier can receive. Winters and Easy Company later fought near the Belgian town of Foy during the Battle of the Bulge, liberated the German concentration camp at Dachau, and occupied Hitler’s mountainside retreat, Eagle’s Nest.

In 1945, one of Winters’ soldiers, Floyd Talbert, wrote a letter to Winters from his hospital bed to express appreciation for his leadership in battle. “You are loved and will never be forgotten by any soldier that ever served under you,” Talbert wrote. “I would follow you into hell.”

Shaken by what he experienced in war, Winters reportedly vowed to live a simple life if he managed to survive, and that’s just what he did. After returning home, he married his then-girlfriend, Ethel, bought a farm in Pennsylvania and raised a family. He reportedly never talked about his war experiences until Ambrose came calling in the hopes of documenting Easy Company’s role in winning the war. Winters said he honored Ambrose’s request because he felt it important for future generations to learn about the war, its consequences and the sacrifices made by soldiers. He later wrote his own memoir, “Beyond Band of Brothers.”

Winters was leading a quiet life of farm retirement in Hershey, Pa., when “Band of Brothers” turned him into a minor celebrity. People who knew him say that he never really became comfortable with life in the spotlight. He had fielded countless requests for interviews and personal appearances over the past decade or so, most of which he turned down.

Winters was, by all accounts, exceedingly modest. When someone would ask him whether he considered himself a hero, he would usually respond by saying, “No. But I served in a company of heroes.” Chroniclers of the World War II era, however, such as legendary NBC newsman Tom Brokaw — who detailed the lives of Winters and others like him in his “Greatest Generation” series of books — beg to differ.

“Dick Winters was the quintessential American infantry officer — brave, canny and modest,” Brokaw told The Lookout. “His heroic leadership of the Band of Brothers is a one-man course on how to become a warrior without losing your humanity.”

Major Winters in 1945 (AP Photo/Courtesy of Sgt. Maj. Herman W. Clemens) Ret.

Ayla (the tall one) sporting her Freedom Isn

Outback Steakhouse has good taste. When country superstar Tim McGraw pulled out of their Afghanistan tour, Armed Forces Entertainment gave Outback three replacement acts to choose from. They Chose Ayla Brown. Even if you’re a fanatic of American Idol (like Nick and Tommy), you’re probably saying, “Ayla who?”

Ayla Brown is an awesome singer who was shafted on American Idol Season 5. But instead of go away whimpering, she vowed to shove a hot poker up Simon Cowell’s ass and prove him wrong by reinventing herself as a successful recording artist. Four years later, she’s released 3 albums and left Randy Jackson in a lake of regretful tears for not signing her.

Being the daughter of a US Senator, Ayla bleeds patriot red, white, and blue. After becoming successful, she never forgot what’s important and volunteered for Armed Forces Entertainment so she could head into the sandbox and entertain our troops. Last November, Ayla visited Camps Leatherneck, Dwyer, and Dellarom in Afghanistan to perform concerts for the Marines there (No Army camps? WTF?). Ranger Up respects that, so when we got wind of it, we sent a bunch of shirts along for her to give away.

Troops can see right through an entertainer who comes to a combat zone just to get a photo op. They’re not like the Toby Keith’s and Gary Sinise’s who volunteer to go downrange more times than most soldiers do. The photo op types are the ones who are too scared to leave the safety of the wire and are forced to be there by their parent company so they can say they support the troops. They’re fake.

But not Ayla. She thrived in the sands of lower Asia and the smell of spent gunpowder. “It was one of those experiences that changed me,” she says. “The guys there appreciate everything. The little things mean so much to them because they live with the bare essentials. It makes me appreciate what I have and when I came home I got rid of things that I felt were unnecessary.” Like her Paula Abdul action figurine. It’s just unnecessary.

Ayla’s our kind of gal. Here are a few other reasons why.

She was one of the best female basketball players in Massachusetts high school history. There’s no point to that statement. We just think basketball chicks are hot. Ever see Rebecca Lobo? Google her.

Her father is the first Republican Senator from Massachusetts since like 1800. He won Ted Kennedy’s old seat. Allegedly the first time he sat in it, he sank three feet into its well-worn ass and Congressional staffers brought him beer.

The Marines in Afghanistan let Ayla fire a few weapons and then set off an explosive charge that had a picture of Simon Cowell on it. She detonated it with extreme prejudice, screaming “DIE GAS PUMPER” the whole time. Hot.

She wrote a song called Unapologetically American on the plane ride home from Afghanistan, which was inspired by our apparel. That’s kick ass.

She likes purple, which is the color of Joint operations. So did Catherine the Great…and she tamed the Russians.

When we asked her if she would go back to Afghanistan, she said “Hells yeah! Send me!”

Check out Ayla’s website here

My first impression was, “small valley, white vinyl hot air balloon, gondola, steel cable with winch mounted on truck. This’ll be fun.” I watched ROK soldiers conduct a few jumps while preparing my chute. The balloon went up, the troops exited, the balloon came down. Easy, right? Then the warnings started.

“If you find yourself drifting toward the giant steel cable, avoid it or your chute will deflate.” Fair enough.

“If you find yourself drifting into the giant steel cable, do not reach out and grab it or you may not have any hands left.” When you think about it, a paratrooper falls at a rate of eighteen feet per second, which is like sliding down a rope. Sliding down a steel cable would be infinitely more painful. Note to self-don’t grab the cable.

“If you find yourself drifting toward the cable, we will honk the horn on the truck very loudly.” Okay, but since there will be more than one jumper in the air, how do we know which one of us is drifting toward the cable when the horn sounds? Guess I’ll just be vigilant and figure it out. Remember-don’t grab the cable.

“If the cable breaks and the balloon drifts away into the atmosphere, immediately abandon ship.” What is it with this fucking cable? Maybe I don’t need a cool set of Korean jump wings after all.

We donned our gear when a Soldier suddenly put the cherry helmet of fear on his head, complete with underwear wrapped around it. “Is this your first jump?” someone asked. “Sixth,” he responded. “Just got out of jump school.” This will make any experienced jumper’s heart stop. It’s one thing to jump with new equipment or on a new drop zone, but to jump with a guy who could freak out and fly his chute into yours ratcheted up the pucker factor a few thousand notches.

Just before loading up. Notice the cherry jumper on the far right with underwear on his head.

The first thing you notice about jumping out of a balloon is the deathly quiet of the atmosphere. There’s absolutely nothing that could make any noise, so you can hear every flap of every bird’s wings as it passes by and looks at you like you’re stupid for having legs and thumbs. The silent ride up gave me a sincere appreciation for the roar of aircraft engines, the scream of the jumpmaster, and the smell of exhausted JP8.

Then we reached the end of the cable and the whole contraption jerked like an elevator hitting the top floor at an unbelievably unsafe rate of speed. I grabbed the handrail like it was a grenade with no pin.

“You ready?” The ROK Jumpmaster said to the first guy in the stick as the wind at altitude picked up and blew the balloon around.
“Yes!” the frightened first jumper responded, trying not to sound like his balls were in his throat and failing. I couldn’t blame him. Besides being eerily quiet, the jump command process was completely avoided. There was no, “OUTBOARD PERSONNEL, STAND UP!” or any of that. With a high speed aircraft, you at least have a little bit of time to think about what’s going to happen before the door opens. Not here.

The worst part was not being the first jumper. I was second, so when the first guy exited the gondola, this rickety piece of tin shook like Jessica Simpson’s rack in a San Francisco earthquake. There were only five of us in this Coke can, so when one guy jumped off and his static line pulled the whole platform down, it was a little like crashing a car and filled my mind with, “I want off this fucking ride.”

I got my chance and stepped out into absolutely no breeze whatsoever. This meant it took eight seconds to deploy the main parachute. EIGHT SECONDS! That’s an eternity to someone accustomed to feeling a violent opening shock three or four seconds after jumping out of a plane traveling at 130 miles per hour. Rodeo riders call their sport the longest eight seconds in the world. When you’re staring at 1500 feet of Korea coming straight up at you, I call bullshit on that.

With a good canopy (and the cherry jumper) above me, I was searching the postage stamp DZ for a place to land when I heard a sound I will never forget. The dreaded horn roared.

“Fuck!” I thought in a bit of a panic. “Where is that cable that will either deflate my chute or tear my hands off? And where is that cherry jumper who was right behind me?”

Look closely and you

No matter how much I looked, I could not see any cable, but what I did see just past my boots was another balloon…ascending into the sky on another cable…right below me. The balloon had been on the DZ all morning, but wasn’t being used. Someone had the bright idea to get it airborne and use it to speed up the operations, but had miscalculated the winds. As I was descending and coming upwind (because that’s what you do when you land), the balloon was being pushed downwind. We were on a collision course.

I don’t think a parachute in the history of man has ever turned so tightly. I pulled that riser down to my knees and spun around to fly away, only now I had a new problem. I was running with the wind at about a hundred miles an hour and any paratrooper who can still walk will tell you that’s a very bad thing.

With the second balloon avoided, I only had moments to turn around, find a spot, and land. I pulled a slip and got myself facing into the wind, put my feet and knees together, and slammed into a hillside. If I were a comic book hero there would have been a KA-POW over my head. I swore my ankles were broken and laid there on the DZ feeling them to make sure they weren’t as the cherry jumper slammed into the same hill only a few feet away.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I just followed you, Sir,” he answered. I would later learn this is called ocular affixation-running into something because you’re staring at it. It’s like not being able to avoid a deer running across the road because you’re staring straight at it.

By the time I got my chute stowed and limped toward the turn in point, my balloon had been reeled in and four new smiling troops were boarding it.

Sucks to be you.

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