Jump, son, jump!

“Dad, did you say we have to jump?”

“Yes, son. Jump. Jump now!”

It was one of those beautiful fall days in upstate New York, with crisp air and cool, brilliant blue skies without a ripple. On our way to the airport, my son Dustin and I reviewed the emergency procedures, including egress techniques, chute deployment, hard deck, and proper landing technique. You know, all the things that we were sure we’d never have to use. So sure of this, I recall our conversation in the car: “Dad, we have been over this a million times. We are never going to jump, so we can skip this.” To which I replied, “Humor me, son. Let’s go over it one more time”.

I don’t know if an airplane can be cursed, but our Citabria was making me a believer. Soon after my partner, Rich, and I purchased the 1967 7KCAB we had a complete engine failure secondary to oil starvation from a defective inverted oil system. Shortly after that, my mechanic called with more bad news: “You’re going to want to look at this.” He found an almost full thickness crack in the main spar at the strut attachment point. So, we had the engine rebuilt and shipped the wings off to California to have them rebuilt as well. With these major overhauls completed, I was comfortable that we now had a pretty solid airplane.

To learn aerobatics, I spent a week at the Pompano Air Center flying the Aviat Pitts S2B and Beechcraft T–34 Mentor. I then traveled to Long Island, New York, for advanced spin training with airshow pilot and all-around great guy Mike Mancuso in his Extra 200. This training brought me up to a sportsman level of competence.

The rudder pedal was jammed, fully deflected, and there was a terrible vibration throughout the airframe. My airplane was sick, with altitude diminishing quickly. After some initial troubleshooting, it became apparent we needed to exit the airplane.That fall morning my son and I flew a series of basic maneuver spins, loops, rolls, hammerheads, Immelmanns, and Cubans. What a beautiful day.

Dustin said, “Dad, let’s do some snap rolls.” Snap rolls we did. We spun around and around, but the airplane was not responding to normal inputs. The rudder pedal was jammed, fully deflected, and there was a terrible vibration throughout the airframe. My airplane was sick, with altitude diminishing quickly. After some initial troubleshooting, it became apparent we needed to exit the airplane. “Jump, son. Jump now!”

The noise and vibration were frightening and fierce. My son tore my leather helmet off and above the fury yelled, “Dad, I love you. I’ll see you on the ground.” With that, he disappeared under the wing.

One uncontrollable revolution—no chute.

Two revolutions—no chute.

Three revolutions—no chute.

While my life didn’t pass before my eyes, my son’s life did.

At revolution number four, I caught a glimpse of the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. The chute had opened followed quickly by the main deployment. I crawled out the door to follow him in what was a disturbingly short fall.

The airplane, my son, and I all landed within 100 feet of each other and hit the ground almost simultaneously. I was sitting in the soft green soybeans when the silhouette of a young man, parachute draped over his shoulder, reached down and pulled me to my feet. “Dad, are you OK?”

After things settled down and the police and ambulance had gone, I finally caught my breath. “Dustin, it seemed to take you a long time to pull your chute.” To which he replied, “Well, Dad, I probably should not tell you this, but I was really getting into the freefall when I realized that I did not have the experience to judge my distance from the ground, so I pulled.” I said, “Well, everyone likes a happy ending, son.” What I was thinking was, You’ve gotta be kidding me!

We had a few things going for us that day. First, we started our aerobatics above 5,000 feet and we established a hard deck on the ground which determined the altitude that we would bail at if needed. We donned two newly packed chutes. We held a preflight safety briefing. We also had a huge soft soybean field under our practice area. The most important safety feature that day, however, was my 15-year-old, steely-eyed missile man who did not miss a beat when things got ugly.

Through this experience, I have learned that there are people who I should not fly aerobatics with because I know they would panic when things become dire and in doing so would imperil both of our lives. Even when we are the most prepared, things can go horribly wrong. My son saved both our lives that day. I learned a lot about him, and from him.

We ordered a new Super Decathlon the next week, and Mr. Switlik of Switlik Parachute Company kindly enrolled Dustin as the youngest member of the Caterpillar Club. Happy rolling.

Dominick Trivisonno, of Auburn, New York, is an airline transport pilot with 7,000 hours.