On this day 30 years ago, I fell from a helicopter and broke both arms and both legs.
I lived in Colorado at the time and volunteered with the county’s search-and-rescue team. That morning, our team joined others from around the state to participate in an airlift training with a small group of soldiers from Fort Carson.
We gathered at the edge of an airfield in Kremmling, Colorado. The soldiers arrived in a massive Chinook helicopter, carrying with them a 90-pound jungle penetrator, a steel cylinder with three blades that folded out to form a makeshift seat. The penetrator made it possible to drop rescuers into terrain difficult to reach by foot and, just as importantly, to pull them out again. Jungle penetrators were used extensively during the Vietnam War.
The airfield provided ample space for team members to congregate and the helicopter to maneuver. The sergeant in charge instructed us on how to strap into the penetrator and hook to the cable that would winch us into the aircraft’s belly.
After he finished, the helicopter lifted into the air and hovered 60 feet above our heads. I could not help but stare upward, like many of those around me. There was an unnatural quality about the machine, almost mythical, the way its hulking body defied gravity, its giant blades thumping restlessly against the icy blue skies.