Jolly was a Theta Chi contemporary and friend of mine (one Pledge class younger), eventually married Debbie, a sorority sister of Leah's and in one of my life's most memorable moments ... we did our first sky dive jump together.
The sky diving incident is now part of Theta Chi legend.
Several of us were apparently experiencing an over abundance of testosterone one afternoon and wondered what to do about it. "I've got it" said a not-to-be-named Brother after consuming mass quantities of who knows what, "Let's all jump out of an airplane! The idea being instantly and unanimously approved, we quickly found a place southwest of Denver that was featuring a "Get Started Special, This Month Only $25" with professional training and orientation, all necessary equipment and your first jump from about 5,800 feet. That's less than a half cent per foot! Too good to turn down, wouldn't you say? About eight of us signed up including Jolly Duncan, Brad Condo, Paul Wallace, Chris Reade, several others and, since I was bored while coming off of a shoulder injury from crashing my motocross bike off of some too-high cliff, yours truly.
The "professional training" that was included in our fee consisted of an almost one hour session primarily spent jumping off of hijacked milk baskets, fooling around and drinking Coors 16 oz talls. The "trainers" were not too experienced, probably not licensed to do that and surprisingly drank far more than we did. The training was of no value whatsoever, but we vowed to show up for our first jump early the next Saturday. After all, this first time would be a static line jump so we weren't even responsible for pulling our own rip cord. What could go wrong?
During the week, a few of the guys actually sobered up and said that they might not be there. We didn't believe them. Jolly's then girlfriend Debbie went a step further and let him know that she didn't think this was a good idea at all and that there would be "consequences" for him if he took part. That might have gotten Jolly's attention, but didn't seem to phase the rest of us. We were going!
The big day rolled around faster than we expected it to and I remember getting up to make a quick breakfast for the brave Brothers. But where was Jolly? Not awake yet? There was no sign of him. The entourage marched to the door of his room, which was in the basement area, just down the hall from the Greg Turpie Memorial Sauna. We gave the traditional shouting/pounding wake up call. No response from within ... then a subdued "I'm not going. Go away."
"Like Hell" was the answer, in Greek Chorus quality that would bring tears to Mom Silver's eyes (that wasn't too hard as you recall). He said it again, "Go away". And then a weird sort of mob mentality took hold of us and we did the only thing we could think of - we kicked in his door and dragged him out. Jolly reluctantly got dressed and joined the caravan out to the foothills.
It was a beautiful day, clear and very cold. Not too windy; Perfect conditions! Our crack team of OX divers suited up, slipped on our chutes and climbed into the airplane, a relic from WWII I suspect. I was lined up to jump out first, then Chris and the rest. As we climbed to the desired altitude, the instructor pointed to the target sketched out on the ground and explained the drill. "When I say "Go', swing out the door and grab on to the wing strut and hang there 'til we are over the target and you hear me call 'Drop'". "No problem" we chimed, although I suspect we were all wondering why we were in this position.
When I got the signal, out the door I went, along with everything I had learned in the entire 45-minute training session. As I grabbed the strut, my shoulder dislocated (from the recent motorcycle injury), I went tumbling sideways and immediately commenced to drop. The static line snapped up between my legs, compressing one testicle like a Titleist golf ball at the moment of impact with Tiger Woods' driver, and spun me in a reverse somersault that made me black out for a couple of seconds. The static line did its job, however, the parachute opened and there I was, floating toward Mother Earth, and only a quarter mile or so before the plane reached the target.
I had only one minor problem. The shoulder dislocation had rendered my left arm useless, leaving my to steer the thing on only one side. I descended in a sort of corkscrew pattern without much control and then realized that the ground was rushing in my direction at a faster than expected rate of speed. They had told us in the training that the altitude and thin Colorado air would make the impact similar to that of jumping from a second story window (then why did we practice the important jump-fold-and-roll maneuver using a 15" high milk carton?). Too late to ask questions, I had a date with the dirt to think about.
Well, my landing was more like a 175 pound (then) sack of Idaho Russets falling from a loading dock. There was no discernible "fold", more of a crumple. Sorry, no "roll" either. I'd say it was really more of an audible thing than a visual one, at least from my perspective. The ground came up much too fast, sending both knees shooting upward in unison right into my chin, triggering a sickening chain reaction that drove my teeth pretty deep into my tongue. I tasted blood immediately and felt a warm dripping against my frozen chin. I was down, though, alive and enjoying a head rush that would only be duplicated a year later during a day trip to Deckers with Tim McCaughey, JJ and the boys.
Once I got my eyes focused, I could see the plane passing and Chris Reade floating Earthward. He was going to land no closer to the target than me but off in a different direction and while he was too far away for me to actually hear his touchdown, I could tell that the result had been similar to my own. Chris later described his as a "crunch landing". He did not get up from the ground and when I reached him he looked up and stated the obvious: "Alan, you're bleeding from the mouth and my legs are broken". The real guys over in Vietnam had nothing on us. We were staging our own Greek Week version of Apocalypse Now.
The others made the drop, one by one, except for Jolly. A few bruises and sprains. Somebody came precariously close to landing in a half-frozen pond and barbed wire fencing came into play for another. But where was Jolly? We had all gathered together on the ground near the target. The plane made one pass after another but produced no jumper. We figured Jolly had paid the pilot to take him back in the plane. Then finally we saw a black speck exit the plane and begin to drop.
At first we failed to comprehend that something was terribly wrong. Then the instructor with us on the ground said simply, but very slowly, "Oooh Shit!". We immediately realized that Jolly's static line had not done its job. He was free falling toward us at terminal velocity and it occurred to me that instructions on how to handle this circumstance had not been included in the $25 Special. His main chute was still not open and he was already half way home. "Pull the cord Jolly", chanted the Greek Chorus, "pull the goddamn cord". It didn't look at all like he was going to make it.
With only a few hundred feet to go, Jolly reached for the ripcord of his emergency parachute and pulled. It opened and a little handkerchief of a thing popped out and caught air. That event apparently drew out the primary chute which instantly entwined itself around the first one. Not good, but better than a second before Jolly's imitation of human space junk reentering the atmosphere was quickly upgraded to that of a wrecking ball who's cable had just snapped. He hit, hard, and the silky white trail behind him fluttered to the ground around him like a funeral shroud. He didn't stand up either but we saw him move, then wave, then smile his patented Cheshire Cat best.
The Denver Post had front page coverage the next day featuring a photo of Jolly and Chris bedded side by side, legs in plaster casts and raised by traction supports in a sort of ghoulish, in-your-face salute. Debbie didn't speak to Jolly for some time or to the rest of us ever again. Chris says he still thinks of that day every time the weather changes. The screws and pins that the doctors used are still there and serve as a reminder of those happy times at Theta Chi.