Sailor Jim settled into his over stuffed armchair with a happy sigh, his long leather vest squeaking against the chair's worn leather hide. Using one salt lick as a side table for his drink, he plunked his feet onto another cleverly positioned as a ottoman. "Ahhhh ... been far too long ... damn reality, anyway!" He took a long pull at his drink and cleared his deep and manly voice.
"I first met my Uncle Short," he began, "when I was eight years old. At the time, he was intent on inventing a new kind of parachute ... one that could be used starting with the wearer standing in a ground-level field when he pulled the rip cord, instead of plummeting insanely from the sky.
"Uncle Short's real name was Lee. However, he shot past six foot of height when only in his early teens, so his family's knee-slapping Wyoming sense of humor kicked in and all his kin began calling him 'Short.' I mention this because he as also referred to, by various family members and neighbors, as 'That Genius, Short,' from time to time . . . by the same rough logic. Generally, perhaps specially, when he was attempting to build a better this or that in his shop.
"He had, prior to marrying into my mother's family, spent some time in prison for 'Accidental Manslaughter.' Y'see, some drunk fella leapt off of the top of the bar during a brawl Ð trying to land on Short's shoulders, you understand? Ð and 'Short,' a few drinks past sober himself, ducked his head and gave the fella a hefty push to keep him flying along.
"However, Short had forgotten there was a rather solid brick wall behind him, and the flying fella's last sight on earth was an extreme close-up of an old 'Pabst Blue Ribbon' poster pasted on that wall. Being that he was a good citizen, Short turned himself in to the nearest lawman (who, himself, was involved in the fracas), plead guilty in court and served a few years lock-up.
"While he was in, he got that high school diploma he'd forgotten about when he was younger and read a lot of books about famous inventors. That was when he came up with his first invention; a cockroach trap that, to the best of my knowledge, is still the only 'live trap and release' cockroach trap extant. It worked wonderfully ... 'cept that you were left with a live cockroach, which strikes me as somewhat pointless.
"But this is all just preamble, just tossed in to show that my Uncle Short, although not all that tall in the thinking department, was a giant in his conscious and caring and that he had been bitten by the inventing bug something fierce.
"He was forever trying to either improve some device or another, or invent some totally new (and generally useless) machine. His Altitude Independent Parachute was just the latest in a long string of inventions ... almost his last.
"Y'see, Short had read about how much fun it was to parachute, but how terrifying it was to jump out of an airplane. He reasoned that it should be possible to keep the fun of the former and discard the terror of the latter ... if you could just start on level ground in the first place.
"So, armed with a small town public library, a shop full of various home made tools, and a surplus parachute, Short started experimenting on finding a way to get the darn parachute into the sky, with passenger, but without airplane.
"He discarded the notion of using a large hot air balloon to take the parachutist up (in that he reckoned that jumping from a basket was still jumping), as well as the idea of using several smaller balloons to haul the passenger up (in that he figured releasing ones self from a harness probably carried the same terror that jumping did, even if it was -- technically -- falling, rather than jumping).
"What he was looking for was a simple device that would automatically raise the parachutist a certain number of yards into the air and just as automatically drop him back down to the ground .. all just by pulling the rip cord while standing on the ground.
"Shipmates, I have no idea exactly what he figured out or how he put it together or what basic principle he violated/broke/ignored to do it ... but damned if he didn't do it!
"I was there that faithful day when he pulled the rip cord and shot into the air. No rocket blast kicked me back and no machine could be seen hauling him up . . . so I am forced to assume that Short had stumbled into some sort of anti-gravity device." Seeing several disbelieving stares (and more than one impolite snort of outright doubt), Sailor Jim spread his scarred hands, palms up, and shrugged his massive shoulders. "What can I say, Shipmates? He headed for the clouds at a fairly good clip, about a tenth of the speed a fella his size would hit falling, and I didn't notice a helicopter or hot air balloon ... what's left?
"Anyway, and however he did it, the point is that he did it! Off he went, parachute open and full like he was heading down instead of up, until he hit his prearranged height of 200 yards. 'Twice the length of a football field,' he'd said, 'strikes me as a reasonable height ... high enough for a parachute, but not so high as to terrify a fella.' I couldn't measure it, but my pop (watching through a telescope) said it looked like that was about as far as he went. Then he yelped out, 'He's coming down!' and everybody started squinting into the sky.
"Uncle Short's boy, Jigger (not his real name, but he preferred it to 'Clarence'), had been listening on his half of Short's army surplus walkie talkie and hollered for my pop. Which freed up the telescope, so I scooted over to watch the show.
"I could see Short real good for a moment, big grin over his ugly face, saying something to pop on the walkie-talkie as he floated down. Real pleased with himself, he was, and I imagine he had good reason to be. After a few minutes, I quit using the telescope. He was close enough to see easily and looking as if he was going to land exactly, or close enough not to make any difference, on the spot he started from ... when he suddenly shot back into the air!"
Sailor Jim stopped for a short sip of his drink and nodded at a few of the
folks listening. "I see by your grins and rolling eyes that a couple of you
think you've already figured out what Short hadn't planned on. To wit, how
to turn whatever tossed him into the air, back off!
"It dawned on him after about a dozen ac's and decents that his device just
wasn't going to let him land and, after a discussion with my pop, he came
to the further realization that it would have been a real good idea to put a
stop switch on the silly thing.
"Or, rather, a slow switch. Y'see, the device was built into the damn parachute (you could make out the silver threads of it's wiring intertwined in the fabric when the light hit it just right), so that it would haul him up nice and evenly. Unfortunately, the device's own weight made it such that, if turned off, the parachute would quickly become a shroud for the hapless sap dangling underneath it.
"Sadly, this was a moot point, in that there was no off switch, no slow switch, and the power supply (just three "C" cells . . . don't ask me; as I said, I have no idea how he did it) were located up in the parachute . . . and Short, as he put it, wasn't about to start ' . . . climbing up the damn shrouds like an overgrown chimp.'
"Thankfully, it was a still day, so he didn't drift too far from his original position and we were able to keep up with him. Pop, after a couple hours of watching Short bobbing up and down like God's own personal yo-yo, told me to head back to Short's farm and call for help. I reminded him that mom and Aunt Hazel would be at the farm and he shrugged. I asked just whom might I call for help and he shrugged. I considered kicking him in the shins and settled for grabbing my bike and heading back to the farm.
"I won't bore you with the trip back to the farm, or how Aunt Hazel took
the news that her husband had become the first perpetual extremely low
altitude astronaut, or how the sheriff reacted when I called for help . . .
well, maybe that last one. I told the sheriff what had happened, near as I
could remember. There was a moment or two of absolute silence, and then
a mighty weary sigh of 'Ah, hell, Short.' Then he hung up. (Told me more
about my uncle's relationship with the local authorities than I really
needed to know.)
"I'll spare you all the details of how Aunt Hazel almost melted down the
batterys in the walkie-talkie yelling at Short and'll fast forward to the
next day ... yup, the next day. Sheriff had one of his men keep an eye on
Short through the night, sort of track him and keep him company on the
radio. They didn't mind and it turned out that a side effect of Short's
device made the parachute glow a very restful blue, so they even had
something pleasant to distract them from their virgule.
"The rest of us went home around midnight, with the sheriff promising to
contact the big university in Jasper first thing in the morning, to see if
any of their professors could help. So everybody had a late supper and
went to bed. Even Short managed to get some sleep during the night, but
nobody could figure out a way to get him any food. It would be a serious
problems in the long run ... along with his batteries finally wearing out ...
but, at the moment, it was just an inconvenience.
"The next morning -- and how's that for an extremely slow fast forward?
-- found the sheriff, us, and several flabbergasted professors standing in
a field about ten miles north of where we had left Short, watching him
float down to about 50 yards and shoot off at a relatively leisurely pace
back up to 200 yards. Then the professors would all talk some sort of
german professional professor talk at each other, then take turns peering
through pop's telescope, then jabber at each other some more.
"In the meantime, Short reported that he was (a) bored, (b) starved, and (c)
developing saddle sores in some mighty tender areas. Aunt Hazel got on
the walkie-talkie and told him she loved him and that he was a damn fool,
then the sheriff told him everybody was doing their best and that he was a
damn fool and, finally, one of the professors from Jasper got on and told
him he was a great man and inventor . . . if, somewhat, of a damn fool.
"Guess which comment Short remembered to his dying day?
"Anyway, it was getting towards lunch when the sheriff finally broke in on
the professors and demanded to know what they recommended to get Short
down. 'Down?!?' they cried, 'We haven't figured out what's keeping him up,
yet!' Apparently, they couldn't come up with a way of reversing the gizmo
until they figured out the gizmo ... and Short wasn't talking. (I've come to
understand that it was traditional, the contempt and paranoia of the
amateur for/about his professional counterparts.)
"It was Jigger who finally solved the problem, in a roundabout sort of way.
"Y'see, he had himself a brainstorm and had lit off for home while
everybody was arguing. About the time it had calmed down, he'd popped
back up ... with a picnic basket full of leftovers, one of Short's weather
balloons and a couple hundred feet of line. He figured that we could tie
the basket to the balloon, fill it up with hot air (since the professors were
generating so much, I reckoned that would be no problem.), and get his dad
some grub! If we tied the balloon to the basket correctly, we could even
get the balloon back for a dinner run, later.
"Worked, too. Oh, it took a couple of tries, but Short finally managed to
grab hold of the basket at his lowest point, unhook it, and haul it back into
the sky with him. It was a much happier Short who drifted back down on
the next run, raining occasional chicken bones on us.
"Then one of them professors smacked himself on the side of his head and
rattled off something in German. A second professor laughed and started
nodding his head and then they all proceeded to pow-wow. When they broke
from their huddle, they had come up with the obvious answer.
"Send the balloon up again . . . this time tied to a mountain climbing clip!
Uncle Short would clip the rope to his harness and we'd all haul him down.
Once Short was again on the planet, everybody just keep hauling until we
could reach the batteries and pull'em out!
"It made sense, sorta. The gizmo was made to lift a man Short's weight into the air to a height of two football fields ... ergo, if it tried to lift a weight equal to two Shorts, then it would only lift to 100 yards and so on. All we had to do was put enough weight on this end of the rope and we could counter the lift altogether, and a little more than that would drag Short back!
"Pop relayed the plan to Short, who thought about it for awhile and then
agreed it should - in theory - work out fine. So the professors started
calculating just how much weight it would take, the sheriff took off to
town to get a couple hundred feet of thick rope, my pop headed back to the
farm for the clip and the rest of us spent the time dodging the bones and
wrappers Short dropped as he ate his breakfast.
"Everything needed was in place within an hour or two and the balloon was
ready for it's final flight. All that was needed was for the professors to
come up with the actual weight needed to counter balance Short's device.
Soon, one of them came over and borrowed the walkie-talkie from Pop and
asked for Short's input. After another jabber session, a couple went
around asking everybody his or her weight, while the rest checked the
weight of the few vehicles present.
"After another hour of juggling number, they reported the bad news. We
had the weight to drag him down ... but just barely. More than that, one of
them had used the Sheriff's radio to get a weather report. A big blow was
coming across the flatland, big enough to send Short clear to Montana
before it was done. So it was either haul him down in the next hour or so,
or get ready to chase him across the state.
"We passed the information to Short and he voted to pass on an unplanned
vacation in Montana, as any good Wyoming fella in his right mind would.
The rope was tied off to the largest nearby tree, then wound through the
axles of the two police cars and the professor's university mini-bus. Then
the mountaineering clip was securely tied to it's free end and hooked into
a knotted loop of the weather balloon's tether. The rest of the ropes length
was carefully coiled up on the ground.
"Everything was ready and all the people were lined up by the neat coil, so
Pop told Short to stand by and started playing out the balloon. It was a
pretty sight, Shipmates ... bright orange weather balloon against the clear
blue sky, polished metal clip dangling underneath and sparkling in the
light. Took only half as many tries as the lunch delivery, so Pop must have
been getting better at timing it.
"Short snagged the clip on his way down, thank God. If he'd have caught it
on his way up, we would have never been able to pull it off ... or him down.
As it was, the Sheriff yelled for everybody to grab the rope and, when
Short hit the bottom of his cycle, hang on tight! One of the deputies,
stationed on the other side of the cars, took a couple of turns around a
second fairly good sized tree and hauled in the slack as Short came down.
"Well, those Jasper professors were right on the ball about us needed ever
ounce we had. Even with the cars on the line, pop (first in line and closest
to Short) was just about hauled into the air when Short's device flexed
it's muscles. (And Pop cleared two-fifty at the time.) Well, it tried to lift
Short back up and, finding itself stymied, started moaning real softly.
"On the Sheriff's call, we all started hauling rope in unison. Puuuuull; one,
two, three, puuuuulll; one, two, three, puuuuullll ... and damned if it didn't
work! Short was coming down. That moaning started getting louder after a
while, but Short was only about an even hundred feet up and getting closer
with each pull.
"But, when Short was about seventy-five feet away, somebody looked up
during a pause in the count. Evening was coming on, the shadows were
growing longer and the sky darker ... and Short's parachute was glowing
neon blue! Not the rich and mellow blue of the night before, but a bright
and nasty neon blue. First one to notice it gave out a yell and, on the next
pause in the pulling, we all looked.
"Electric blue, now ... with jagged streaks of purest white flashing around
the edges and screaming like a jackalope in a thunder storm! One of the
Professors yelled something in German, and - for once - he didn't need to
be translated.
"Short's device was fighting back!
"'Short! Look'it!!' Pop screamed, pointing past him. Short glanced upwards
and did a vertical double take. 'Cripes! Haul me in, dammit!' came
bellowing back and we redoubled our efforts. Puuuuulll; two, puuuuulll;
two, puuuuullll; two . . . We hauled on the rope as fast as possible.
"An inarticulate shriek of alarm made us look upwards again. Short was
only around forty feet above us and staring in terror at the parachute,
which was blazing white and developing regular patches of the only neon
black I've ever seen, or hope to ever see. The electric blue was now
starting to travel down the shrouds leading to where Short dangled and
smoke was curling from them.
"We had time for a few more frantic pulls when, suddenly, the line went slack and we all went sprawling. Short's gizmo ceased it's caterwauling the instant the line went slack, so it was easy to hear Short bellow, 'Look out, below!!' A second later, Short slammed into the top of the Sheriff's car with a boom and a whuff of expended air. Several of the Professors screamed with rage as the parachute, still blazing white with patches of neon black, shot back into the air. Then the higher winds took over and the glowing parachute started it's trip to Montana.
"The Professors from Jasper tumbled into their van, like a backwards
version of circle clowns, and lit out cross country after the swiftly
moving circle of light. Pop and the Sheriff saw to Short, who had caved in
the roof of the Sheriff's car, but managed to escape serious injury, and the
rest of us worked at putting out the brush fire the burning shrouds had
started.
"Two days later, Short had hammered out the roof of the Sheriff's car and
was giving it a new paint job when the phone rang. It was those
Professors from Jasper. The upshot was that they had lost sight of the
parachute before they even got fifty miles away and wanted Short to come
to the university to demonstrate his invention under more controlled
conditions.
"When they found out that Short never kept notes and hadn't been able to
duplicate his device after two nights of trying, they cussed him out in
German (or, rather, we think they did ... none of us spoke German) and hung
up. Short just chuckled and went back to painting; that was the sort of
man he was, y'know.
"On our way home, I asked my Pop if the parachute was gone for good and
he told me that he'd asked Short that very question. Short's reply was
'Well ... I dunno. When those batteries give out, she should just fall to the
ground but, until then, she should just keep on sailing at ... oh, without any
ballast, I suspect about 500 yards, at the top, and 400 yards, at the
bottom. With the various patterns of wind circling the Earth, Lord only
knows where she'll finally come to rest.'
"That was close to forty years ago, shipmates. Short passed-on in
December of '95, leaving behind a few thousand various worthless
inventions and three successful and well adjusted grown-up kids. I'd say
he lived up to that 'genius' jibe, if only for fathering. As for his
wandering parachute, nobody ever heard tell of it again."
With a quick motion, Sailor Jim finished off his drink and, with a soft
grin, got up to fetch a refill. A few of the other patrons, those that knew
his posts, quietly held their breath and waited . . . until he paused to add:
"At least, I think nobody has . . . but sometimes, I have to wonder. I mean,
every couple of years, for the last few decades, I'll see some new UFO
story in some check-out line rag or another. They appear in clusters and
sorta follow a pattern of sorts. The UFO is pretty much described the same
way and the ones with picture all sorta look the same; Flat at the bottom,
curved at the top, round, white and with weirdly glowing black patches.
Moving up and down and side to side . . . and I start wondering about air
flow patterns and the life expectancy of those batteries and . . . " Broad
electronic shoulders moved beneath his digitally imagined leather vest in
a massive posted shrug.
"Who knows?"
Sailor Jim softly vanished back into reality.
© Jim Johnston, 1996
All rights reserved