Boys, Snot Rockets, and Date-Making at the DZ

Jujubee and I sat at the drop zone for a large sweltering chunk of Saturday afternoon. We watched planes load, take off, and land between shifts of skydivers swooping to earth only yards from our shelter. In the intolerable heat, 100 degrees plus a heat index that increased the aura of that sun-bake to a bloody 120, we parked ourselves fairly comfortably: under a tent, in deck chairs, with our feet plunged in a baby pool that we had filled with ice and water. Of all that amused us and inspired our conversation that day were men, certain ones at the DZ in particular. Let me elaborate:

At one point, one of the packers came over to ask my step-daughter on a date, except his manner of delivery was all convoluted. It took me a while to figure out what was going on. His statement to her was that the last time he had made plans, she had "flaked out on him" and he wanted to make sure that this time he wasn't wasting his money buying her a ticket to a concert that she might not attend. "Good Lord!" I announced. "That is not how you ask a girl out!" And then after he left our tent:

"Good Lord! Did you lead him to think you were going on a date?" But before I could chastise her, she explained their conversation from the previous week, I understood, and then set back and announced how glad I was not to be young and dating. It's all too hard to manage. Expectations, hearts broken, wishes led astray. Marriage, for all its problems, is so much better than dating. Watching young folk do the delicate dance is exhausting.

To Jujubee's credit, I see her point about young men. This same packer came over later and borrowed our pool to help recover from heat exhaustion. He plummeted his face into the ice water and we leaned forward to drizzle his arms and the back of his neck with cool relief. When he leaned up, he shook his head like a dog spraying us with the cold, blew his nose into his fingers, threw the snot-wad onto the ground, dipped a bottle into our baby pool, and washed his hands with water from the bottle. I was so shocked, I couldn't speak. My girl, though, didn't miss a beat.

"Dude," she cracked, "did you just blow a snot rocket?"
"Yeah," he answered.
"Tsk. I am so disappointed."

Hazards at the DZ

On occasional Saturdays, I round up the children and head to the drop zone to watch my husband and his cohorts skydive. We spend most of our time outside under a canopy of sky, but when the summer heat is strong enough, the children and I seek the air conditioned comfort of the club at the hanger. The club is a cinderblock shack slapped on the back of a quonset hut that shelters the skydivers who are training or packing their rigs. The club is horribly unsanitary and smells like dirty feet, but skydivers seem content to wait their turns out draped across the tattered, dingy couches, and even sleep on the floor. It reminds me of a frat house.

I complained about the state of the lounge and bathroom to my husband, who explained nicely who looks after the place, that this situation was not likely to improve due to the drop-in-drop-out nature of members, and that there was no fund designated for the prevention of staph infections or any other germ that hints of death, decomposition, or general disease. He recommended the building next door-- a small and apparently sanitary management facility for a few small aircraft and a medvac unit. I will start making sure the little ones and I use that restroom instead of the one at the DZ.


This summer, I camped a night at the DZ with my younger step-daughter (she had jumped that day). We carefully brushed our teeth over the sink in the club bathroom, and I told her that peeing in the woods was a more sanitary option than using that icky toilet. I walked around with her the way I do my little ones, saying, “Dude. Gross. Don’t touch that. No, ew. Don’t touch that either.” I walked over bodies crashed out across the worn, scummy carpet, and guided us back out the hanger, across a field, and into our tent—our lovely, clean tent, despite the balmy humidity, the bugs, and the hole I burnt into the bottom of it (don’t ask).

I don’t care how much of a hot adrenaline jock magnet a drop zone is. There is nothing sexy or healthy about mineral and dirt build-up inside a shower, sink, and toilet, and sludge on the floor. Certain mysterious hairs left behind? Don’t even make me go there. Maybe it’s a mom thing. Maybe not. But don’t even get me started on the kitchen. Note to self: bring hand sanitizer, Lysol, and a hazmat suit.