Joseph Schell
Joseph Schell
McNeely lands. The adrenaline kicks in.
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The whole idea of a reporter witnessing the jump had only come up the night before. McNeely left a voicemail garbled by spotty reception, the only discernible lines of which were "Fuck it!" and "I'm ready to talk to the media."
Once at the site, he seemed to have had — and then dismissed — second thoughts. "I'm probably going to piss people off doing this, but fuck it, I don't care. This is like the slut of jumps — everyone does it." In the end, he asked that the exact location not be revealed.
Some BASE jumpers post videos of their exploits on YouTube. Others try to abide by a strict code of never being seen by outsiders. An attempt last fall to contact jumpers on the sport's most popular website, BLiNC Magazine (run by Mick Knutson, a jumping devotee who lives in the Mission District) tanked. Some dude named Huck typed, "BASE jumpers don't go around sharing their jump info to people, especially reporters. ... BTW, I have 2 Bs [jargon for jumps], one of which I opened and a crane all in downtown, but I won't tell you squat about them ... even for a blowjob!!" nicknitro71 then chimed in: "Unlike Huck, for a blow job and some anal sex I'll tell you all you want to know, bitch!"
We aren't in Malaysia, where the government invites BASE jumpers to do exhibition jumps off skyscrapers. Nor are we in Switzerland, where locals build ramps for a safe takeoff in the Alps. In the United States — the land of liability — BASE jumpers are wise to guard their favorite launch sites.
The sport has been of questionable legality since the first rowdy skydivers decided to try jumping off objects in the 1960s. New York City banned the sport specifically after Californian Jeb Corliss made front-page news getting caught by security while attempting to jump off the Empire State Building in 2006. He jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge in 2000, though BASE jumpers say security has gotten too tight there to try it now. Knutson claims he jumped off the San Francisco Hilton Hotel back in the '90s, and many jumpers leaped off cranes during the dot-com construction boom.
Legally, jumpers can hop off the Perrine Bridge in Idaho or in some areas managed by the federal Bureau of Land Management, such as the Moab canyonlands in Utah. In much of the rest of the country, jumpers risk trespassing or public nuisance charges.
The National Park Service, with its conservation ethos, has applied a statute aimed at limiting people from parachuting into the backcountry to ban BASE jumpers. Jumpers claim they are being unfairly singled out among extreme athletes, and insist they don't degrade the landscape (they climb or hike regulated trails to get to El Cap's "diving board"). While hang-gliders sail off Yosemite's Glacier Point with permits, several federal courts have upheld the ban on jumpers.
The BASE jumpers' solution to the ban? Just don't get caught. McNeely says he's flown off El Cap "a handful of times. I don't want to incriminate myself." Other aficionados in the park estimate that 50 people regularly jump there. How can they resist? El Cap is a nearly ideal jump site: Its sheer granite face reduces any risk of hitting a cliff on the way down. Its 3,000-foot altitude gives you substantial air time, while a meadow sits below for an easy landing.
The jumpers also say the ban forces them to use dangerous tactics like launching in the dark and pulling their chutes when low to the ground to decrease theirchances of being seen. The real animus between the rangers and the BASE jumpers started in 1999, after Frank Gambalie fled from the rangers after a jump. He ran into the Merced River and drowned.
After Gambalie's death, a group set up a protest jump in prisoner costumes to demonstrate the supposed safety of the sport before spectators and the media. Instead, seasoned BASE jumper Jan Davis fell to her death. Her then-husband, Tom Sanders, says Davis had used someone else's parachute since she knew it was going to be confiscated. McNeely was there. "It definitely put some concerns into my ... yeah," he trails off, before blaming Davis' death on "pilot error."
McNeely trusts his instincts and equipment to save him— insisting on carefully packing all his parachutes himself. "When you're driving down the highway, you don't say, 'I'm gonna die,'" he says, bugging his eyes, cartoonlike. "You're careful because you know it's dangerous." So dangerous that he says he probably wouldn't want his girlfriend to try it. His 20-year-old son wants to — "I'm not thrilled about it" — but who's Dad to say no?
McNeely and other BASE jumpers say they just love it too much to be driven away by the possibility of death. BASE jumping "is something that's in your soul," says Knutson, who was caught in Yosemite in the '90s. "It's like a pilot that realizes, 'You know what? A human can fly.' How can I erase that from my mind, ever?"
Since Davis' death, jumpers and rangers reached a sort of bitter stalemate. The rangers have arrested only four jumpers in the last decade, though they've chased and been unable to locate several more, according to park dispatch reports.