Navigating Chaos. Jeff Boss
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the air that we had planned. At about five thousand feet, we separated so as to create distance between both our parachutes and ourselves, to avoid bunching up on each other and causing traffic collisions in the air. You want space between you and other jumpers when you “throw out,” or pull the parachute’s ripcord, because the last thing you want is to be right on top of somebody after their parachute inflates. The more space you have to maneuver, the better.
After clearing my airspace for other jumpers, I went to pull the ripcord, break the burble to allow my ’chute to catch wind, and proceeded to keep falling…and falling…and falling. Normally, when the ripcord is pulled, the parachute deploys and inflates within a few seconds. But these few seconds had passed without the expected jolt, and I realized there was a significant problem.
My parachute didn’t open.
Fuuuuck!
Not only did my parachute not open, but there wasn’t any indication whatsoever that it was even close to opening. This was not a good thing.
I glanced back over my shoulder to try and identify the problem. Holy shit, I got a pack closure. A pack closure is a complete parachute malfunction in which the pack tray that holds the parachute remains closed. It is the absolute worst failure that can happen and perfectly fitting for my sort of luck.
As I continued falling and the trees below me became larger and larger, I immediately went to the emergency procedures (EPs) outlined in the jumpmaster brief. EPs are the procedures a jumper executes if the main parachute fails to operate, and are identified by two different colored tabs on a jumper’s chest harness. Pulling one tab will activate a severing mechanism inside the pack tray to “cut away” the main chute, while pulling the other tab will activate the reserve chute. It’s important to do them in sequence so you don’t inflate your reserve parachute into the main and cause even more problems for yourself. There is actually a technical term for this sort of malfunction, it’s called: “Getting fucked.”
From the time it took me to initiate emergency procedures to the time my reserve parachute actually opened, a lot of things passed through my mind. The first was, “Holy-shit-I’m-gonna-die.” The second was the fact that I was falling over a wooded area with dense trees, and so naturally the scene from First Blood popped into my mind, when Sylvester Stallone was hanging on the face of a cliff in an attempt to outrun the cops until he decided to jump off the cliff and into a cluster of treetops, with the hopes of the branches breaking his fall.
Of course Rambo survived because, well, he was Rambo. But I was Jeff Boss, and I was plummeting to the earth at 170 mph from 15,000 feet. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to bounce. I remember feeling my heart pound through my chest because the reserve chute was supposed to open instantaneously but, of course, it didn’t. It probably opened at about 1,500 feet and when it did, I felt like I had just resurfaced from underwater to breathe fresh air after an agonizingly long underwater swim. The good news was that I managed to steer clear of the trees below and right into a cornfield—which was actually a step up from a night jump I did in Arizona years earlier where I landed in a cactus and broke my nose. When my feet finally touched ground, I just laid there on my back for a good five minutes, with arms sprawled out to my sides as if I were making a snow angel, thinking to myself, “Ho…ly…shit. Ho…ly…shit. Ho…ly…shit…”
What did I learn from this? Not a damn thing, apparently, because I returned to the drop zone and immediately packed my chute to catch the next lift up.
However, this time I had some parachute riggers watch me pack just to mitigate any chance of operator error. Then, just before we boarded the caravan for takeoff, I partnered with a teammate nicknamed Badger because he was experienced, proficient, and as solid as any SEAL operator could aspire to be. I wanted him to watch my flying position for any tweaks, imbalances, or recommendations. When we landed, Badger gave me the “thumbs up” signal, which meant a lot coming from him, and we eventually boarded for a third jump.
Then it happened. Again.
The third jump that day was about as fun as the first. I went to pull the ripcord to deploy the canopy and instead of hearing the canopy deploy I heard…crickets…crickets. Nothing. This time it was a bag lock—a full malfunction where only the bag in which the parachute is stuffed deploys from the container, but the chute itself stays packed—another less-than-desirable malfunction that you really can’t fight your way out of. So, I initiated yet another cutaway procedure for the day. Damnit, not again, I thought to myself. I had performed more cutaways in that single day than some professional skydivers do in their entire careers—a little fun fact that I’m not very proud of. I don’t remember where I landed but it certainly wasn’t anywhere cool—more annoying than anything. Strangely, they weren’t my last cutaways, either.
You might think that only a crazy person would live through multiple parachute malfunctions in one day and not quit on the spot. You’re probably right. But something kept me coming back: it was my passion to stay with The Pack, and this wasn’t the last time that my passion to stay with The Pack would be tested.
“The Pack” refers to a sense of belonging and unity that binds special operators together. It’s a product of living, training, and fighting side by side; like the Spartans who used to carry a shield in the Phalanx less for their own protection than for that of the man next to them, it’s a distinction that blurs the line between self and other, or between individual and team. But to be excluded from The Pack is to go through life with poor direction, little meaning, and a lack of fulfillment. When you have passion, you can easily answer “why.” You wake up in the morning and go to work, and it’s because the thought of answering your “why?” motivates you: because The Pack is there waiting for you.
Without direction, cause, zest, or “fire in the gut,” the greater the opportunities open for regret, self-doubt, and despair—and they invade your mind because you begin to question what you do and why you do it. If you’re passionate about your job, your relationships, and your hobbies, then the only thing that slows you down when challenge or hardship present themselves is the time it takes to reflect, learn, and move on. This answers the question of how, and why, you can keep jumping when your parachute keeps failing. When you are driven by passion and purpose, and guided by the emotional willingness to reflect, mental ability to learn, and spiritual capability of leaving it all behind to move on, you have all of the tools that you need to overcome adversity, and come out stronger on the other side
Purpose and passion go hand-in-hand no matter what role you’re in, be it business, everyday life, or one’s family. There can be no enthusiasm, no fervor, no meaning, and no happiness without answering the why of your pursuits.
How to “Steal” Passion
Passion and purpose have always been strong motivators for me right behind not getting shot—again. There must be an equal balance of the two to achieve optimal results, because a passion without purpose is akin to an untamed fire hose—it just sprays everything in its path with no direction, no guidance. Similarly, purpose without the passion to support it is the very feeling of creative tension we experience when we know what we want but take no action to “get there.” It’s this latter predicament that proves unsettling—to be in the driver’s seat, map in hand, coffee mug full…and an empty tank of gas (“Where are you going? Nowhere!”).
I contend that passion may be found by mirroring the artist. Think about it. Artists must be truly passionate about their work because it’s all or nothing. They either love the painting they just created, or they tear up the canvas and start anew. There is constant refinement, never-ending improvement, and a perpetual desire to look for inspiration at every minute of the day. What a way to live, right?!
Leaders are no different. Leaders require both purpose and passion to inspire others because both are infectious, social contagions that spread like laughter or a bad case of herpes (yup, I said it).
Of course, being passionate is easier said than done, so let’s look at what artists must do to achieve their desired optimal state—and how we can steal it: