I never imagined that at 62 years old, I would have airborne wings pounded into my chest.
That is the tradition. Not pinned. Pounded. And the distinction matters, because everything about the round canopy parachute community is deliberate, earned, and steeped in a lineage that goes back to the men who jumped into Normandy in the dark hours of June 6, 1944.
I am a civilian. Straightforwardly, unapologetically civilian. And yet there I was, shoulder to shoulder with Rangers, Delta operators, SEALs, CIA ops, Blackwater veterans, Triple Canopy contractors, and a constellation of All-Stars whose resumes would make your head spin. I was given a fair shake. Not because I had earned their credentials, but because one man vouched for me and then stood next to me until I proved I belonged.
That man is Wellington Stroud Jones III.
In parachute terms, Wells is my complete opposite. A centurion. Navy parachute rescue certified. A bona fide badass who has forgotten more about jumping out of aircraft than most people will ever learn.
And yet, once we established that the Round Canopy Parachute Team (RCPT) relationship was exactly what we needed to guide this founder through an entirely different kind of challenge, Wells took it upon himself to become my partner in the air. He walked me through everything. The PLF. Canopy control. Ground operations. The buddy rig. Multiple jumps, each one building on the last. He did not do it because he had to. He did it because that is who Wells Jones is.
This is a man who has been by my side on so many adventures, in business and in life, and who has never once let me walk into something unprepared.
We were days out from boarding a flight to France when a package arrived.
Inside: a pair of kit gloves, tan leather, period-correct, matched to the 1944 uniforms of the 101st and 82nd Airborne Divisions. And tucked alongside them, an instruction sheet. One page. Maybe 200 words. Governing the most consequential sixty seconds of your physical life.
This is what it said:
PROTECT RESERVE — holding area — walking to & boarding aircraft
Sit on deck between jumpers legs — move back
FIND seat belt — connect to leg strap
Shout “AIRBORNE” when aircraft lifts off“Seat belts!”
“1st Stick Stand Up!” PROTECT RESERVE
“Hook Up!”
“Check Static Line!” — check jumper static line in front of you
“Check Equipment!”
“Sound off for Equipment Check!”
OK! tap jumper in front of youGrab Static Line & loop below pinky — hand just below thick seam of SL
(All or some of the time calls from JM — repeat after)“Six minutes!”
“Three minutes!”
“One minute!” Move towards door ONE ARM length apart
“30 Seconds!”“FOLLOW ME!”
Follow jumper in front
Look in SAFETY EYES — HAND THEM static line
Both hands on side of door —
PUSH off and out
feet together — bent at hip —
COUNT 1K 2K 3K 4K CHECK canopySomethings WRONG shout — “RED LIGHT!” “RED LIGHT!” “RED LIGHT!”
There is no “I’m sorry.” There is no “I tried my best.” There is no try at all. There is only do, or there is finality.
The entire enterprise of keeping yourself alive at altitude fits on a single sheet of paper because there is no room in it for ambiguity. Every line is a command. Every command is a lifeline. You either follow it exactly, or you don’t. The sky doesn’t negotiate.
I have never read a document more clarifying in my life.
I have built a company. I have written books. I have navigated the kind of life chapters that, in retrospect, would have broken a less stubborn man. But standing in that plane, gloves on, static line checked, waiting for the green light over Normandy, I understood something I had not fully articulated before.
You do not get to that door alone.
Wells Jones got me there. The RCPT brotherhood accepted me. The men who jumped those same fields eighty years ago cleared the way, literally and spiritually, for civilians like me to honor their sacrifice by doing something physically hard and deeply humbling.
I am not a soldier. But I was given the dignity of being treated like one, if only for a few extraordinary days over French soil. And when those wings came down on my chest, they came down with the full weight of what they represent.
That is what it means to be in good hands.