Matthew Seering turned to his sweetheart and wondered aloud: “Are we crazy?”
It seemed a natural question. The couple were on their way to jump out of an airplane at Longmont’s Vance Brand Municipal Airport — their first sky-diving experience.
“We concluded we must be a little nuts,” said Allyson Myles, recalling the uneasy talk during that drive north from Seering’s apartment in Arvada.
The 28-year-old Seering had presented Myles with the gift of a tandem sky dive on her 21st birthday. The party was planned: a thrill-of-a-lifetime jump, dinner, dancing, drinks.
They arrived at Mile-Hi Skydiving Center on the first Saturday in April. The wind was blowing hard enough that Myles’ hair swirled around her face. The couple signed the waivers warning about the possibility of “serious injury” and “death.”
Those sobering words — in bold, uppercase lettering — stand as a reminder that sky diving is dangerous. But the people who witnessed what happened over the next 60 minutes and the investigations that followed also raised this painful point: The two people who died April 5 fell victim to both Mother Nature’s bluster and human error.
As the moment of flight approached, Myles hoped her apprehension would fade. It didn’t. Not even as her instructor began a brief training session by detailing the relative safety of tandem sky diving with one-in-a-quarter-million fatality statistics. Fear lingered even when she and Seering were told to relax and put “complete trust” in the expert instructors who would be strapped to their backs.
Seering clowned a bit in his purple and yellow jumpsuit, his goggles squishing his face.
“Let’s do this. Let’s check this off our list,” he said.
Myles grabbed his hands, hoping to absorb his bravery.
They were wet with sweat.
The couple joined two other tandem students on an open trailer for a ride across the tarmac. As they approached the twin-engine jet-prop airplane shortly after 1 p.m., they watched four tandem instructors land with their students in the field between runways, unbuckle their harnesses and race over to the waiting foursome.
As the plane’s engine roared to life, one of the instructors said: “Someone raise their hand.”
Seering’s hand shot up. Myles followed suit.
Instructor Luis Terrazas took Myles.
Daniel P. Braafhart, a 54-year-old pizza company executive beloved by fellow sky divers, took Seering. It was a random yet fatal pairing.
Authorities and veteran sky divers later deconstructed the crash and judged it a tragic accident in a sport where the risk of death is part of the thrill.
Details of the day underscore that risk. But those details — a day with gusting winds that challenged veteran sky divers, a part-time instructor who may have been pushing his skills in those conditions and mysterious, last- minute turns dangerously close to the ground — point to deaths that could have been prevented.
April 5 was a busy — even chaotic — Saturday at Mile-Hi Skydiving. The tandem jumping season was in full bloom as the long winter released its grasp. A steady rotation of nervous first-time tandem jumpers crowded the facility’s main hangar. Employees tucked $200 payments into the till, churned out the waivers, filled planes and prepared the soon-to-be-falling newcomers.
“It just seemed so rushed, unorganized,” Myles said.
She noted the instructor who led Myles, Seering and two other first-timers through their 10-minute training said they were understaffed that day. Seering volunteered as the example during their brief orientation, perching on his belly and allowing the instructor to curve his legs upward to illustrate the proper free-fall position.
They learned the basics: arms crossed as you leave the plane . . . kick your feet back when you’re falling . . . look out, not down.
What employees did not share with Seering and Myles that day was that Joe Magliolio, the most-qualified tandem instructor at Mile-Hi with more than 9,000 sky dives, had decided not to jump any more that day, citing turbulence and the gusting conditions.
The employees did not tell the first-time sky divers that planes had been temporarily grounded earlier because winds were gusting higher than 25 mph. Grounding planes for wind is common at Mile-Hi.
As the students prepared for their first sky dive, no one at Mile-Hi that windy Saturday voiced any reservations about Braafhart, a weekend tandem instructor who had barely reached the three-jumps-in-three- months qualification to keep his instructor certification up-to-date.
But six days later, Dave Billings, a fellow tandem instructor on the same jump with Seering and Myles, reflected in an online forum on the sky-diving website : “I really wish I would have said ‘Dan-O, perhaps you shouldn’t be jumping today.’ ”
Experienced and careful
Daniel Braafhart loved introducing newcomers to his sport.
He owned several Papa John’s Pizza shops, but his passion was sky diving. His smiling midair mug graced a can of Jones Soda, the company known for its odd flavors, bright colors and cans that sometimes sported photos submitted by consumers.
Almost every weekend for the past five years, he showed up at Mile-Hi, often laden with pizzas, eager to skydive or, even better, share a sky dive.
He was both a certified instructor for first-time sky divers and a tandem instructor, a title requiring at least 500 tandem jumps over three years. Friends — and Dan-O had more than most — said he was unwaveringly safe and eschewed the pure thrill-seeking element of sky diving.
“We had a real joy in it, and he wanted to share it,” said Denise Kalmer, who jumped with Braafhart in Phoenix as he pursued his instructor certification and tandem rating requirements. “He was a great student and a great teacher in ways that went well beyond sky diving.”
Braafhart adopted struggling teens, both officially and unofficially. He took them into his home and made them his children, raising them as his own. He introduced three of them to sky diving, and they still sky-dive today.
“He gave them a role-model figure when they really needed one in their lives,” said Chris Pope, a close friend of Braafhart’s and an employee at Mile-Hi Skydiving.
“He was probably the most generous person I knew in the sport,” said sky diver Brad Cole, who jumped with Braafhart many times at Mile-Hi. “He would loan you his car if yours was broken down. He would give you the money in his wallet. He would do anything for you.
“I never once saw him do anything unsafe.”
Braafhart’s tandem jump with Seering began smoothly.
Seering had told his girlfriend he wanted to be the one who yanked the ripcord — a rare bit of control offered to tandem students. Their 370-square- foot parachute deployed perfectly.
Then, in the final 400 feet of the descent, things went awry.
No one knows why Braafhart took two 180-degree turns in gusting winds with Seering strapped to his chest.
The first turn was gradual, angling the pair downwind, according to police and Federal Aviation Administration reports and one eyewitness account at . Downwind is not the best way to land — gusting wind at your back can create a fast, rough landing.
When the two men were 100 to 50 feet off the ground, Braafhart initiated a second, sharper turn — back into the wind, the best way to land a tandem. But it was much too late.
Tandem turns are usually made several hundred feet above the ground. That way, the tandem instructor can make sure the canopy is level for landing, a position that helps control speed. When a canopy is angled and diving, as it was over Braafhart and Seering, the sky divers below are swinging toward the ground.
Braafhart may have been swerving to miss another pair of tandem sky divers. He might have been trying to turn back into the wind. He might have been aiming for the “catchers” — a team of employees on the ground who help grab tandem sky divers in windy conditions. He might have been fighting an unexpected gust of wind.
“The only reason to turn that late is to avoid another sky diver who you don’t see until the last second,” said Jim Crouch, director of safety and training for the U.S. Parachute Association and a tandem examiner who trains instructors.
Braafhart and Seering hit the ground after the canopy, the absolute worst-case scenario for sky-dive landings.
Seering died where he landed.
Braafhart died minutes later at Longmont United Hospital. The Boulder County coroner called the cause of both deaths “blunt force trauma.”
Longmont police found a small tear in the canopy that they believe happened after the crash. FAA investigators concluded the made-for-tandem Vector Sigma 370 parachute was functioning and ruled the deaths accidental, caused by “last minute maneuvers too close to the ground.”
“No one ever knows about the decision-making that day,” said Kenyon Salo, a professional sky diver employed at Mile-Hi who was not there that day. “You can speculate a million different ways, but again, no one will ever know because there is no video and there is no one to ask.”
Eyewitness account on Web
Billings, an expert sky diver with 6,607 sky dives, including 3,773 tandem jumps, saw the accident below him as he was landing.
While he declined to comment for this story, he said in two postings in the . forum that wind played a part in the crash but did not cause the crash — the low turn did.
“If anything good comes out of this tragedy, I hope it’s this,” Billings wrote. “All Tandem Instructors. If you are not 100 percent comfortable with your landing abilities in any situation, then don’t take students. If you can’t land without catchers, don’t do tandems. If you can’t land downwind, don’t jump.”
Mile-Hi Skydiving hosts 5,000 tandem jumps a year, generating $1 million in revenue and ranking as one of the busiest tandem drop zones in the country. Owner and safety director Frank Casares notes on his company’s website that he holds the Colorado state record for the most tandem sky dives in a single day: 18.
Neither Casares nor Magliolio, the tandem instructor who chose not to jump that day, returned messages seeking comment.
Several sky divers who frequent Mile-Hi Skydiving were critical of safety at the facility but refused to let their names be printed because they work there or fear they would not be allowed to jump at Mile-Hi anymore. They argued that a lack of defined sky-diving landing patterns crowds small landing areas and mingles experts with beginners. They wonder whether Casares should be both Mile-Hi’s owner and sole safety and training director. The safety director investigates accidents and writes reports that could possibly shine a poor light on the operation.
The U.S. Parachute Association, which licenses certified sky divers and sets industry standards for safety, discourages a drop zone owner from being the facility’s only safety and training adviser.
But if the owner is the most qualified sky diver at the drop zone, it is understandable that the owner would take on the duties of the safety adviser, said Ed Scott, executive director of the 31,000-member association, noting that the owner-as-safety-director situation is “indeed rare.”
Just how rare is unclear. But Mile-Hi Skydiving’s fatality rate — Braafhart and Seering’s crash marked the fourth and fifth deaths in the facility’s 13-year history — does not stand out for a busy operation, Scott said. He said other places have had more deaths in a shorter time.
USPA does not make its reports public, however, so information about nonfatal accidents is not available.
Scott said that his organization reviews incident reports and makes sure they square with eyewitness statements. “In this case, there appears to be little disagreement about what happened, just why,” he said.
Braafhart should not have jumped that day, said one sky diver who has years of familiarity at Mile-Hi and called Braafhart “a good friend.” Braafhart wasn’t a full-time jumper and his skills ranked among the middle or below for tandem instruction, the sky diver said.
“If my dad went sky diving on a perfect day, with no wind and totally clear, I would never let him go with Dan,” said the sky diver, who requested anonymity fearing he could lose jumping privileges at Mile-Hi. Braafhart, he said, had no business tandem jumping in the “gusty and sketchy” conditions that day. “That kid’s death was so completely preventable. That’s the real tragedy here,” he said.
“Margin for error is slim”
Sky divers are a tight-knit bunch.
They fear sensationalized news that could prompt efforts to shut down their drop zones and, ultimately, their sport. They fear outside regulation of an activity that is largely self-policed. They worry about the growing number of thrill-seekers who come to their drop zones looking for a roller-coaster ride, not a serious and perilous endeavor.
“The danger is every bit as real as it seems, and the margin for error is slim,” said veteran sky diver Bill Green. “It is not the fun, giddy, exciting amusement park ride. It is fun and exciting in part because you really can die doing it.”
It is not rare for some sky divers to sit out a jump in what they consider poor conditions while others jump over and over, said Scott of the USPA.
“Every sky diver, like every pilot, has their own limits and based on a whole bunch of factors,” he said. “In the end, we have to believe that this tandem instructor went up knowing the conditions . . . and whatever had happened that day, he made the decision that he had the experience level to handle those conditions.
“His highest responsibility as a tandem instructor is to have his student land safely on the ground.”
Elation turns to shock
“Which one is Matt?”
Terrazas, the tandem instructor strapped to Myles’ back, answered her by pointing to a yellow parachute in the distance, a little below them. Myles was ecstatic as she floated downward under a spacious canopy after a 10-second free fall that began at 17,000 feet and reached 130 mph. She told Terrazas she was hooked. She couldn’t wait to thank Seering. Share her thrill.
“The whole time I was thinking, ‘Matt is seeing the same thing.’ It’s so beautiful. He had the biggest smile when I jumped, and I knew he was elated to see me doing it,” she said. “I could not get out of my harness thing fast enough, I wanted to see him so badly.”
When they landed, Myles raced toward the yellow canopy. It was another student. There was a commotion farther away. People were waving frantically.
She ran toward them.
Ten feet from the frenzied group, several people grabbed her and held her back. She thought Seering was just hurt. Maybe even unconscious.
“Then I saw them doing CPR, and I pretty much collapsed,” she said. “I lost it.”
Seering was born in Beaver Dam, Wis. His nose whistled when he breathed, earning him the nickname “Bugle.” Around age 2, he caught his first fish. Like Bugle, that too stuck with Seering.
He took a winding route to Colorado after graduating from college in Wisconsin. There was a year or so chasing fish and bands like Phish across the country. Lured west by the mountains and the rivers, he arrived in Colorado in 2003.
Myles met Seering when they worked at a Chili’s restaurant in Arvada — she as a server and he as a bartender.
The couple’s relationship started slowly.
She taught him how to snowboard over the winter. He would disappear for days.
“I once told him, ‘I love that you love to fish,’ ” Myles said. “He looked at me for a while and said: ‘I love that you love that I love to fish.’ ”
Gregarious and armed with lightning-quick quips that elicited instant smiles, he became a popular bartender and quickly forged friendships.
After a long shift behind the bar at Chili’s, Seering would power his Toyota through the night to obscure rivers with friends. They would arrive in the dark and begin plying the river, their lips stuffed with tobacco, their fly rods keeping a rhythm that lasted through the day.
They called those trips their “fishing benders.”
Fishing was Seering’s life, said Chris Weber, his best friend since grade school in Beaver Dam, Wis.
“Believe it or not, even though we lived here together, we spent most of our time together fishing,” said Weber, pointing to a picture of Seering hoisting a 100-pound tarpon. Today, that photo is buried behind sympathy cards on the mantel of the Arvada apartment the two shared.
“He was a perfect guide”
Like Braafhart, Seering loved introducing others to his passion and proselytized them as a guide with Blue River Anglers in Summit County.
“He was a perfect guide who shared good times,” said Nick Arnold, a fellow guide and friend. “Everyone responded to his positive energy.”
Especially Myles.
After being shuttled back to the hangar base, she was surrounded by Mile-Hi employees in shock. Their friend was out there too, unconscious and broken. Seeking reassurance, hope — something — she asked everyone if they’d had seen an accident like this before. Everyone shook their head.
Everyone cried.
With Seering, Myles was certain she’d found the perfect relationship. They never bothered to define it. It wasn’t until the day he died, when asked by police about their relationship, that Myles first used the word “boyfriend.”
“But I was so, so in love with him — it was the purest love I’ve ever had in my life,” she said. “I could not have asked anything more from him. It was a deep, deep love, and I wasn’t ready to let it end.”
As Seering and Myles shuffled their two-year relationship from friendship into love, they had many long conversations, usually late at night, after their shifts at Chili’s. A few of those talks addressed death.
“He said he wanted to be cremated with his ashes spread in a river,” Myles said. “I asked which river, and he said: ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been there yet.’ But we both ended the conversation the same way. We were both not even close to being ready to die.”
Jason Blevins: 303-954-1374 or jblevins@denverpost.com
Sky diving ranks high in fatalities
Tandem sky diving is 23 years old, but not until 2001 did the Federal Aviation Administration eliminate its 15-year requirement that tandem students be told they were participating in an “experimental” technique.
Despite that change, sky diving is indeed dangerous. Between 1992 and 2007, sky diving experienced an average of 29.8 fatalities a year, according to statistics tallied by the U.S. Parachute Association.
The fatality rate for sky diving between 2000 and 2007 breaks down to about one in every 82,400 jumps.
That’s high.
Skiing and snowboarding, for example, average well below one death per million days on the snow and anywhere from one to four deaths per million participants, according to numbers tallied by the National Safety Council. Swimming averages between one and two fatalities per million days of participation. Biking fatalities rarely reach beyond one for every 2 million days of participation.
But tandem is much safer than solo sky diving.
In the past decade in the U.S., 15 tandem sky divers have died in about 3 million to 4 million jumps.
That’s a fatality rate closer to other thrill sports like skiing: about four or five deaths for every 1 million jumps.
Of those 15 tandem deaths, 10 were students and their instructors. Those five accidents varied from equipment malfunctions to a drowning after landing in big surf to hard landings in gusty conditions, like the Longmont crash.
