Integrity Curry

By Martin Jones

A short book of more short stories from the well-chewed pen of an author who spends a lot of time, well, chewing pens. The author swears that all these stories are absolutely true - apart from those that aren't. Enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Jones
• Release date: Feb 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310784811

Martin Jones

Martin is an award-winning photographer. His interest in wildlife photography led him to the Isle of Mull, beginning a love affair with the island, where he retired with his wife, Stella. Their interest in biodiversity resulted in a huge catalogue of photographs of Mull's unique scenery, fauna, flora and fungi.

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Integrity Curry

Integrity Curry

Martin Jones

Martin Jones

2016

INTEGRITY CURRY

By Martin Jones

Published by Martin Jones at Smashwords

Copyright 2016 Martin Jones

Discover these other titles by Martin Jones at Smashwords.com

Visiting Chris

Plummeting, Piste & Playing Possum (and other stories)

Yokozuna Dreams with Rats and Mutts

Pru, Heck and Hao-Hao

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2016 by Martin Jones

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

ISBN 978-1-329-19560-8

Christchurch, New Zealand

CONTENTS

DOUBLE TAKE

ALL SAY CHEESE!

A FAR-FROM-MADDING CROWD

LEON

TALKBACK

GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS

JOE THE HORSE

USH

THANKS AWFULLY

THE BUTLER DIDN’T DO IT

DOLPHINS

INTEGRITY CURRY

TRAMPING PARTY 4 - SPELUNKING

DOUBLE-TAKE

Now, there are people, believe it or not, who think that getting into a small light aircraft is verging on madness. Let’s call them The Wobblies. The same folk tend to subscribe to the view that it is absolute insanity to get out of such an aircraft BEFORE IT LANDS. Such Wobblies simply have not yet experienced the thrill of skydiving. And I insert that ‘yet’ in mischievous vein, since who knows? One day they might actually hurl aside inhibitions and take the leap themselves (just as one day swine may soar).

Then, of course, there is another set of people - let’s call them The Shruggers - who have no problem with the notion of small aircraft, who can even tolerate in one the youthful enthusiasm – a type of madness – which leads one to summon bravado, oats, cojones, dutch courage, call it what you will, to the point where one actually clambers aboard such an aircraft with a parachute strapped to one’s back, with the express purpose of experiencing one time the adrenalin rush of a parachute jump.

But, and this is a monumental BUT, Shruggers become Wobblies, and join the vast majority of brain-endowed, logical-thinking, commonsensical humanity who would willingly sign their name to the widely-known fact that to go back and do it all again a SECOND TIME is definitely, no-arguments, dead-set LOONY. After surviving one’s first parachute jump, which, let’s face it, was taking recklessness and foolhardiness to the extreme, how could it be physically, genetically, psychologically, hermetically, (or some other ridiculous adverb) possible to convince oneself that it was OK to do it AGAIN? Only lemmings, furry little creatures with no brain processes and only a self-destructive herd instinct, could possibly do something so clearly preposterous.

And so there we were, in dark blue overall suits, parachute harnesses strapped around torsos and upper legs, goggles perched on foreheads and helmets tucked under armpits, about to embark on our second jump. At least, it was my second jump. The others were first-timers. There I was with my rugby team-mate, Damian, who, just for the sake of avoiding confusion, I shall henceforth refer to as Damian, another rather puny chap named Sam, and a jolly, red-faced, plumpish chap with a nervous but firm handshake and an air of sweaty but excited apprehension who introduced himself as Damian.

Short pause here for a double-take.

Damian? Fancy that. Two Damians. Half of all the jumpers on this plane load. What are the odds?

So we clambered aboard the tiny Cessna that would transport us to a point in the air where it would then hand us over to gravity. Sam, being the slightest, was crammed into the tail end of the cabin, my mate Damian was jammed just in front of him, then me, squashed behind the pilot’s seat. Our jump master, an expert skydiver named Tracey, slight of build, long of patience, sat next to me, directly behind the new, jittery, ruddy-faced Damian, who sat alongside the pilot’s seat, facing forward, with the exit door on his right.

Twenty minutes later we had taxied, taken off, climbed, circled, and arrived at the designated piece of sky, and it was time for Damian the Red to part company with our winged chariot. Tracey opened the door, wind rushed in, and Damian’s resolve immediately rushed out. He just couldn’t do it. His self-preservation instinct refused to give in to his desire to achieve adrenalin nirvana, and he just could not, despite Tracey’s best efforts to cajole and coax and counsel and persuade, bring himself to step out of that plane.

Finally, we had cruised well past the optimum spot for jumping, in fact by now we were somewhere out at sea, and the pilot signaled to Tracey that we would have to circle back. She hauled the door shut, and then motioned for me to change places with Damian the Redder than Ever. This was a difficult task. Imagine sardines in a tin trying to swap positions, all the time aware that their emergency chutes were prone to triggering open in confined spaces. On second thoughts, scrub that metaphor.

So, after a certain amount of contorting and swearing, we were ready once again, back in the zone, door open and yours truly had the honour of stepping out of the plane first and plummeting earthwards. For the second time in my life I let go of the only solid thing between me and the ground 3000 feet away, and trusted my life to the static line that pulled my parachute out of its bag. I found myself again floating smoothly through the sky, clutching my toggles, and preparing for instructions to be transmitted to me via my helmet radio.

It was a well-thought-out system. Before a group of jumpers boarded a plane they were weighed, and the heaviest was scheduled to jump first, thereby reducing the weight in the plane rapidly, followed by the next heaviest and so on. The ordered list of the jumpers’ names was then left with the controller on the ground. Once the plane reached a point above the drop zone, the pilot radioed the controller, who then, using binoculars, would monitor the jumpers and give them instructions from the ground through their helmet speakers. The controllers were often so adept at this job that they didn’t bother with binoculars – they could see the parachutes quite adequately with the naked eye from a mere 3000 feet away.

Now, the heaviest