This was published 2 years ago
‘I’m about to die’: Two friends went skydiving. One chute didn’t open on time
By Tim Elliott
In 2013, Emma Carey, then 20, jumped out of a helicopter at 14,000 feet, strapped to a skydiving instructor. Their chute opened too late. Her best friend, Jemma Mrdak, also 20 at the time, jumped seconds later.
Emma Carey (pink jacket) and Jemma Mrdak: “The accident bonded us in a way that not many people experience.” Credit: Joshua Morris
Emma: I met Jemma in kindergarten in Canberra. I remember being petrified of her. She’s confident and outspoken and I’m shy and quiet. The year after, we just clicked. I could be myself completely around her. Also, our names rhymed, which we liked. We were friends through primary and high school. I’d go to Jemma’s in the morning and her mum would drive us to school, and then Jemma would come home to mine in the afternoon. Everything we did, we did together.
In 2013, we went to Switzerland together. I’d always wanted to skydive, but Jemma was scared, so I made her do it. The whole way up in the helicopter, we were holding hands. Just before I jumped out, strapped to my instructor, I looked round at her and said, “I love you.”
At first, I was loving it. I was feeling calm, which is weird considering what you’re doing. Then I felt the instructor tap me on the shoulder, which was the signal for me to cross my arms over my chest and wait for the jolt of the parachute opening. But the jolt never came. As the seconds went by, I thought, “Maybe we’ll slow down soon and he’ll high-five me like you see in the videos.”
“You don’t think that in the hardest moment of your life you can laugh, but you can.”
Then I yelled out to him, but he didn’t respond. Then I saw the red parachute tangled up in a ball, and realised that it hadn’t opened. [The instructor had forgotten his altimeter, which would tell him when to open the parachute. He left the decision too late, causing it to become entangled with the automatic emergency chute.] I thought, “I’m about to die.”
The fall seemed infinite, but the brown and emerald fields underneath us were suddenly coming up fast. I landed hard on my belly, my instructor on top of me, in an expanding pool of dirt and blood. There was no noise or movement behind me; I assumed he was dead. And then there was pain – incredible, gut-wrenching, unbearable pain. I wondered if I could die from pain alone.
When Jemma landed, she ran over to me. My instructor had come to and unclipped himself, muttering something about his legs being shattered, before passing out again. [He’d go on to survive the accident.] I was screaming. I couldn’t move my legs.
Eventually, an ambulance and a rescue helicopter came. I was placed on a spinal board, my neck in a brace, and slid inside. Somehow, Jemma talked her way on, too. Later, flying over the Alps, me heavily sedated, we simultaneously looked at each other and made this silly face we’ve been doing since we were kids – upper lip tucked under in this creepy smile. You don’t think that in the hardest moment of your life you can laugh, but you can.
I was in the hospital in [Swiss capital city] Bern for a month: I had a broken sacrum, sternum, pelvis, L1 vertebra and crushed spinal cord. I was told I’d never walk again. Jemma slept on the floor of my room every night, until Mum and my sister, Tara, arrived from Australia a few days later. She was in survival mode, witnessing her best friend of 15 years lose her desire to live.
After a month, I was flown to the Prince of Wales Hospital in Sydney where the long, painful months of rehab began. One day, I wanted to surprise Jemma, so I organised, with help, to stand up out of my wheelchair and take a few wobbly steps on crutches to meet her in the hall. I remember her running towards me in happy shock and us hugging, in tears.
I wouldn’t be here without Jemma. Not many people have had a best friend for their entire life. She never left my side after the accident and is the first uninjured person ever to talk her way onto a rescue helicopter! She’s the calm to my chaos. There’ll never be a moment I’m not aware of my luck in having her in my life.
Jemma: Emma and I were in the same class in primary school. As we grew up, we played a lot of sport together – netball, swimming, jazz dancing, tennis. We were always braiding each other’s hair, having sleepovers, watching movies. Our families would go camping together. “Emma-and-Jemma” became almost like one word, we were so inseparable. And she’s such a hard worker: to save for our trip overseas, she worked in a chemist, at the zoo and in a bar. She’s good at service jobs because she’s really approachable.
We got to Switzerland on the fifth day of our trip. Emma was like, “Let’s go skydiving!” She’s a daredevil, but I’m not; she had to convince me. We were taken up in a helicopter. We told each other, “Love you, Lasso” and then jumped – she went first. It was cloudy, so I didn’t see her till we got to the ground, when I heard this blood-curdling scream. I saw her and her instructor lying on the ground; he was on top of her. She had blood all over her face; her teeth were shattered.
She said, “Do you think I’ve broken anything?” and I thought, “Yeah!” but said, “No.” I didn’t want her to panic. I grabbed a phone from a couple walking by and called for help; then I called Emma’s mum back home in Canberra and told her what had just happened. We always mucked around as kids and she didn’t believe me at first. But then she understood.
“She said, ‘Do you think I’ve broken anything?’ and I thought, ‘Yeah!’ but said, ‘No.’ I didn’t want her to panic.”
After an excruciating, hour-long wait, the rescue helicopter arrived. It was hard to communicate because I didn’t speak any German and they didn’t speak much English. The medic was saying to me: “You need to stay here. We don’t take people on the helicopter who don’t need assistance.” And I just said, “Absolutely not!” I told them Emma didn’t have anyone else to be with her, so I was coming. Finally, she let me on.
We flew about 30 minutes to a hospital in Bern; I just remember filling out a bunch of forms. At one point, when Emma was on drugs and no longer in pain, we turned to one another and made this stupid face. When we did that, I just knew in my gut that things would work out.
I was driven back to our cabin in Lauterbrunnen and told the people we were travelling with what had happened. That night, as Emma underwent eight hours of surgery, I wore her jumper to bed, and just lay there crying. In the days afterwards, the doctors were blunt. They said, “You’ll never walk again,” and she got hysterical and was placed on suicide watch. I stayed with her every minute until her mum and Tara arrived.
The accident bonded us in a way that not many people experience. Emma lives on the Gold Coast now, to be near the ocean, and I’m in Canberra, but we talk or text every day. I’ve learnt from her about being grateful for every day, but I’m also so grateful that she survived. If she hadn’t lived, I would’ve lost a part of myself.
Emma Carey’s autobiography, The Girl Who Fell from the Sky (Allen & Unwin, $33) is out August 30.
To read more from Good Weekend magazine, visit our page at The Sydney Morning Herald, The Age and Brisbane Times.