Nestled in the sun-baked fields of Acampo, California, just outside Lodi in San Joaquin County, the Parachute Center stands as both a mecca for adrenaline junkies and a monument to misfortune. Since its doors opened in 1985, at least 28 people have perished in skydiving accidents tied to the facility—a staggering toll that dwarfs fatalities at comparable drop zones across the U.S. From tangled parachutes and mid-air collisions to suspected suicides and a horrific landing that saw a jumper crash through the roof of a moving truck, the center’s history is a litany of tragedy. Yet, despite lawsuits, federal probes and a reputation as “the Bermuda Triangle of skydiving,” it remains operational, drawing hundreds of jumpers weekly who chase the freefall high even as ghosts of the past linger in the landing zone. As one veteran skydiver put it in a 2024 Reddit thread, “It’s like playing Russian roulette with a golden parachute—thrilling until it’s not.” This is the story of a place where the sky promises freedom but too often delivers finality.

The Parachute Center, formerly known as Skydive Lodi and Acme Aviation, sprawls across 400 acres of flat farmland, an ideal runway for planes loaded with daredevils. Owned since 2003 by William “Bill” Dause, a former skydiving instructor with a folksy demeanor, the center markets itself as a no-frills haven for beginners and pros alike. Tandem jumps start at $199, with experienced jumpers paying by the load. On a typical weekend, up to 20 Cessna Caravans and Otters ferry groups skyward, piercing the Central Valley haze at 13,500 feet. The drop zone hugs Highway 99, where semi-trucks rumble below—a proximity that’s saved lives in soft landings but proven lethal in others.

The fatalities began almost immediately. The first, on January 27, 1985, claimed Michael Abbott, a 38-year-old Sunnyvale agricultural worker. During a group jump, Abbott vanished mid-freefall; his unopened parachute and body were later found in a vineyard by his girlfriend. Coroner’s reports cited a possible altimeter malfunction, but the exact cause remained murky—no federal oversight meant no mandatory investigation. Over the decades, the deaths mounted: 21 by 2016, per early tallies, climbing to 28 by 2021, as documented in coroner’s records obtained by SFGATE and The Sacramento Bee. Victims ranged from teens to seniors, hailing from Colombia, Germany and South Korea, united by a fatal pursuit of the rush.

Human error dominates the blame game, with faulty judgments under pressure accounting for most incidents. Parachute malfunctions—failed deployments or entanglements—claimed lives like Nena Mason’s in 2018. The 62-year-old’s main chute snagged, and she couldn’t deploy her reserve in time, plummeting to earth as her husband watched helplessly from above. Mid-air collisions, often from miscommunications in crowded skies, felled others: In 1992, two jumpers tangled at 1,000 feet, their chutes collapsing in a deadly embrace. Landings gone awry added to the count—wind gusts blowing jumpers into power lines or, infamously, over the highway. Maria Robledo Vallejo, a 28-year-old Colombian resident at the center, was carried by a rogue breeze in 2019 straight into the path of a semi-truck. Her body was found mangled on the asphalt, parachute draped like a shroud.

But the case that haunts most is Tyler Turner’s in 2016—a tandem jumper whose death exposed cracks in training protocols. The 18-year-old high school grad, strapped to instructor Yong Kwon, hurtled toward the ground when Kwon’s main chute failed to open. Kwon, 25 and newly arrived from South Korea, had been hastily certified by Robert Pooley, a rogue instructor running unlicensed courses at the center. In a desperate bid, Kwon cut away the main and pulled the reserve—too late. Turner struck the earth at terminal velocity, his skull fracturing on impact. Kwon, thrown clear but gravely injured, died days later. Turner’s mother, Francine, arrived post-crash to find planes still ascending, oblivious. “They kept jumping like nothing happened,” she recounted to SFGATE, her grief raw. The incident, one of the center’s five tandem fatalities, led to a $40 million wrongful death suit against Dause—settled quietly, with no payout disclosed.

Pooley’s scheme unraveled the center’s underbelly. Certified in 2010 by the United States Parachute Association (USPA) as a tandem examiner, his license was suspended in 2015 for violations. Undeterred, he charged $1,500 per trainee for bootleg classes, pocketing $100,000 from unwitting students before fleeing with the cash. Federal prosecutors nailed him in 2024: Guilty of wire fraud and making false statements, the 49-year-old Acampo resident drew two years in prison in October. “He preyed on dreamers,” U.S. Attorney Phillip Talbert said, linking Pooley’s fraud to at least two deaths, including Turner’s. Victims demanded refunds; Pooley ghosted them.

The sheer volume—28 over nearly four decades—defies easy math. The USPA pegs skydiving’s fatality rate at under one per 100,000 jumps nationwide, a figure the center’s defenders invoke. Dause claims over 500,000 jumps from his airstrip, putting the rate at a “respectable” 5.6 per 100,000—higher than average but not outlier territory, per former USPA safety director Jim Crouch. Yet Crouch admitted he’d “never heard of another busy center with that many since ’85.” Northern California peers like West Valley Skydiving report zero fatalities in decades; even high-volume spots like Perris Valley log fewer. Critics, including families, cry negligence: Lax gear checks, overcrowded loads, undertrained staff. A 2023 FAA audit flagged maintenance lapses, but no shutdown followed—skydiving’s Wild West ethos prevails.

Regulation? It’s a patchwork. No federal agency mandates fatality reporting or probes; the FAA focuses on aviation mishaps, not freefall fumbles. The USPA, a voluntary trade group, sets guidelines but lacks teeth—centers like Lodi opt in or out. State laws are toothless: California requires no licenses for operators, just basic insurance. “It’s a very dangerous, hazardous endeavor,” Dause told The Bee in 2023, shrugging off scrutiny. Lawsuits pile up—over a dozen since 2000, netting multimillion settlements—but the center endures, buoyed by waivers that shield against “inherent risks.”

Not all deaths scream error; some whisper intent. In 2007, a 40-year-old jumper’s chute deployed perfectly—yet he steered into the ground at speed, ruled suicide by coroner. Another in 2013, a German tourist, plummeted with unopened gear amid whispers of despair. These outliers fuel conspiracy chatter on forums like Reddit’s r/Sacramento, where a 2024 post on the center’s toll drew 500 comments: “Cursed ground” vs. “Stats gonna stat—skydiving kills 0.000 something percent.” Families like the Turners see systemic rot: Francine, still unpaid from her suit, rails against Dause’s “cowboy operation.” Others, like the parents of 15-year-old Jacob Lewis—killed in a 2015 tangle—sue for accountability, only to hit waiver walls.

Yet the jumps persist. On a balmy October weekend in 2025, the center buzzed: Novices strapped to instructors, veterans in wingsuits slicing the air. A sign at the hangar reads, “Life’s short—jump now.” Dause, 70-something and unbowed, mans the desk, touting safety upgrades post-Pooley: Mandatory USPA recerts, gear audits. “We’ve learned,” he insists, though a 2021 death—a canopy collision—belies progress. Thrill-seekers cite the camaraderie, the views of the Sierra Nevada silhouette. “You know the risks,” said Alex Rivera, a 29-year-old repeat jumper from Sacramento. “But that 60 seconds? Worth every heartbeat.”

As 2025 closes, calls for reform echo louder. A bipartisan California bill, introduced post-Sacramento Bee exposé, eyes mandatory reporting and USPA affiliation for state-funded sites. Nationally, the USPA pushes digital logs for better tracking. But for now, Lodi endures—a paradox of peril and pull. The 28th victim, a 57-year-old in 2021 whose chutes “down-planed” into oblivion, might argue otherwise. In a sport where survival odds beat driving, the center’s ledger stains the sky. Thrill-seekers leap on, but for families below, the falls never end. Is it reckless abandon or calculated gamble? At the Parachute Center, the answer drifts with the wind—unseen until too late.