Parachute Jump Coney Island

Hey everyone, welcome back to *Brooklyn Echoes*, the podcast that keeps the borough’s legends and memories alive. I’m your host, Robert Henriksen. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this journey through the skies and sands of Coney Island. Today, we’re diving into the story of the Parachute Jump—an iconic tower that once thrilled daredevils and now stands as a glowing sentinel over Brooklyn’s famous boardwalk. If you’ve ever visited Coney Island, you’ve likely spotted this rust-red behemoth piercing the skyline, its arms outstretched like a giant metal flower. But its tale is far more than meets the eye. Let’s float back in time and explore its origins, thrills, and enduring legacy.

Imagine the year is 1939. The world is on the brink of war, but in Flushing Meadows, Queens, the New York World’s Fair is buzzing with optimism and innovation. Amid the futuristic pavilions and massive crowds, a new attraction steals the show: the Parachute Jump. Designed by retired Naval Commander James H. Strong, this ride wasn’t born in an amusement park—it evolved from military training towers used to prepare paratroopers. Strong, inspired by Soviet designs from the 1930s, patented the concept with Stanley Switlik in 1935. The first public jump? None other than aviation legend Amelia Earhart in 1935, leaping from a 115-foot tower in New Jersey.

At the World’s Fair, the Parachute Jump towered 250 feet high—though some sources peg it at 262 feet—including a 12-foot flagpole added to outdo the nearby Soviet Pavilion. Built by International Parachuting Inc. and sponsored by Life Savers candy (fitting, given the thrill factor), it opened on May 27, 1939. Riders paid 40 cents for adults or 25 cents for kids—about $9 or $5.65 in today’s money—for a heart-pounding experience. Initially with five chutes operational, it expanded to eleven, drawing half a million visitors in its first season alone. But the fair’s layout wasn’t ideal; the tower was tucked away, so in 1940, it was relocated closer to the subway entrance for better visibility, reopening in June after some legal tussles with Strong.

As the fair wrapped up in October 1940, the Parachute Jump faced an uncertain future. Enter the Tilyou family, owners of Coney Island’s Steeplechase Park. They snapped it up for $150,000, dismantled it, and trucked it piece by piece to Brooklyn’s seaside playground. By May 1941, it was reassembled on the Riegelmann Boardwalk, with modifications for the windier coastal environment—like deeper concrete foundations bolstered by timber piles. Now part of Steeplechase, the “Funny Place,” it became a staple of Coney Island’s golden era, alongside roller coasters, hot dogs, and beachside revelry.

World War II brought challenges, but the Jump adapted. During blackouts, its towering silhouette served as a navigational landmark for ships and planes. Riders kept coming—up to 500,000 a year at its peak—seeking that adrenaline rush amid global uncertainty. Picture couples on dates, families on outings, all queuing up for a taste of flight. But by the 1960s, Coney Island’s amusement scene was fading. Steeplechase Park closed on September 20, 1964, and the Parachute Jump went dark. Some accounts say it operated sporadically until 1968, with a dramatic incident that year where a girl got stuck mid-drop, requiring a rescue. After that, silence.

Now, let’s talk about how this mechanical marvel actually worked—because it wasn’t just a drop tower like modern rides. The structure was a hexagonal steel frame, 170 tons heavy, with 12 cantilevered arms extending 45 feet from the top, each holding a 32-foot-diameter parachute kept open by a metal ring. Riders—usually in pairs, up to 600 pounds total—stepped into a two-story pavilion at the base. Ticket booths and a waiting room greeted them on the ground floor, while upstairs housed the hoisting machinery.

Belted into canvas seats beneath a closed parachute, you’d be slowly winched up the tower via lift ropes and guide cables—a minute-long ascent building suspense. At the summit, a release mechanism triggered, and down you went! The parachute billowed, slowing your 10- to 20-second descent, while shock absorbers and pole-mounted springs ensured a gentle landing about 4 feet above ground. No freefall here—it was a guided float, safe yet exhilarating. But wind was the enemy; operations halted over 45 mph. And staffing? At least 15 crew members, including three cable operators per chute.

Culturally, the Parachute Jump is more than steel and cables—it’s the “Eiffel Tower of Brooklyn,” a symbol of Coney Island’s wild, inventive spirit. Nicknamed for its Erector Set-like appearance, it evoked the thrill of an era when amusement parks pushed boundaries. It popped up in films like 1953’s “Little Fugitive,” where a boy wanders Coney Island, and became a backdrop for countless memories. Visible from miles away, it fostered community pride, even as the area declined. In 1980, it earned a spot on the National Register of Historic Places, and in 1989, New York City designated it a landmark—the only surviving piece of Steeplechase Park.

Post-closure, its fate hung in the balance. The city bought the site in 1968 for $4 million, eyeing it for recreation. Demolition threats loomed in the 1970s and ’80s—proposals ranged from turning it into a bird feeder or windmill to outright scrapping it. But preservationists fought back. By the 1990s, it was stabilized and repainted in its original colors. Full restoration as a ride? Too pricey—estimates hit $20 million with insurance woes. Instead, in 2002-2003, a $5 million overhaul dismantled and rebuilt parts, followed by a 2006 lighting upgrade with 450 LEDs for dazzling night shows.

Today, in 2025, the Parachute Jump stands proud in Steeplechase Plaza, non-operational but alive with light. A 2013 $2 million revamp added 8,000 LEDs, programmable for animations tied to holidays, the Mermaid Parade, or causes like Autism Awareness and Ovarian Cancer Month. It even hosted a New Year’s Eve ball drop since 2014 and tributes, like purple and gold for Kobe Bryant in 2020. The base pavilion? Redeveloped after a 2004 design contest into an activity center. Anti-climbing devices keep it safe, and nearby, the historic B&B Carousell spins on.

As we wrap up this aerial adventure, remember: the Parachute Jump isn’t just a relic—it’s a testament to human ingenuity, the joy of risk, and the magic of Coney Island. Next time you’re there, munching on a Nathan’s hot dog or strolling the boardwalk, look up. That tower has stories to tell, floating on the wind like the parachutes of yesteryear. Thanks for joining me—now go chase your own thrills!

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