In my year and a half of flying, one curious fact is how rarely I have flown with or talked to paraglider pilots. They just seem to avoid us around here for some reason. The first time was a full year into my hang gliding career, at the Marlborough Hang Gliding Nationals. There was this laid back dude that got a lift up the hill one day. I thought he was just some guy coming up for a look. But no, he was an infiltrator from the dark side. The thing that alerted me to the fact that we would be sharing airspace with a paraglider was when I noticed Shane McKay fixing razor blades to his leading edge. He explained it was a traditional custom amongst hang glider pilots and suggested I do the same. He also briefed me on the alternative version of the Rules of the Air that come into effect when paragliders are around. It was pretty much assumed we would be dining on this interloper's chai-infused flesh that night at the BBQ, but in the end, the guy proved remarkably adept at surviving the angry gaggle, mainly because he seemed to outclimb everyone. The closest he came to a premature demise was when he foolishly barged into a tiny wee thermal that Chris Shaw was desperately trying to stay in at the same time. Chris stupidly put safety first on this occasion and exited to the bombout paddock, but the debrief wasn’t pretty. I believe the term Fatwah would not be improper to describe his resolution that night.
So you can imagine my surprise when Shane said the Nelson paragliding community had invited three of us to join their league for a long weekend at the Nelson Lakes. Were they mad? Didn’t they know hang gliders and paragliders hated each other? Obviously not. It sounded like an intriguing opportunity to see this species up close, so I shot down to Mitre 10 and bought a fifty-pack of razor blades, chucked the glider on the car and headed down early Saturday morning.
I shuffled into the briefing room behind Shane who had apparently survived close contact with such people on previous occasions. I decided to take my cues off him rather than make any horrendous gaffes. Shane’s first gesture of goodwill upon entering the room was to enquire as to the whereabouts of the toilet, which he utilised to stunning effect. The only person I recognized in the room was Tim Percival. Actually it was his Peter Ellis glasses I recognised, to tell the truth. The image of his face grinning through those glasses was burned into my brain from the many times I had read his article about his awesome flight from the Nelson Lakes through to Lewis Pass or somewhere like that. As I introduced myself to him I realised I had subconsciously bestowed on him all my other preconceived notions of Peter Ellis. He may have wondered why I was backing up to the wall and why my hand was trembling and sweating as I shook his. I soon snapped out of it though, and Tim proved himself instantly to be very pleasant guy, full of good stories, and very open about sharing his vast flying knowledge and skills. In a nutshell he was a brilliant, normal human being. What were the odds of that? Amazing. Waaaaait a miiinute… maybe he was just acting normal to try and lure me away from the One True Sport. Yes, that must have been it. I did my best to avoid him from then on in case I was weakened by his smoothly seductive lines and pert little bottom. I ran back to Shane, who was grunting and poking at someone’s neatly glad-wrapped sandwiches. Aaaaah, someone I could trust…
It turned out that every one of these paraglider pilots seemed to be in cahoots with Tim Percival’s devious plan. Yes, they were all acting like perfectly nice, reasonably sane people, and if I wasn’t so onto it I could easily have been lost to the Dark Side. There were a few glaring flaws in their act though. For instance, every so often one of them would speak openly and honestly about their feelings. And no one would laugh at them. What’s that all about? Also, at one point a distinctly hot female walked into the gas station while we were there, and not one of the males made a boorish comment or started humping the biscuit stand. Apart from Shane, that is. And the biggest giveaway of all: at the end of the first days flying it was decided we should all to the lake for a swim and a nice cold, wait for it… Sauvignon Blanc!!! Out Satan, OUT!!! I say!
Under the inviolable edicts passed down to us by the Dunedin Flying Club we all know you drink beer after flying, or at least something undeniably manly. So it was inevitable things would get ugly, and they did. Clint Fraser produced a huge plastic flagon of industrial strength home brew out of the Holden and with Shane’s help proceeded to enthusiastically uphold all decent standards of post-flight protocol.
Shane and Clint discussing strategy
It was a brave and determined effort, but I was beginning to fear it was all for nothing as the paragliders started edging nervously away to their own cars, laughing weakly and averting their eyes. I could sense that as a pack they were about to scatter into the forest. But at the last minute one of them weakened. Fittingly, he was from neutral Switzerland. Recognising the obscenity of his own group’s conduct, he boldly walked up to Clint and asked for a swig of beer. It was emotional for me to watch, I must admit. The enormity of the moment was, just maybe, matched by the first time Diane Fossey managed to touch a wild gorilla (and the parallels do not escape me, rest assured), but I doubt it. I coughed in a manly manner to disguise my trembling bottom lip, and wiped the moisture from my eye under the pretence of scratching a sandfly bite. The beauty of this genuine, deep attempt at inter-species contact was somewhat lessened when this brave fellow spat the entire swig of beer all over Clint’s feet, exclaiming “faaaaarrk, zees stuff taste like sheeeeet!”
This time I was one of the ones shuffling nervously away. If aliens ever do land on earth I hope that guy doesn’t get the job of meet and greet. I saw the telltale glint of highly polished steel as Clint began to open a pack of razor blades, with a chilling little smile on his lips, and a confused, slightly sad look in his eyes. I could see the cogs turning in the paraglider’s tiny little mind as firstly he realised his actions were sub-optimal in a diplomatic sense, and then that he would have to atone for this error in the next ten seconds or be subjected to a bit of amateur vasectomising by Clint. There didn’t seem any hope of rescuing the situation, but I had underestimated our Swiss friend’s genius. He cracked the only possible solution within half a second, and implemented it to stunning effect. Yes, he ran to his van and came back with a bottle of fifteen year old single malt whiskey, took the top off and (please, do not try this at home) offered Clint a drink. Unbelievable I know. He obviously did not know who he was dealing with.
The results were too horrible to ethically describe in print, but the whiskey was fatally depleted within a short time. Shane was ever loyal, right by Clint’s side to helpfully take this holy communion and heal the rift. The Swiss guy was deliriously happy with his narrow escape and eagerly celebrated with a few dangerously deep pulls from the bottle when he could prise it from Clint’s vice-like grip. As the three of them began to behave more and more laddishly, the savvy-sipping fraternity began to compensate in the opposite direction. They started picking up rubbish, and talking about who was going to be the designated driver for the 200m trip along the beach to the campsite. I think I even saw one guy braiding another man’s hair. (I told you it was too horrible to describe in print.)
I don’t know where Shane and Clint slept that night, and I suspect they don’t either. But the Swiss guy did appear groggily from a beat up van at my campsite next morning. I was, at the time, in a high state of excitement, as I was about to ride one the paraglider’s mountain bikes (why are their cars always festooned with these dreadful contraptions?) to town for a latte or three. Before I could mount up though, the Swiss guy very generously offered me a coffee from his van. Why not, I thought. He’s Swiss, he’s probably got one of those stovetop espresso percolators. I could do with a shot of good black oil.
I began to regret accepting his offer when he opened the side door of his van. A dubious looking pair of undies was lying on an unwashed weetbix bowl. There was clutter and junk all over the place, too much horror to mention in this short space, but it was meaningless anyway, because in less than one nano second my eyes had fixated on a truly hideous sight: a torn open packet of, (and I can barely bring myself to write it) Greggs… Red… Ribbon… Roast… Surely not!
I was paralysed with grief, I couldn’t move my eyes from this ghastly sight, the more so because I knew what was about to unfold. My terror redoubled with his casually mentioned words, “You don’t mind milk powder do you?” No words in the English language could fully do justice to my honest answer to that question, and anyway, I couldn’t physically move my mouth to answer, as it was firmly locked in a deathly rictus. Stuck in a sort of silly grin, juxtaposed with my bulging, terrified eyes. If I thought things couldn‘t get any worse I was sorely mistaken.
It turned out the water was only lukewarm which meant the milk powder congealed in stinky lumps around the rim. I am finding it altogether too painful to recall anything more about this coffee. And my shame at letting it pass my lips will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have, however, included a photo to give you some idea of the culinary atrocity that man committed that day. Click on it for an extreme close-up if you dare. It was more than just a bad coffee too, because it shook me so badly I didn’t listen properly on the phone to Shane’s directions to the bottom of Mt Blowhard, and after waiting for an hour and a half at the wrong place I forlornly drove home to mow the lawns while everyone else was flying up to 70kms over majestic alpine wilderness on a day so clear you could see Mt Cook.
So my conclusion is yes, paragliders are evil bastards. The war is far from over. So be vigilant, my fellow stiffies, for the enemy is fiendishly clever and all around us. They speak in tongues, usually English Lake District tongues for some reason. I survived an assassination attempt (thanks be to God for mysuper sensitive gag-reflex) but I know I won‘t be so lucky next time. I have looked the devil in the eye and it is not something I want to ever do again. If you ever find yourself in my predicament do not, I repeat do not, ever get separated from Shane or Clint, or someone similarly battle hardened who can protect you in these truly dark days.
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