Year 3 Hang Gliding

here we go again...

A dream of mine is to fluke the New Zealand cross country record as the barely competent intermediate I am. Don’t laugh, I’m serious. My local takeoff here in the Marlborough Sounds (Mt Duncan) is where the current record by Matt Barlow started. I know the route he took. I own the glider he got the record on, and I have flexible enough work hours to fly on any good looking day that comes along. If it starts thermalling nicely I can be on launch in 30 minutes flat. I figure if I can get a better day than he got, and I can takeoff an hour earlier than he did, all I have to do is fluke a few thermals at the hard bits, wet my pants, not get lost, and the record is mine, all mine. The decent pilots out there would undoubtedly go further if they came along, but they are all at work, or living in stupid places like Christchurch. Idiots!

Another textbook commitment of aviation

The hang gliding fraternity in NZ should be egging me on. Someone amongst us needs to smash Matt’s record before the unthinkable happens. Yes, there are darks forces gathering. (I can't even bring myself to type their name but it starts with P and rhymes with "karagliders") Yes, the most evil, stinking creatures imaginable are nibbling at our rightful dominance. The most lowly lifeform known to man is daring to be so, so… disgusting and offensive as to attempt the same magnificent airborne feats that we alone in our majesty can hope to achieve. One of these airborne pathogens accidently drifted within a few kms of Matt’s record, and would have definitely beaten it if not for the innate cowardliness of the species that forced it to land at the first available opportunity. This was a close shave for hang gliding and we must be careful not to let ambition or confidence take root in the lowest caste of aviation. This could happen if their XC record stays so close to ours for any length of time. As it is we should be thoroughly ashamed of ourselves and avoid all contact with these… people, until we reestablish

the natural order of things.

Anyway, as it happened, I missed all of December, January and February last summer by taking a job on a cruise ship driving Zodiacs on the Antarctic Peninsula. So I never really threatened to break the record. (Lucky for you, Matt.) In Marlborough I left behind Chris Shaw, who claimed he was too busy to break the record, and Shane McKay, who claimed he didn’t feel like it. Come on guys… we’re at the “End of Days” here. A little urgency would be helpful right now.

So I’m sorry, but my flying adventures were few and far between this season. There are really only two events worth filling you in on. The first was one spring day that the three of us took off from Mt Duncan, not thinking of the record but going that direction anyway. When I started this flying thing with Chris Shaw, we used to fantasize about racing each other along remote mountain ranges and we would work ourselves into a giddy frenzy about how great that would feel. On this particular day the dream actually happened. I want to write about it mainly to inspire the learners out there, to reinforce their dreams while it’s still fresh and novel enough to rave about it before any jadedness or cynicism sets in.

Chris Shaw

Shane took off first, and as was his tactic at the time, he raced ahead aggressively without even taking his thermals as high as they could go. (He was using some theory that he had picked up from Australia. As with most of Shane’s theories, we ignored it.) That left me and Chris with the sky to ourselves. So there we were.

Chris launches

Chris took off about 20 minutes after me, long after I had reached cloudbase (which, for all you beginners out there is pretty easy when the day is good, so keep the faith, you too will be doing all this stuff before long). What with it being unmanly to dither on a cross country, I had forged on ahead to the summit of Mt Duncan only to find a complete absence of lift. This was unusual, and normally would have sent me scurrying back to takeoff where I knew I could get straight back up again. But the day looked good, I was feeling manly, and I decided to just pop further along the route to see what was there with the plan to go back to takeoff if I found nothing. Well, sure enough, I found nothing, but takeoff suddenly seemed a long way away, and was totally out of the question when I spied my nemesis at cloudbase above said takeoff. After coming up with a feasible bombout excuse (one of the skills they don’t teach you in your beginner course), I decided to make a hopeless dash for a spot just above my house that has given me modest success in the past. I got there lowish, and, no lift. My mind did that depressing switch where it went from trying to decide what cloud looked the tastiest, to deciding what handkerchief-sized piece of flat ground was I most likely to survive landing on. That moment happens every cross country flight really. It always reminds me of getting out in cricket. It is always a shock, not in the script. It almost always feels unfair too, because by definition you have willingly left lift to get where you are now. That’s manly. Doesn’t that count for something? Hint to beginners: If you’re not careful you can end up being one of those pathetic creatures who are unwilling to leave the “house thermal” (a permanent area of lift that everyone except you can instantly find after takeoff).

I would rather double or quits; make a move and bombout straight away rather than float around for two hours around takeoff. That is, I would rather do that until the precise moment I realize I am bombing out. At that moment I want to beg the Lord’s forgiveness (my desperation always quickly leads me to belief in the supernatural, but not as quick as landing leads me away again) for my arrogance and swear that if a miracle happens I will go straight back to the house thermal and be thankful. Whenever the miracle happens and I am lifted from landing approach back to cloudbase I sensibly remind myself that there is no god, but I am one hell of a good pilot, so why not strike out and utilise the next skillfully predicted thermal generator?

So it was on this day, I was about to land 5 km from takeoff when that delightful beeping sound started interrupting my landing approach. I was totally off the “proper” route by now, but extremely happy knowing that when I got back to cloudbase I could glide to Havelock if nothing else. Why this made me happy I don’t know. Joy is relative I guess, when you stare despair in the face.

From there I just kept lucking on timely thermals, over to Footes’ takeoff, along to various unnamed peaks, laughing ever louder as each tiny step made my flight less embarrassing. The fact that Chris was surely halfway to Hanmer springs by now was the only dampener. Before I knew it, I was back on the planned route, roaring skyward over Mt Riley, a geographic barrier that has stumped us more often than not. Ben happy. Then to my shock I saw Chris groveling low in Long valley, way below and behind me. Ben giggling deliriously.

From there it was a cakewalk along the Richmond ranges until Mt Royal where I couldn’t seem to get high enough to risk going on the sunny side of the peak. The risk is if you lose lift below the ridge you have to do a long glide out to the Wakamarina valley which is a cacophony of lifestyle blocks and 20m long deer fenced paddocks occupied by bored randy Shetland Stallions. I bailed out while I could still glide to the Wairau river.

As I battled on the southern (shady and therefore less thermally) side of Mt Roya,l Chris caught up and the feeling was absolutely brilliant. Here we were, two barely competent best friends (double meaning intended), in the middle of f___ing nowhere, circling for our lives above the snowline. It is definitely the highlight of what was already an amazing three years for me. What happened thereafter is not important, nor is the fact I beat Chris by 10km that day. That’s not what it’s about, even though my total distance was 20% further than his. That’s not why I fly. The reason we fly is to keep expanding our universe and our souls, and if I expand mine way further than Chris’s then that’s just what the universe wants. Chris understands this. He congratulated me heartily on my success, just not in a way you’d notice.

Upon my return from Antarctica I was fizzing at the bung to go flying, and had some fun flights, but overall, the weather was only average. Then one day, the sky started boiling at 8.30 ambehind the house. I decide it was a cracker and set about getting my gear together. I was so organized I did things like hydrate for the flight at home. I lovingly placed fresh batteries in the GPS. The whole morning felt like a slow motion scene in a sports movie where the underdog talent is getting ready for the event that will take him to glory. You know the type of scene, extreme close-ups of Paul Bettany doing up his laces in that movie Wimbledon. Every tiny sound is heard in astounding clarity. You are unnaturally patient and deliberate. Like the twenty minutes of contractions before you take a dump. Or is that just me?

I was there ready to launch at about 11.30am, the wind was blowing gently up the takeoff ramp. It was only about 5 knots but that was fine, Chris and I had both done nil wind takeoffs there the night before. All systems were go. I was extremely excited but telling myself to stay calm and not forget the basics of takeoff. So I forgot the basics of takeoff. I decided to make the takeoff “extra safe” by getting in three good running steps on the flat rigging area before I headed off down the ramp. The wing felt solid as I ran down the ramp, sort of too solid. I pushed out as I got to the end of the ramp and immediately realized I was “mushing”, my nose was too high. I pulled it in and started to fly properly but by then I was a lot lower than normal. My righthand wingtip clipped the furry top of a spindly xmas tree. The tree top bent easily but the tip was delayed by a second compared to the other one. As I watched in disbelieving horror I saw it had lost vital airspeed and it started dropping out of the air. I pulled the bar further in and slowly regained control, but not before an accelerating 180 turn back towards the hill. It was clear at this stage I was going to crash straight into a mountain at speed in a topless glider.

It is hard to describe the incredible change of circumstance my mind had to cope with during those two seconds. Going from the exquisite joy of what was surely going to be my best ever flight, to the fact I could well die in five seconds time. The first response that flooded through my mind was not fear but sadness. I remember being surprised at the power of this feeling, and the fact it was there at all. Mixed in was a good dose of shame, and anger. None of it was particularly helpful. There were even two types of anger I had; one at the fact I had been an idiot, and another separate batch of anger that I was not going to get to fly in the best sky I had seen all summer. I am still coming to terms with what it all means but you probably want to get back to the crash. Previous to this day I had visualized many times what I would try and do if things went pear shaped. My plan was always that I would stay calm, “keep flying the glider” (as Ben Judge once told me) no matter how bad the situation, and try to salvage the best result possible. Much to my amazement, this is exactly what I did.

I pulled the bar even further in as I screamed in towards the hill, and flared out for all I was worth just before impact. I remembered to let go the uprights just before hitting. The basebar hit and shattered (not that I noticed) while I turned my body so it presented itself perfectly parallel and side on to the hill. I turned my head side on and shielded it with my forearm and hand and waited (all of 2 microseconds) for the impact. It was about as hard as if I had jumped off a van roof and landed on the dirt side on. Or maybe a shed roof. It was pretty hard. I snapped a carbon crossbar and a leading edge, both uprights, the basebar, a carbon wingtip, a batten, bent my heartbolt, and also stretched the steel ring joining my nosewires into an oval.

Then there was complete silence apart from a twittering skylark above. I was winded and had contradictory feelings of extreme joy I was still conscious but being terrified something was broken in me. I wriggled tentatively and was amazed to find nothing wrong at all apart from a sore rib. The relief was almost worth the whole ordeal, but not quite.

In the weeks that followed the crash I had to analyse what I felt about it all, which wasn’t easy. I had always said I wouldn’t carry on if it became apparent that random events could make you crash. I think this was definitely pilot induced. Can that be a random event?

So what happened? I can only conclude the crash was caused by my run along the flat before heading down the ramp. I think I started with the correct nose angle for the flat and didn’t then adjust the nose down enough when I got on the ramp. Therefore I was pulling my glider down the ramp like a drag car’s parachute. Two steps down the ramp like that and there was no hope that I could recover without clipping a pine tree. The term “Intermediate Syndrome” probably applies nicely. I was confident enough to try and “improve” normal takeoff technique, but ignorant enough to not understand the subtle trap I was creating for myself.

I haven’t flown since, mainly because it has taken this long to get my glider back together. Shane test flew it for me last weekend and it was great to see it screaming around. I am very excited about getting back in the air in the next week or so.

I bring up this tale of woe in a learn-to-fly issue for many reasons, most of which are self explanatory. But mainly I want to tell the learners of the terrible grief I felt at the thought of never flying again. When I was humming and hahing about whether I could trust myself from now on, I tried to visualize sitting at home while the sky boiled off all around me. Such a thought was too depressing to consider. After a near miss crash I still cannot imagine life without flying. So I will continue. I will be different, for sure. I have told myself that it wasn’t the physics’ fault, it was my overconfidence and undercompetence. From now on I will stick to the tried and true, but try and keep my aspirations and joys as high as ever. No one should crash like I did, it is not acceptable. But such crashes are very rare, and rugby players get far worse injuries in their hundreds every Saturday. I was amazed how my glider protected me, but don’t intend to ask it to protect me ever again. So I hope you get some respect for the dangers of our sport through my shame, but also get my more important point that it really is the most fantastic, amazing sport you can do. So get out there, learn properly, and join me in the fight to keep the paragliders at bay. And come back to Marlborough this summer for the Nationals, even if you’re a learner (like me…). The flying should be to be fantastic, the geography spectacular, and the sight of a strung out gaggle racing along the Richmond Ranges will be inspiration to keep all of us going for years to come. Bring it on!