A Taste

I am eager for a taste of this tricky evening.  I watch the wings that sink out. I watch the wings that hold on. I watch the C wings take the last bench.  I see that flat, yet tight turns, determine the fate of those that hang on.  Tips that wobble, from brakes pulled too much or too little, will miss the narrow thermals and rocky rolling lift line.  I watch and watch, learning, absorbing yet hesitating. 

This is some of my favorite air.  It may look crowded for a few minutes but I know I will have most of the ridge to myself if I hold out because most will sink or land out.

I am eager for a taste but I pause as I watch launch.  Many of the pilots, including those who possess kiting skills that far exceed my own, are struggling.  Light easterly cross wind mixes with strong tapered thermals in densely cool air causing wings to rapidly switch from surging forward to buckling in; all while trying to also to rock them into the gullies. 

Once I am past launch, the air will engulf me in the moment.  I know I will be present, 100% present in each instant.  It is a drug for me.  I don’t care about the last course; I don’t care about the bench.  I want the thrill of listening to my wing, of staring fiercely at the stiff sage for flickering foliage, of guessing which ridge will have the tiniest bit more movement as I try to correctly time each sink and lift cycle.

Oh I am eager for a taste!   Again, I pull my wing up but just as quickly I set it back down.  Again the light sharp feather of memory teases my neck.  I have been ‘gullied’.  The result was only a few nasty scratches and a twisted ankle but I have not forgotten it could have been more. I turn around to watch another pilot get picked up, sat down and snarled into a knot.

I look around for an instructor who has before helped me this year on a similar evening but they aren't here. Drat.  I turn back and as I watch I can see the gusts are abating.  It is going to continue to be cross and uneven but it is smoother.  I roll my shoulders, take a deep breath, decide and ask someone else to assist me; to ask them help me be safe and coach my launch.

And they do, while telling me I should take a pass on this tricky air…. J  With their much appreciated verbal only guidance, I have a safe launch and I have my taste.

Oh such wonderful air; the best kind, the teaching kind, the kind that keeps me hyper alert.  I grinned as I missed the minuscule thermal at the gazebo and I carefully tapped my brakes into a flat turn to catch it again, relying on weight shift.  I laughed as I climbed back up to ridge level; I dropped my inside hip, just touching my outside brake to level out my wing’s porpoise effect caused by flying close to the gullies and ridges.  I repeat this movement, searching the ridge for all of the steps.

A strong thermal lifts me up quickly and I turn into it, ‘parked’ for a moment until I feel it roll over and past and down I sink again.  The rowdiest air on an easterly evening seems to always towards the end so I use the lower landing zone to as a visual marker to not go past.

I dance in this silly, laughing turbulent air delivered by a wind that challenges me to be present, to be in every instant, to never let my attention stray and to never give up.  For thirty four minutes I sink, I soar; I live in each heart beat until I hear her sigh that she is done with our play.   I turn in my last chance to be on top, land on the grass and laugh at myself.