Gliding 1994

http://www.sugarbush.org/Sugarbush_Soaring/Home.html (upgraded since 1994...still not recommended by me!)

12 min. freewrite

Prompt:  I never would have guessed…

I never would have guessed the pilot of the glider would not first get the control stick from the office or wherever these fly-by-night-do-it-yourself in the Green Mountains of Vermont glider ride places keep their equipment. So I paid my $25. and followed Dave out across the cropped grass of the narrow meadow that served as the runway. It was hot that day, about 95 degrees---a perfect day, or so I thought, to get up in the air. I’d always wanted to soar on the thermals like the red tailed hawks I’d so often watched from my pastures on the farm in Oregon.

Dave gave me instructions; we buckled in…me in the front and he in the back... and he told me a little about where we’d be flying. The kid…a gangly high schooler with a shock of sun bleached hair and sun freckled face---ambled out to the plane, snapped down the plastic hood, hooked the nose to the pull plane, and lifted the long fragile wing so that it wouldn’t drag when the pull plane took off. As he gave the signal to the two pilots, the glider  rolled over the bumpy field, slowly at first and than faster as we prepared to lift off. My stomach clenched, the small cabin was silent and serious in anticipation of what was ahead. Suddenly Dave smashed his hand against the hood. “Shit!” he screamed as he pushed the release pedal that connected us to the pull plane and popped the hood open, “ I forgot the control stick!” The kid gasped. “What! You’re kidding! Dave! My God!”

My mind raced. This is probably when I should get out and ask for my money back. But I longed to have this experience. Flying had been in my dreams since I was a small girl; I couldn’t walk away from this! While I contemplated the issue at hand, the kid retrieved the stick, gave it to Dave, latched the hood, connected the plane and we were off. Behind me, Dave mumbled something about hoping the pilot in the pull plane would follow his directions regarding where to take us, and then, a minute or two later, he started cursing under his breath that the guy was going in the direction of Safeway instead of the golf course. “Well shit,” he mumbled, “he’s doing exactly what I told him not to do! You’re still buckled, right?” At this point, there was no turning back. I simply held on for dear life.

The force of the lift off pressed my back against the seat as we bounced and justled over waves of turbulent air wild with updrafts, downdrafts, crossdrafts, and the stuff that makes thunder and lightening on a hot summer day. My clenched fists pushed at the sides of the plane, my knees braced, my feet pigeon toed in the edges of  the narrow nose as the wind jolted us up and down and banged at the thin wings. “When it’s hot like this, “he explained, “the air off the ground rolls like great waves and then mixes with the thermals up here and it’s rough. I’m sorry.”

For forty-five terrifying minutes, Dave rode the turbulance searching, supposedly, for a smooth spot...a place that might have called to the hawks and vultures. In retrospect, I think their absence on this particular day should have been an indicator for my "pilot" that this was not a good day for gliding! But as the plane touched down and I was able to unclench my fists and exhale, I felt relieved to be down and exhilerated by the experience. I never would have guessed gliding would be so unlike my expectations.