02/19/10

Flying is the delicate business of throwing yourself at the ground and missing.

Flying is also my passion. Soaring is flying in its purest form. You can put a motor on just about anything -including a sailplane- and make it fly, but for pure, real flying you need a machine that doesn't have an engine. They are called gliders, or sailplanes, and are not to be confused with hang gliders.

Ever since childhood I have been enamored with flying, but it took until 1989 (age 24) for me to be exposed to soaring. This long delay was probably a blessing in disguise, since by that time I could afford to join a club and start taking lessons. Soon enough it became evident that I needed my own aeroplane. I had learnt how to fly in the club trainers, but now I needed to learn how to really soar. Enter "Little Jantar" (Jantar means magic in Hindi), a sweet 15-meter span polish glider with good cross-country performance and reasonable aerobatic capabilities. She was my first love, at least in matters of aviating. To this day, I carry her picture in my wallet. For 7 years I flew her, and started understanding the principles behind cross-country soaring, to the point of doing a couple of 500 Km flights.

At the end of 1996 and in a rather fortuitous way, I came across a deal that was just too good to pass. With a heart half broken, I replaced Little Jantar with Big Jantar, a heavily modified open class racing glider with a 23-meter span (only slightly shorter than the Concorde's), glide ratio over 50:1, and the climbing abilities of a homesick angel. This machine required much more skill and attention to be flown properly, but I think I am starting to get the hang of it. My beloved Big Bird, as people call it at the airport, allows me to go on 700+Km (400+ mile) trips and still be back home in time for dinner. It also usually allows me to make it to the airport when conditions weaken and little gliders have to look for a pasture.

It is difficult to pinpoint at a single reason for which I fly. There is the freedom, the challenge, the (sometimes) peace, the thrill of aerobatics or competition, the silence. While invited to fly at a national contest in South America, I heard our host, the then general in charge of the Colombian Air Force nonetheless, say in the opening ceremony something that in one swoop articulated what I had always felt, and is a primary reason for my flying:

"Volar nos permite olvidar las bajezas de la tierra". 

[Sorry, no translation; it would kill it. Go learn some Spanish, you Philistine!]