A New Perspective
This past weekend, I went hang gliding for the first time. It’s been awhile since I’ve checked anything off of my life to-do list and I felt like it was long overdue. So at 6:30 a.m. on Sunday (and with much resistance from my tired body), I rolled out of bed, exhausted, but excited to be towed 2,000 feet into the air by an airplane that—for all I knew—could very well have been assembled in someone’s backyard from spare parts bought at a garage sale.
My friend picked me up around 7 and we drove from my place in Orlando to Davenport, Fla., also known as the middle of nowhere. After about an hour long drive, we arrived at the hang gliding ranch, and turned onto the dirt road that led us past the 100-acre take-off and landing field and to the main office. Quaint country homes lined the end of the road, which we found out later actually belong to the owner and several other families that live on the property.
We were greeted first by Gus, a golden retriever who was lounging lazily on the concrete porch steps. Walking through the screened-in patio, we met Roxanne, one of the office managers. She helped us with our paperwork; which said something to the effect of, “Sign here if you are OK with the fact that you might be injured or dead after this.” Having been bungee jumping and sky diving prior to this—I wasn’t put off by the clause, and happily signed my initials next to the terms. If it was my time to go, might as well be in style.
After signing our lives away, a golf cart picked us up and brought us over to the take-off field. My friend graciously offered to let me be the first one to go up (I guess someone has to make sure the equipment works, right?) so I made my way over to the glider to get geared up. Since I had never been hang gliding before, I was going to fly tandem with an instructor named Joe, whose “work uniform” consisted of a T-shirt, jeans and bare feet. Just minutes after I got the harness on, the airplane was already towing us up into the air, until it released us high above the trees and buildings below and they became nothing more than tiny dots. Cotton-like clouds dragged across the sky below us, with no particular destination in sight.
Joe showed me how the glider’s direction and speed is controlled by shifts in your body weight and how closely you hold the handle bar toward you that’s attached to the glider. He also showed me how to “stall,” which basically means you’re at a standstill in midair. I eagerly soaked up everything he was telling me as I admired the sunset’s hues of oranges, purples and reds, which looked like splattered paint across a blank canvas. I felt a sense of peace and perspective that can only be found thousands of miles away above all the stresses and challenges that life on the ground can sometimes bring.
When it was time to land, Joe asked me to fold my arms over my chest and lock out my legs to avoid dragging them against the ground. I expected our landing to be rocky (as our “landing gear” consisted of nothing more than a couple sets of wheels), but it was as smooth as the take off. “How was it?” he asked. “Addicting,” I replied.
Back in the office this week, challenges still came up that needed to be resolved, just as there would be at any workplace. But they just didn’t seem to be as big an issue as they would’ve been the week prior. I realized that in life, just as in hang gliding, you just have to trust that—no matter what happens—you’re going to land safely somehow, with or without your training wheels.
Note: Names in the story have been changed.
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