I Can Fly.....

for about thirty seconds

Kimberly Avery

Our son Thomas had a break from College, and my husband and I had decided to take him with us to visit our family living on the Oregon coast. While there, our kids usually explore the beautiful, rugged outdoors. Over the years, they had been rafting, salmon fishing, hiking, skiing, crabbing, and even sand surfing. In other words, I thought they had done everything there was to do on the Oregon coast until Thomas noticed a flyer hanging in a local grocery that read "Beginner-level hang-gliding lessons."

"Are there levels?" I asked.

I had imagined hang-gliding was much like bungee jumping, with no skill required, just the will to launch yourself off a bridge and pray. Intrigued, my son called the number on the flyer and talked with an expert hang glider named Doug, who assured him there was a beginning level to hang gliding, and he taught it. Thomas informed me the only problem is that Doug only teaches group lessons.

"Where will you get a group who wants to throw themselves over a cliff with you?" I asked. Thomas raised his eyebrows and grinned.

"Dad has to work, but if you go, we will make a group," he pleaded.

"Oh no! I don't think so," I laughed. I did not share Thomas's enthusiasm, but he assured me there was no cliff and we would be floating under the hang-glider, only traveling a few feet off the ground. After much convincing, I reluctantly agreed, and we drove to the coast the next afternoon to meet our instructor Doug.

I got my first clue that Doug was different from your average instructor or even your average person when he zipped his car into the parking spot next to us. Leaping from it, he apologized profusely for being late. Doug explained he had been involved in a minor traffic accident on the way to meet us. However, fortunately, the helmet and airline neck pillow he happened to be wearing and was still sporting had saved his life.

I regarded his strange attire and apparent propensity to exaggerate and debated whether or not to get out of our car. Too late, I realized he was already greeting Thomas with a hardy handshake and an enthusiastic grin. Doug's hang-glider draped comically over the roof of his car like two giant chopsticks rolled in a used paper napkin.

He quickly began to pull the rest of his equipment from the car's hatchback. Unfortunately, his trunk hydraulics no longer worked, so the trunk closed on him each time he reached into the vehicle. It appeared the car was devouring him helmet, neck pillow, and all. I looked at Thomas, and we both raised our eyebrows but glanced away quickly in an attempt not to laugh. I surveyed the beach. Were we on candid camera?

We observed as Doug assembled a large metal triangle frame with white fabric attached to rope and duct tape. Noticing us eyeing the duct tape skeptically, Doug assured us. "She is older but sturdy," he said gingerly, patting the craft's wing.

"How much older?" Thomas asked.

"Well, It's hard to say-I got it from an army surplus store, but she is newer than WWII," Doug told us as if that news was reassuring.

He continued lecturing on the mechanics and history behind hang gliders and shared story after story of his years soaring with the birds. There was no mistaking Doug's love for the sport.

Enthusiastically he proclaimed, "It's as close to an independent flight as you will ever achieve because you control your movement through the air." His description of hang-gliding seemed inspired, almost magical. Obviously, for Doug, hang gliding was not just a hobby. It was his life's passion. The yarns he spun seemed a mix of History, Wikipedia, and his own real and imagined experiences.

The three of us struggled to drag the giant refurbished hang-glider to the top of the dunes. At the same time, Doug enthusiastically recounted how in Jamaica in 1975, he had landed his glider on a beach only to discover a herd of wild horses. He claimed one stallion allowed him to stroke its mane before it disappeared into the jungle. Eventually, Doug shared how he learned hang-gliding in the army and once how Dolly Parton had asked him for hang-gliding lessons.

It seemed to Thomas and me that our time with Doug had propelled us into a strange new world. Forest Gump meets Jumanji on the beaches of Normandy. Reaching the summit of the Dunes, Thomas held the hang glider steady as Doug strapped his harness to the middle of the frame. We observed as he demonstrated the technique of running down the sand under the belly of the glider. Instantly, it lifted him about eight feet off the ground, and he floated just above the sand like a kite with no strings and landed softly on the beach below.

At this point, I'm not sure Thomas or I knew what to make of Doug. We had never met anyone quite like him. Doug's enthusiasm for people, hang gliding, and the gift of life was refreshing, but he marched to the beat of his own drum. He was so unconventional I imagined some people might easily dismiss him. But, instead, I reasoned it was their loss; they missed out on the experience of flying and some unbelievable stories.

When it was my turn, I clipped the strap on my harness below the glider and took a deep breath. Doug had promised the glider would not float more than a few feet off the ground, and the flight would be the experience of a lifetime. I ran forward and immediately lifted into the air, sailing about eight feet above the dune. As he instructed, I pushed the bar in front of me from right to left, turning the glider.

My heart raced. Doug was right, I marveled. This experience was as close to flying as I had ever felt. The feeling was peaceful and exhilarating as the beach appeared to open below me, and the wind danced past my face, catching the glider's wings and holding me above the ground. It was heavenly until I reached the shore, where I pulled back too quickly on the bar, causing the glider and me to careen nose-first into the wet sand. Undaunted, I unhooked myself and hopped up, assuring Doug and Thomas I hadn't hurt anything more than my pride. I couldn't contain my excitement as I stood there, covered in sand from head to toe.

"Did you see me fly?" I asked Thomas.

"Oh, I saw you, Mom," he grinned. We sat down and laughed together for so long that I thought we might never be able to collect ourselves enough to help carry the hang-glider back up the dune.

Thomas and I agree we will never forget Doug or our time together that day. We have recounted the story of our hang-gliding adventure many times, and true to Doug, we always tell it with wonder, excitement, and a bit of exaggeration.

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