Then ther were 6

The next morning we are greeted by clear blue skys,glourious sunshine and the awe inspiring sight of the dune in all its splendour.Its vast size and pine forested fringes would not look out of place with a pyramid or two thrown in.We eat brekky andload Lill Suzy with all we need for a days flying at the beach and get directions to the paraglider takeoff.Joes infectious enthusiasm and childlike energy levels take over and lead us to stop at the first available place to make it to a take off point where we wont be in any danger of wiping the tourists out.With reckless abandon we dump the jeep at the first roadside parking spot within sight of the dune and he leads us the half kilometre through the bushes to begin the 200 meter climb.I begin what turns out to be a 30 min struggle up the soft sand with my 22 kilo pack, every sinking step requiring three and immediatley regret the reefer I had smoked 10 mins previously. Joe however,who has the energy level of a small reactor going critical, drops to all fours passes me and Nicky in the first 10 meters with a smile a wink and with the phrase “four wheel drive mate” ringing in our ears and makes the climb in about 10 mins.By the time I summit Joe has unpacked his wing,flown the length of the dune and bumped into Adam and Kate who with a logic and calmness only a seasoned stoner could posses points out the path with a 10 meter climb they used, wonders why we are making such hard work out of such a simple task and passes the joint hes smoking.Still it was a good workout and did us no harm at all.We have a great wagga,fly all up and down and proceed to unpack the huge tandem wing.Adam ,probably somewhat foolishly considering I have never flown one agrees to act as ballast and misses the part where I say I only want to ground handle it and almost gives himself a heart attack struggling to drive forward for a half hour.Its a real bus of a wing to handle and strangely enough is as different to fly as the Skylark is to drive with loads of momentum a solo wing just dosent have.After a half hour or so I feel happy enough to fly it so we kite up to the top and take off.All is fine but I forget in all the excitement to adjust the trimmers which give it a better sink rate.We take off low and miss the dunes lift band but are airborne and cruseing.Adam is greatly relieved not to have to run anymore until I inform him we are out of the lift band and heading for a downwind landing at full speed on a very narrow strip of beach I must hit as we will probably drown if we land in the sea harnessed as we are to each other,and he as passenger in front will bear the brunt of it.”oh...”was all he said.With all the strength I can find I heave on the brakes to stop the beast with two heads as we come into a suprisingly soft landing all things considered but a wingtip is in the sea and waves being what they are the rest of the wing is soon being dragged in too.Between us we franticly drag the waterlogged deadweight out of the surf.Ahh well not to worry...first try and all...wont do that again...We trudge back up the beach with the now leadlike wing in its bag.”Solo flying for the rest of the day then...same time tomorrow mate?”I ask with a smile.Adam smiles back,says nothing and rolls a joint.That evening I hang the sandy wet stage curtain from the roof of the bus and we go into town to meet Joes friend Nat who has also arrived from the U.K. also and we all proceed to get roaring drunk and swap tales of the days events.Most satisfactory.

Whos the caaptain?

A breakfast of dry roasted, roadkill and reefer sends us on our way at 9 am through the pretty French countryside toward our first destination,Dune Du Pyla,at around 200 meters the largest sand dune in Europe situated on the south west coast of France and a mecca for paraglider pilots from all over for reasons that will become obvious if you visit...the super consistent sea breeze and ultra soft landings are perfect for beginners first flights and pilots just wanting to improve their ground and wagga skills...Three hours or so into the journey and after some frantic teamwork reversing the roadtrain when I miss a low bridge sign chatting on cruise control (Joe:”do you think well fit there mate?”.me:”errr no”)Joe takes over the driving and I elect to take a thc induced nap in the first mates chair expecting and hoping to be woken when we arrive at the dune...what actually happened was that I was awoken by a rumble like a hundred thunder storms I haven’t head since the carpet bombing in ‘nam . The Skylark is hurtling down the hard shoulder with a blow out and a sweating grimacing Joe is fighting to keep us out of the ditch on the motorway verge.To make matters worse,not realising why we were out of control and still only half awake I spring cat like out of my chair and grab the steering wheel and Joe and I wrestle Abbot and Costello like left and right and begin debating which direction we should be going in.Whos the captain?No who is second in command.A brief and intense dialogue follows after which I concede that with only 3 wheels left we should probably be pulling over.We do so and we proceed to fit the spare.This is a straightforward affair except for the fact that the spare which has never been used is deformed and cannot be driven at over 30 mph without a wobble going through the steering which makes the Ben Hur chariot crashes seem like a Sunday drive in the country.A seemingly friendly French motorway rescue type pulls up and escorts us to the next truck stop which is only about a mile,sends for a tyre truck and leaves.Most helpfull methinks.The truck arrives an hour or so later but obviously still with Agincourt rarther than V.E. day in the forefront of the mind the odious toad proceeds to charge 1000 euros for a tyre.Its Sunday were in the middle of nowhere and weve got to have it.He should have been issued with a striped jersey and a mask.Thats the last time I fight a war for those bastards.
Still bad things come in threes as they say so between the ferry the low bridge and the tyre we are now pre-disastered for this trip and nothing else could possibly go wrong the way my freakishly optimistic mind works.We eventually arrive at Pyla that evening,find the main campsite(5e a night between us,hurrah!)stock up at a supermarket climb some handy stairs behind the campsite up the dune and up get roaring drunk and stoned.Too late to fly unfortunately with all the delays and still missing our friend Adam and his girlfriend Kate who were expected to be there before us as they were travelling by plane that morning.There is no sign of them at our campsite,his phone is switched off ,we don’t have her number and we are starting to wonder as things start to blur and we pass out that night if some hideous fate has befallen them also as Adam is an notorious and unrepentant stoner who has missed more than his fair share of planes,not that that makes him a bad person.In fact its one of my favourite things about him.

In the beginng

The time since your intrepid reporter last wrote in October last year has been spent making feverish preparation for what promises if nothing else to be a memorable walkabout.The Skylark has ,since she left the U.S. has had her gas guzzling 6.8 v10 engine converted to run on lpg and her huge batterys are now charged with solar power largely eliminating the use of the on board generator.Her emissions are now so clean that when started butterflys and bunny rabbits gather round her exaust pipe and lpg being half the price of petrol leaves the bank manager feeling a little less suicidal than when I first revealed my intention to stop working and become a bum to him .Finances which will hopefully be enough stop me starving or pushing have been secured and a suprising number of publications have expressed an intrest in paying modest fees for reports of my exploits. Those of you who followed my original exploits in the U.S. may remember how I was broken hearted when forced to abandon my ever faithfull and super reliable Lill Suzy jeep in Conneticut,the shipping cost to bring her along far outweighing her financial if not her emotional worth...She has since been risen in Croydon like a phoenix from the ashes in a shower of metal sparks ,grease and oil and after many hours of my cutting bolting welding and grinding,her replacement is even though I say so myself better suited than ever for the task set before her and she looks pretty sweet to boot.
I had planned on making the journey alone from start to finish ,pilots on the whole being a friendly, helpfull and approachable bunch but upon hearing of my plans a motley crew of sky tramps of various experience elect to join me for the opening stretch of the journey,which will obviously ease the initial financial burden,give me a rest from all the driving and provide excellent company to boot. While still making final preps in dry dock my first two shipmates Joe and Nicky turn up.We have an 8 o’clock ferry at Dover to catch and I have lost 2 of the nuts that hold Lill Suzys towgear in place...without them we are going nowhere and frantic rushing around to replace them reveals that the Americans are still using imperial threads and they are almost impossible to find outside a specialist shop I use for fastners which is closed on Saturdays.The first of what will no doubt many improvised alternatives of the journey with no end is made with copious amounts of the ever usefull duct tape, we weigh anchor and leave port(or reverse out of the yard if you like) with barely enough time to make our deadline.We arrive with 15 minuites to spare and realise why we are at the front of the ferry que when we watch it pull out without us on board, check the paperwork we have been given and see we have a fun filled 2 hour wait for the 10 o’clock sailing...oh joy of joys...ferry port coffee and overpriced sandwiches for tea.We make an uneventfull but beer soaked crossing to Dunkirk,drive for a couple of hours and spend our first night at a truckstop on the French motorway.