They Go Up Tiddly Up Up...

As its not so far to the comp I decide to leave the Skylark and just drive Lill Suzy over for the day and take a sleeping bag and bedroll in case. There will be no flying anyway as its a tow launch by boat over a lake for the comp pilots only and sleeping out can be fun so I decide not to take a tent. What kind of pilot dosent take his wing anyway just in case becomes apparent later on when people start talking about flying Ager, a mountain about 30k away after the comp tomorrow. Some lead and others follow so I decide I will drive back and get mine that evening and sleep in Organya after the fun is over. The day after qualifying is the first I attend which although the skill level is high sees easily 70% of the pilots hit the water after missing the tiny 5 meter raft in a wind that is strong even for the small accro wings. They are having fun when they realise they wont make it though, helicoptering into the lake. Only 5 pilots hit the raft with the fifth being Felix girlfriend Charlotte. You can guess the others. When I return the following day the succsess rate is inverted however when people get the measure of the lake . Touch and goes on the water with harness, wingtips or both and spot landings included. I spend the day with a mellow buzz orbiting the site, giving and receiving intoxicants of varying kinds, swimming in the lake and in broken conversation in assorted languages . I have spoken in these pages before about what a beautiful thing it is to be so readily accepted so warmly by so many people you’ve only known a week . Paragliding is such a beautiful thing for sooo many reasons. The sky has multicoloured acorn seeds rotating out of it all day some leaving smoke trails as they go.
Later that day when the kit has dried, which dosent take long, five of us get together and go to fly Ager. Francois leads the way ahead of a convoy of 3 cars on the 40 min drive, we leave a car in the landing field before heading up the mountain road to the 1400 odd meter take off. A long limestone ridge with forest on a plateau 300 meters below it which is where I find the thermal that takes me back up the 200 meters or so I had lost after launch over the ridge to be able to scratch in a 100 meter lift band for an hour. A very pleasant and smooth flight although a little concentrated effort was required to stay up 100 meters above take off mostly in a consistent but gradually fading evening surf . I was pleasantly surprised to bump into Mike, a club member from back home on launch and after top landing stop for a natter with him and Toby from Passion Paragliding who I met in Morocco last year. They are here with a small group of happy punters and have teamed up with another group and their instructors for a week or so. I leave it a little long however and as Toby drives off to pick up his group in the landing field Mike tells me before he launches there’s a bit of a backwind building if you’ll pardon the expression and I should go sooner rather than later if I’m gonna fly down. I know he’s right and get set straight up but break a line on a rock running in forward launch mode and have to make do with an easy fly down with a brake line knotted a couple of inches short. It doesnt seem to make any real difference to how it flies though so I just crack on. We eat and chat in the campsite restaurant next to the landing field and all are happy with reasonable flights. We then drive back to the comp.
That night I sleep out with Vincent and Jan, a couple of French guys who are, like me, just hanging out in Organya and learning accro. We build a fire a little way from the tents near the lakeshore which although not so big attracts people with fresh stocks of intoxicants like moths to its flames in a steady rotation till the wee small hours. There’s nothing like a fire for making new friends. When I go to sleep under the stars people are still sitting round and chatting softly in 3 or 4 different languages.

Those Mgnificent Men

The back fly and deep stall are the entry and exit to the helico or helicopter which is the most difficult of all the accro moves possible on a wing my size. They both require hours of practice as the wing must be flown in its most critical stages right on and past the stall point in full control while it is fighting ,as it was designed to do, to re-inflate and fly in violent if controllable surges. The brake pressure rises and falls very quickly requiring delicate and small control movements to maintain stable flight. You can fly backwards, straight down and in rotation and this balance and minute brake adjustment is the dance called helico.

Organya is filling up with ever more pilots for Spain’s first accro comp being held soon a couple of valleys over about 60k away . My flying, confidence and ambition are improving daily. The après vol sessions in the landing field are populated by Spanish, French, Argentinians, Austrians, Germans, Italians, Dutch all manner of Eastern Europeans and of course the odd(what did you call me?) Englishman. Everybody is predicting a fun comp with 26 pilots entering with all levels of skill but you must be able to do 3 revs in the helico to qualify. So there is no room for numpties like me. The favourites are of course the brothers with Raul in charge but Horatio Lorenze has been number 1 for 2 years now since Raul and Felix retired from full time comp to partner with Nova and develop their own brand of wing designed for accro. The Accro Canaries, another Spanish team are also extremely skillfull as their twin pilot spiral around sat shows when the wingtips touch. As well as these some of Frances top accro pilots have turned up and rookies and locals who live and work close to and in Organya have been training hard. This weekend they make their bones. I am nowhere near the standard required for comp flying but the last few days have seen me master the spin, deepstall and backfly which I can now control indefinitely so the helico is next. I can hardly wait.

They Followed A Star From The East

That next afternoon I go for lunch with Jose and his friend, another pilot who I had met a day or two previously, named Pache who were in the landing field when I arrived. They take me to Rosas place. Across the Organya valley up the same mountain road as the waterfall jumps it is just basically a nice finca owned by a lady of a certain age who has any and everybody who knows round for lunch at 10 euros for 3 courses. It is traditional, very homely and as far away from a tourist trap as you can get. Spanish and Catalan are the only languages spoken. She is a jovial host and an excellent cook, whos bottomless portions would put any of the local restaurants to shame. She should be referd to as Mama Rosa.

T he flying that day is excellent . My wingovers become consistent and as huge as loops although I still need to perfect the timing on the left side .The results leave me itching for the next stage, fullstalls, which I have only ever done a couple of times over water on an siv 3 or 4 years previously. Never have I stalled my wing without direct radio instruction but master Yoda has spoken and he must be obeyed. After all do you wanna be an accro pilot or not pussy? I give in to the dark side. I switch off my targeting computer and use the force. At about 5000ft I lock my arms straight under my seat. The horizontal airflow, my heart rate, resperation and time decrease then stop. The shockwave from this extreme brake position starts at the wingtips and spreads symetricly through the canopy, which folds and concertinas primarily along the trailing edge, then completely in half leaving you weightless for a second as it collapses behind you and falls away. All four sensations return the instant the weightlessness is replaced by freefall while you drop past the flapping horseshoeing canopy then jerk to a stop at the end of the lines. This locked arm position must be maintained and then released slowly and symetricly roughly less than half up way to allow the canopy to begin its re-inflation and flight process. This requires some concentrated effort but gradual even and controlled release is critical. At the less than halfway point it will become clear that the centre of the canopy is thrashing back and fourth in an even and rhythmic if sometimes quite frantic pace. It is at the most forward point that the remainder of both the brakes should be released. The canopy should be allowed to dive and flown away . To release earlier when the canopy is at its rearmost point will cause it t surge violently forward past the stable flight point, collapsing completely and cemetricly at around the 9 o’clock when it is more or less level with what would have been your flightpath. You will then just have enough time to realise what a cock up youve made and call for your mum to tighten your papmers before you freefall past it and it re-inflates when you hit the end of the lines. This in itself is not as dangerous as it is unnerving the real danger being if the flapping canopy re-inflates unevenly or worse with a cravat quickly locking it into a spiral dive. I have spoken to pilots who have had to use all their strength with both hands on one brake to stop these spirals such is their intensity and others who go into complete brown trouser mode and throw their reserve. Not ideal. Having done them before though and getting encouragement from Alex beforehand I find It is actually a piece of cake with a few repeats needed just to allow the brain to process the new sensations. I fly full stalls for the last 40 mins that day and report pleased with my results to my master for new instructions. Alex introduces me to his brothers Raul and Felix. “Now you will be safe my young apprentice...” I’m told “Tomorrow you must fly backwards...” ...” Do fuckin what master?” I ask.

The Ways Of The Force

The thermals are strong and unless you are training 4 or more hours a day for the comp most people don’t launch till after 4 in the afternoon when the air is calmer. Afternoons are turbulent with 12 ups (meters not feet!) not uncommon at this time of year so why struggle. The next few days are devoted to hanging out with the worlds best accro pilots and perfecting wingovers with the 80/20 weight shift /brake method given to me a few days previously by Alex. The trick is to swing as radically as is sensible out of the harness hands up on the dive maximising the lean at the bottom and following through, something like the timing you did on the swings when you were a kid. Hold this weight shifted position applying only enough brake at the 5 oclock still on the dive to keep the wing open plus a little more on the side of the turn. Too much brake especially on the dive kills the gliders energy. This method soon builds enough energy to send you looping upsidedown over the top of your wing with max g and lovely tight lines and of course is great fun. With the right timing the results compared to what I have been getting previously are spectacular. I go to bed happy as Larry the apprentice Jedi and get ready for full stalls which are next on the agenda with deep stalls for good measure.

And The Lord Taketh Away

Morning brings another clear blue sky so we once again breakfast and go to take a chill pill in the landing field. We have decided all we will practice here is our accro. As was foretold by the sky gods it is almost impossible without exceptional skill or conditions to get away from here so I mothball the new UP to save stretching the lines, decide to stick to the trusty freex, taking an oath to get it upside down or die trying. The l.z as usual by midday has a few pilots practicing sporta nationale and we join them for a spot of training. This is always time well spent with tips and tales changing hands continually until 3 oclock or so when the first vehicles begin the short winding drive up to launch. Wingovers as it has been said many times by those who know are the basis for almost every accro trick and it is where we must begin to sharpen our skills. We are both capable of the odd wobbly wingover to a little over 90 degrees or so but what we want is to really get high above the wing with no collapses as we have seen. Weight shift and timing are the critical, and having been coached by the word champ we set about our task. The mountain has other ideas today and is not lifting as well as it can thanks to a nearby storm cell spreading light cloud over its valley. We work our best with what we have heaving on the brakes with gusto but things just are not really working out for us. Better, but no trophy winners. When we land that evening Alex Rodreguez, of the Rodreguez and SAT dynasty no less, approaches to give us more ideas for tomorrow. This does us no harm atall. 80% weight shift early and only 20% brake at the 5 oclock on the dive is what he tells us and allow the glider to gain as much energy as possible on the dive hands up. He is very specific and helpful and we get to know him and a few others that evening. It also comes to light cops have been sniffing round the Skylark while we were flying so we decide for the sake of 5 euros a night we may as well go back to the luxuries in the campsite tomorrow to save any hassle and what can be hefty fine for illegal camping. Also Joe is leaving tomorrow and we are heading for Barcelona to meet our new friends who have promised to guide us round town so will have a secure place to leave the Skylark. He will, Im sure, continue his practice in the U.K. We eat curried chicken for dinner and make ready for the trip.

The Lord Giveth

The next day the weather Gods finally come to their senses and send us a moderate southerly wind perfect for flying here and after breakfast we head for the landing field. We meet Jose who is furniture in Organyas l.z. He lives in a camper there, speaks pretty good English, runs the school for a friend who owns it, organizes the tandems, sells the beers and on seeing us chomping at the bit gagging to launch educates us in the best time to take off (much later) and suggests at this time of the day we begin our training in la sporta nationale in which he is an grand master. Genuinely intrigued we prepare to pay close attention. He begins coaching us right away by mumbling something I could have sworn was “fuckin time do you call this?” under his breath, returning to his camper after serving us two beers with a smile and going to sleep. This is Spain at midday and the national sport is of course siesta. Ahh well... when in Rome...we grab a couple of chairs each for top and tail, crack our beers and the games begin. Other pilots begin showing up with deck chairs and hammocks but none even think about launching and seem to only have come to join the others in siesta. Around 4 in the afternoon seems to be the preferred time and we drive up to the launch which is probably only 200 meters up the 700 odd meter mountain. But this is Magic Mountain and 200 meters is more than enough height to begin to use the abundant lift to soar and thermal up over the top. We have a cool flight for a couple of hours exploring he ridge, jumping to the next valley which strangely just does not really work as far as lift goes but gives you enough to get back and we hit the l.z just before dark. The highlight of flying here though as I have said is the accro pilots that come here to train. They are amongst the best in the world and all the top stars come including the current world number one 1 Horatio Lorenze and the three Rodreguez brothers. They are all very down to earth guys even approaching us when they see our pathetic attempts at wingovers to give us some most welcome free coaching and tips for tomorrow. We drink a couple of beers with them listening intently in the l.z. and invite 3 Spaniards we met on launch, two of whom drive Lill Suzy back down the mountain for us round to the skylark for dinner. We are joined by an Austrian camped in the same spot who provides music, brings wine and more beer for the meal and the type of coffee strong enough to stop you thinking of an early night. The Spaniards provide excellent company, good quality hashish and a welcome invitation to stay with them in Barcelona in a day or two where Joe has to catch his plane home from. We party into the wee small hours and I go to bed wondering what I have done to deserve such a good life and hoping the good Lord dosent notice and put me in the shit I really deserve

Down By The Riverside

We breakfast early the next morning (I think...no clocks remember?) with scrambled eggs, fresh bread and leftovers. I decide tents are for wimps and rib Buffalo Joe mercilessly about sleeping in one after his living off the land episode the day before. To redeem his status as a woodsman he goes fishing but using scraps of raw meat as bait. Im not sure what size of fish hes expecting to catch, Im almost sure its not Marlin season but off he goes anyway with a determined look to make like a gnome and no doubt re-enforce his potential as a tribal leader when the global economy finally melts down. Nat and I just stare bewildered at him and his meaty bait (not that meaty bait pervert) and open some beer. We watch from some distance behind him and occasionally call out with extremely unhelpful and sarcastic advice. “maybe a little paprika mate!” “they probably want starters first mate!” “maybe a nice little marinade...”It takes him a good natured hour or so to admit defeat and we leave after a fishless but never the less very enjoyable spot of camping.
The wind is still blowing the wrong way though so we cant fly and Nat has to leave today so Joe takes her to find a hitch. She prefers hitching to catching the 20 euro bus to where she currently lives in Barcelona, I guess to feed her sense of adventure. We get a heads up on another place to explore and we invite an English speaking French couple we met at the campsite to come along. High up a mountain road on the other side of the Organya valley we stop by a small bridge as directed. Under the bridge a fairly steep but short climb down a limestone rock face peppered with holes of all sizes leads to a small pool formed by a natural spring. The crystalline water from this pool flows in a stream with a smooth limestone bed which has cut a fairly deep sided path way over head height in most places as it meanders its way along and down at a slow steady pace, forming more natural pools at regular intervals of assorted, but generally increasing sizes down the mountainside. These are sometimes inhabited by water snakes but the ones we saw soon scarpered when they hear us splashing along. Occasionally the bed of the stream drops away to reveal a waterfall which you can climb up or down around but have large pools at the bottom as so its much more fun to jump . This is the way Joe and I descend the waterfall we come across but it is a 5 meter jump into a pool with boulders at the bottom so its not everyones cup of tea. The sun is blazing as always in the Spanish summer and we spend the day here with sandwiches and beers. Hmm more beers...I feel a pattern is starting to develop. That evening Joe and I in magnanimous mood after the money we saved not paying for camping eat out in a local restaurant and crash with thoughts of tomorrows flights and his impending return to England.

Magic mountain
60 or 70 km later we arrive in Organya the next morning, after dinner and a roadside kip in a small mountain village to be greeted by, bright sunshine blue sky and a wind howling over the back of a totally unflyable magic mountain, so named because of the lift all over it? W.T.F. For this we left a flyable Casteon? Locals in the landing field tell us this is the fifth unflyable day and we take heart with this news reasoning that it cant last more than another day or two. We get set up in a local campsite with pool, internet, elec and water for a measly 5e a day again. I am later informed that pilots can stay for 100e a month. This is so much cheaper than being at home. As its not flyable we decide to take the jeep to explore, and an old Catalan woman on a roadside olive and honey vending cart directs us to a beautiful spot with a large natural pool by a small waterfall and we go river swimming. Joe likes it so much he decides he wants to stay there swearing he only needs his trusty pocket knife to be able to live off the land and to prove his point sets about attempting to catching fish the old school poachers way by hand. I have to agree with him about everything but a not so sure the supermarket wont be a little more use than his 3 inch blade. Somewhat predictably for a city boy the great white hunter needs to watch a few more episodes of Ray Mears cos he hasn’t got a clue what hes doing and we will all starve to death with him as our leader. At around 4pm I start crying my eyes out complaining of advanced malnutrition so we leave the giggling sarcastic fish in The Garden of Eden and drive back to the Skylark for food and beer to last the night. We also decide fishing would be a good idea, but like most normal people, you know, with a rod and tackle. I refuse to leave without my lucky fishing hat as I’ve never caught a fish without it...come to think of it I’ve never caught a fish with it...come to think of it I’ve never caught a fish but its still a cool hat. We arrive back and set up a camp which really for me just means getting my sleeping bag out of the jeep. Joe and I make a fire and Nat cooks. I sulk a little as the tranquilo twins won’t let me use any petrol. With hindsight this is probably quite sensible as I am already half cut, grinning uncontrollably with a 20 litre jerry can and a box of matches and it hasn’t rained round here n weeks. We have a tasty variation of camping food. Fresh corn we poached earlier that day and potatoes roasted on the fire, pasta and sauce, tinned fish, loads of beer. I construct a small basher as a windbreak and spend my first intentional night under the stars rarther than in a tent or just being drunk (ok I was a little drunk but this is still different) and passing out somewhere. Its lovely sleeping in the open next to a fire and we have found a huge stock of wood washed up by the river close to our campsite so keeping the fire going all night is no problem. With no lights or clocks drinking, chatting and laughing seems to go on well into the night but it was probably only 11 or 12 when we crash feeling quite the drunken woodsmen(or is that woodspersons for the fuckin p.c. nazis). The sky is clear, the stars are bright, the wind is whistling through the treetops but behind my little basher it dosent touch me. I lie in the moonlight on my back with my hands behind my head and my eyes open. The milkyway is clearly visible, I just need to hear a wolf howl and a quick chorus of” Dont Fence Me In” to send me off to sleep.

Wide eyed and bushy tailed
The next day is similar with fair but not epic flying conditions and so we fly around the huge valley at Castejon along with 20 or 30 others again taking turns to tandem and speedglide. The cloudbase is reasonable, about 800meters above launch, the views are Alpinesque and after we land the river is lovely and clean, slow moving with smooth stony banks and a perfect temperature to cool off from the scorching summer sun. Damn its hard being me sometimes. We see a totally stereotypical Spanish horseman dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, long waxed cotton barbour type coat and ten gallon hat on a white stallion doing that dressage thing. He probably thinks he looks pretty cool and to be fair hes probably right. I don’t take his photo though as his head is almost certainly too big already, what with his wide shoulders, chiselled jaw and low bodyfat (what do you mean jealous...have you seen my abs?).
Time though, as usual, is our greatest enemy though and Joe wants to visit a place further south but still in the Pyrenees called Organya next. This is THE place to fly not cross country but accro not only in Spain but possibly the world and is the training ground of the Rodreguez brothers and the S.A.T. team. The brothers and their team need no introduction to those who know anything about accro but for those who don’t accro is paraglidings most spectacular discipline and the first time I saw it as a rookie I thought the whole team had suffered a simultainious malfunction and were about to be smashed into bloody pulp on the mountainside. I had no idea you could do such things on a paraglider. After half an hour of watching these guys at play spinning and looping I knew if there was a way I could learn even 10 percent of what they could do I could be having masses of fun. The brothers, whos father is a paragliding instructor, have been flying since almost before they could walk and between them pretty well invented every accro trick there is from scratch and their child is accro paragliding. They are undisputed undefeated world accro champions so many times(about nine I think) they got bored winning and retired from full time comp to give mere mortals a chance at lifting a trophy from time to time. He doesnt have to try too hard to convince me this is a worthwhile place to visit and we set off that evening.

Aug 14 the fast way down
Adam and Katie leave for the dune the next morning without flying .Apparently she who must be obeyed is missing the seaside and not wanting too much fuss Adam agrees to make the 5 hour drive back and we bid them a fond farewell.I guess you cant please all the people all the time.There are lots of activities here besides flying with horses mountain bikes and kyaks on hire to name a few and it seemed to my selfish mind she could at least of let him fly the mountain once after driving all that way but what do I know.The three of us left head into the village to suss out a lift up to the huge launch which is around 2000meters above landing.Although this is just a small village with one main street the potential here is such that it supports 5 paragliding shops who all seem to be surviving perfectly well without firebombing eachother and were all here when I last visited in 2005.Joe decides to fly the speed glider and climes up another few hundred meters above the launch to make sure he makes the landing field as the glide on the speed glider is only about 5:1.He has been making calculations all morning on various scraps of paper relating to the height at launch,which we don’t know exactly,the height of the landing field, which we don’t know exactly and the distance to the landing field which ,you guessed it , we don’t know exactly.He thinks its on.If his calculations are correct he will have a cool fly down at top speed with room for loops and spins and we hope to get some cool video if we are close enough.If his calculations are inaccurate he will fall short and crash into the forest and we will get some cool video if we can get close enough.Everybody wins(don’t they?).I take Nat up on the tandem.She is a game girl and knows neither me or Joe have any tandem experience but I guess you don’t get free tandem rides everywhere and we are both pretty experienced pilots with hundreds of hours between us.On the risk verses reward scale most would have to do it.We wait for Joe to make the climb and set up before we launch to be able to film his flight and sure enough after a few minuits he goes screaming past us at top speed whooping and hollering.Iwant a go on that.We thermal around on the tandem for a while but such is his speed we don’t get close enough for any really worthwhile video.He makes the L.Z. with room to spare and I decide to take up his offer of a go and for the next flight we swap places.Im not looking forward to the climb but it should be well worth it.It is.I am getting one of these.The most fun for ages and a totally new way for me to fly.Everything is super fast including the launch and the same amount of control imput that make my paraglider do a 90 degree turn sends this thing looping towards the ground.I decide to email my club back home the first chance I get to see what type of deals are available.We meet up again back at the skylark and spend the rest of the day swimming in the nearby river and trying to smoke enough weed to bring our resting heartbeats down below 100bpm which turns out to be impossible.

Return of the two headed beast

The girls are doing an excellent job keeping us all fed and clean and after brekky we drive a fully laden Lill Suzy up the mountain to take off.Nicky still a little low in airtime decides to stay grounded with Kate, Joe and Nat decide to fly the tandem.I decide to fly my new UP Summit and Adam as reliable as ever rolls a joint before joining us in the air.The Summit is a fantastic glider turning beautifully and to date hast lost a thermal yet...Joe and Nat have a fun if not epic flight on the tandem after Joe gets used to its huge momentum on launch. Travelling at night is definitely the way forward as we waste no flying time,have the roads to ourselves and obviously stopping for a sandwich and a bit of kip is no problem.The take off at Luchon in the northern Pyrenees is a large steep grassy slope at around 1500meters above the landing which is actually a light airfield the paragliders share with sailplanes cesners and the like.As the rules of the air go we as paragliders have right of way but having a twin engine turbo prop plane in your flight path will not suite everyone Im sure even though the landing field is huge.Conditions are fair and we all have reasonable flights over an hour long.Luchon is however a fairly narrow mountain valley and as such is subject to quite high valley winds on a daily basis rendering many afternoons unlandable without some difficulty if not unflyable.Nicky leaves on the train for Tolouse that evening to catch her flight back to Blighty and the rest of us decide to head over the Pyrenees that night for Casteon De Sos on the Spanish side where the valleys are huge and endless.There is massive cross country potential there with many world paraglider championship rounds held in the past.We load up the Skylark with water and beer and set off that evening along the winding mountain roads with Lill Suzy in tow and Adam and Kate following in their hire car.We cross into Spain after an hour or so and bid farewell to the French roads and their authorised highwaymen.The drive is only a couple of hours and we arrive with a fair amount of the evening left to get settled into the well equipped and very reasonably priced campsite which is again next to the landing field.

Superbagneres
Dawn probably breaks the next day but there was never any chance of us noticing and with heads in various stages of labotomy we head back for our last day on the dune around miday.We have decided to leave after todays flying as although its great fun these guys have limited time and there is only so much floating up and down on the seabreeze you can do before the call of the real business of serious mountain flying becomes too strong.We leave that evening for Luchon in the French Pyrenees although we are all sorry to see the last of the dune for now.Its a 3 hour trouble free drive punctuated at regular intervals by the cursed French tolls to the mountain at superbagneres.It is a typically pretty small mountain town containing all you need to get by whatever you are travelling by with plenty of well stocked small shops,banks a cinema,bars and restaurants. We find a campsite which is unfortunately mostly populated by grumpy French pensioners who complain about everything from the music to the menopause.The former is switched off but can the latter really be our fault too?.We later learn that a rumour had gone round the campsite that because of our age and size of our camper they thought we were a rock band on tour and they were all shitting themselves wondering what that night may bring to their hitherto peacefull retirements...KERANGGGG!!!!...”HELLO LUCHON!!!!!”Luckily for them we are a nice friendly bunch and have a reasonably early and quiet night after a barbie and a few bottles of cheap French plonk.

It gets better and better
The next day begins much as the first but we are obviously no longer subject to a dawn beasting up the dune from drill sergeant Joe.The tandem has dried out and been given a good shake to relieve it of its cargo of sand,the sea breeze is a welcome bit stronger today and I decide to invest an hour in mastering kiteing and launching the tandem solo.This turns out to be time we spent and within half an hour I become proficient and confident.The boys and girls in the meantime have been having a ball on the sandy slopes and I decide to join them.The dune must have a hundred pilots with skill levels ranging from experts flying backwards and performing huge wingovers with wingtips in the sand to total novices toppling over, being dragged and spitting out the sand.Professional tandem pilots fly a constant supply of tourists sending them home with once in a lifetime photos and experiences and planting the odd seed of thought here and there too no doubt.Half a dozen young Jedi probably no more than 10 or 11 years old are also dotted around learning the ways of the force with small training wings and hurling themselves down the dune under the instruction of their parents.They all have the kind of smiles that will ensure the sport will continue with more skill and bravado than ever in the future and I envy their head start.The sport is enriched greatly by these familys.I have been flying my trusty freex arcane and a light comes on after practicing kiteing for a while with the rear risers and I begin an enjoyable time flying backwads up and down,lying down,powering back up and upon coming a little low down the dune using the wing like the spinnaker on a sailboat catapulting myself back up it running round its outside.Fun fun fun.We shoot loads of photos and some video and generally run around under our wings like schoolkids.Joe and I spend some time coaching poor Nicky who is having a bit of a hard time as she hasnt flown in ages and was pretty inexperienced even when she did but she comes on leaps and bounds.He however provides the biggest laugh of the day by insisting I watch and film his next set of wingovers.Hes says hes got skimming the sand with a hand and a tip sussed after hours of practice and flies headfirst into the dune.”did you get that...?”oh yes mate
The seabreeze becomes a perfect speed in the afternoon and a tremendous time is had by all.We eat at a resturant and return to the skylark with a huge stock of beer and wine cementing the reputation of Brits abroad by parting into the wee small hours.