The Wild Blue Yonder
or Hang Gliding is For the Birds
Since my life tends to be rather routine and, if you were to listen to my wife, Anne, boring as Hell, I recently decided to join the United States Hang Gliding and Paragliding Association (USHPA). While I’m not necessarily afraid of heights, I do tend to get nosebleeds on thick rugs. And my main interest is hang gliding, as opposed to paragliding, because parachutes are typically made from nylon, specifically ripstop nylon, which tends to give me hives if I’m hanging from it more than six inches off the ground.
On the other hand, the materials used for hang gliders are usually stronger, lighter synthetic materials like woven polyester (Dacron) or laminated polyester film (Mylar), which are stabilized with anaphylactic resin to maintain aerodynamic shape and to prevent hives. The frames are typically constructed of lightweight aluminum tubing or carbon fiber composites, though not the same carbon fiber composites from which the Titan submersible was made. Stainless steel cables and wires hold the airframe together and support the load which is, in this case, me.
I’m suspended from the hang glider by a harness made from padded Dacron cloth and Cordura, which is made from nylon. But I’m able to prevent hives from the nylon by taking megadoses of antihistamines and slathering myself under my flying suit with a cream that combines hydrocortisone, calamine, safrole, diphenhydramine, salicylic acid, oatmeal, aloe vera, witch hazel, baking soda, milkweed, and a variety of lichens and mosses. Finally, I inject myself with methamphetamine to counteract the drowsiness from the antihistamines. Then, perfectly composed, I’m ready for liftoff.
Getting My Wings
For my first flight, I leapt fearlessly off the precipice just below Castle Craig in Hubbard Park in my hometown of Meriden, Connecticut. I anticipated an uneventful flight, perhaps south to Casa di Roma or perhaps east to Violi’s for a martini or two while looking out over the lush fairways and greens of Hunter Golf Club. I’d thought about bringing my golf clubs with me on my flight. But since I’d done all my pre-flight calculations so precisely, I didn’t want to risk the additional weight and drag.
On launch, I realized I’d slightly misjudged the wind. Instead of a gentle lift into a smooth glide, I found myself hurtling vertically at about 100 miles an hour toward Mirror Lake in the center of the park. My pre-flight calculations and my USHPA training kicked in immediately, and I shit myself, closed my eyes, and started praying like a born-again Christian at an atheists convention.
While some of you skeptical heathens may not believe in the power of prayer, I was suddenly lifted, miraculously, by a thermal updraft that carried me above the lake, above the trees that surround it, out of harm’s way, and pushed me north-northeast.
With a strong tailwind propelling me, I flew over the scenic cities of Worcester and Lowell, Massachusetts, over Nashua and Portsmouth, New Hampshire, over Portland, Lewiston, and Waterville, Maine, enjoying the magnificent vistas while hanging on for dear life until I finally set down in Millinocket, about 20 miles southeast of the summit of Mount Katahdin.
The landing was a bit bumpy. But I’d set my expectations low. So, I didn’t beat myself up when I realized my carbon fiber frame had cracked and would have to be replaced. Easy come, easy go.
After getting my bearings, I pulled out my cell phone. Since I’d been in the air all day, the battery was dead. But since I was fairly certain Anne wouldn’t be terribly keen on driving 410 miles to pick me up right about then, I decided to count my blessings, even as I started trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do. After some deliberation, I realize there was only one thing I could do given the circumstances. I strapped my broken frame to my back and started walking.
After an hour or so of what seemed like aimless wandering, I happened to come across a joint called the Blue Ox Saloon. Since I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since I left Connecticut, I decided the expression, any port in a storm, was worth heeding.
Homeward Bound
When I walked in, one of the locals at the bar said to me, “You look a little frantic, stranger. And what’s up with the outfit?”
I told him the story I just told you.
Standing downwind from a fan blowing behind me, the local said, “Do you smell something?”
“I don’t smell anything,” I lied.
“Okay,” the stranger said. Then he yelled out, “Hey! This dude just flew all the way here from Connecticut on a hang glider. How about we buy him a round?”
I told them I could definitely go for a martini for my state of mind and a glass of water for my thirst.
As they all gathered around me at the bar, one of the other men looked around and asked me, “Do you smell something?”
“I don’t smell anything,” I lied, looking casually and nonchalantly around.
The other guys sort of sniffed a little. But nobody looked at me or said anything.
While the bartender was making my martini, I asked if I could use the phone. He handed me a quarter, pointed toward the pay phone on the wall, and I called Anne, collect.
“Hi, Sweetheart. I finally landed after my hang gliding flight, and I’m wondering if you could pick me up.”
“Sure,” she said. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the Blue Ox Saloon.”
“Oh. That sounds cute,” she said. “Where is it?”
“Millinocket, Maine.”
“WHAT?!”
“Yeah. I got blown a little off course,” I said a tad sheepishly.
“How long will it take me to get there?”
“By car?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “If George Jetson’s home, I’ll borrow his Flying Car. If not, I’ll take the high-speed underground train from Hartford to Millinocket.”
“Okay,” I said. “Take it easy. It’ll take you about six hours to drive here.”
“Are you kidding?!”
“No, I’m not. But it’s seven o’clock. If you leave now you can be here by the time this places closes at 1:00.”
“Can we at least stay overnight up there?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “The Baxter Park Inn is only about five minutes from here. I walked by it after I landed.“
“All right,” she said.
“Oh. One more thing,” I said. “Can you bring me a change of clothes?”
“What for?”
“Don’t ask,” I said.
When I returned the quarter to the bartender after my collect call, he said, “Do you smell something?
Gesturing with my head, I said, “I think one of these guys farted. Buy I don’t smell anything.”
He gave me a puzzled look and shrugged his shoulders.
All’s Well That Ends Well
By the time Anne got to Millinocket, I was absolutely plastered and completely exhausted from telling people I didn’t smell anything all night. She walked in just at last call. So, I chugged the last of my drink, expressed my gratitude to everyone in the Blue Ox, and bid my adieus.
Unsteady as I was, I picked up my broken hang-gliding rig and put it in the trunk of the car as Anne got in to drive. After weaving my way around to the passenger side, I got in and slumped in the seat.
Looking at me accusingly, Anne said, “Do you smell something?”
No,” I said. “I don’t smell anything. Just drive”
An exercise in common scents . . .