Hang Gliding and Paragliding Volume 44 / Issue 2: February 2014 | Page 43

are over our normal afternoon soaring site, and I call out on
the radio that we have made it—100 kilometers!
The vans race ahead of us to check for whitecaps on the
ocean around the last point, before the town comes into
view. I don't care what they see. Nothing is going to stop me
from making the last turn and heading to the beach. We fly
over the golf course, which in this parched land is nothing
more than white lines painted around more blankets of endless sand. (I think each fairway looks like dirty socks laid
out to dry in the sun.) But I’m not concerned with that now. 
Just as we locate the town, the ripping thermals suddenly
become quiet. The lift softens and we make gentle turns up
into the blue sky. No longer do we need to hug the hillsides.
From three thousand feet, we head straight over the open
ocean for our beach. The air is soft now, and we can shout,

laugh, and take photos of our brightly colored wings soaring
over the blue water. Ken and I carefully bump wingtips. We
look down and spot seals playing in the water below us.
As the beach comes ever closer, I wiggle stiff legs and
fingers, preparing to touch the earth again. I'm not ready,
but the earth is ready for me. My legs wobble, my head bobs
as if I'm flying a spaceship, and I'm grinning from ear to ear.
We've been in t