Almost everyone has had a flying dream. The first one I remember was after a day of sliding down the dunes in front of my house on a plastic kick-board. In my dream, the wind was strong in my face and got under the blue kick-board as I slid down the small hill. And I flew, soaring in place above the small dune. I was 7 years old.
Growing up on the Outer Banks of North Carolina in the 1970s, I saw hang gliding all the time, but didn’t get around to taking a lesson until I was 19. The first time I saw someone soar the small dunes along the beach, I remembered that dream, and I’ve never forgotten it.
Hang gliding has been a constant in my adult life, for over 30 years now, and while I’ve flown high and far, I’ve never lost touch with the small dunes of my youth. It’s been called the “flyingest flying,” and at its essence is a freedom and a purity that appeals deeply to some. Simply step into the air and fly. Imagine that.
I have no idea if this little project will go anywhere, but it’s time to start–I’m goin’ crazy out by the lake. Flying, writing, and a perfect storm that’s led to the mother of all mid-life crises. Maybe this will help keep me from putting someone in the chipper.