Paragliding - Cokertme, Turkey May 5, 2002 Another day of an early 0535 departure to anchor well before noon hour escaping the Meltemi, and having a leisurely day to visit the local community, dinghy around the anchorage, putter around the boat, swim, have a lovely barbecue supper in the cockpit, and sit down of an evening to write up my logs while listening to some pleasant music on the CD player of my computer. In my last log we had just returned from the Dalyan mud baths and the abandoned Greek community of Kaya Koy to Veleda while in Fethiye, and were getting ready for paragliding next day. Judy was game enough to go too. We were picked up at the marina jetty and taken to the beach strip at Olu Deniz, where after a short wait we got into a Land Rover with the bundled paraglider and our flight suits for the trip up the mountain. They needed the four wheel drive to navigate to the top of the 6300 foot mountain along a rocky rutted trail, partially washed out in places. We wended our way higher through glorious pine forest and majestic rock outcroppings, up the mountain, negotiating hairpin curves, through rain, then snow, passing occasional snowdrifts in crevices, and skirting the washed out areas of the trail. We were thinking that paragliding down from the summit would be easier, safer and more comfortable than coming back down in the vehicle. At the top, more than a mile above sea level, there was an earth/gravel clearing arching over a vertical descent into a valley 2000 feet below, with the coastline a couple of miles away. We could see the bay in which we had been anchored a couple of days ago and Gemiler Adasi, St. Nicholas Island, where I explored the Byzantine ruins. The beach at Olu Deniz where we were ultimately to land was behind one of the mountain ridges. The crescent-shaped paraglider was stretched out behind me, parallel to the edge about 50 feet away, the thin nylon lines converging to two shoulder straps to which the pilot and myself were then attached. It was a tandem device with a canvas seat strapped to my back and waist, and a similar seat for the pilot behind me. I had on a flight suit, with a safety helmet, similar to a snowmobile helmet, but without the face visor, and my camera slung around my neck. The basic instructions given while waiting for an updraft to blow over the crest ahead of us were: when told, to run over the crest holding the straps at shoulder level, to keep running until airborne, and to hold onto the straps, staying in a standing position until instructed to ease into the canvas seat once stabilized in flight. Oooo Kaaaayyy! Judy, 50 metres to my left, was given the same routine. We faced the crest and waited for a whisper of wind to come up it. No wind! What if there is not enough to get airborne? How much is needed? I really wasn’t very apprehensive, and was looking forward to getting off. A zephyr whispered over the crest and my pilot said, “Let’s go!” We ran. My feet became lighter on the ground. We were running down the crest, not into the air yet! Then my feet were no longer touching the ground. “Don’t sit down!” called the pilot. We drifted up, some pines slowly gliding beneath us, and veered off to the left up a valley, a glistening stream winking 2000 feet below. “OK, sit back now”, he called, and letting my seat snuggle into the canvas support, I had the euphoria of flying! No sound, little sensation, but a magnificent misty panorama below and ahead, of the mountains and a valley tilting away from me as we silently arched through space and the Lycian coast stretched into the distance. Wow! We drifted through some misty cloud, and I was aware of the cold and moisture, but the dream of flying through a cloud was an ecstasy of which I had fanticized since the first commercial flight I took as a naval officer cadet flying out to Halifax in 1957. I had my camera carefully strapped around my neck and tied to the strap. It was difficult taking pictures because the chin guard of the helmet limited my range of focus. However, I took many, of the coast, where we had anchored, of the beach at Olu Deniz where we were to land about a half hour later, of the cliffs, the valleys, of the parachute stretched out above us, and of Judy gliding off to my right. At one point my paraglider actually touched hers and collapsed the outer corner, but no problem. It was a soft spongy collapse of a couple of feet of chute that filled right back up and we veered away. No sensation was felt by us with that minimal contact. The chutes are quite stable. The leading edges of the crescent shaped chutes have baffles that conduct the air from the front to the back, creating a substantial but soft lifting force, sufficient to support the weight of two male adults with considerable maneuverability. I asked if I could manipulate the control line, and when I slightly pulled down one side we swung slowly out to the right as the chute majestically tilted to the left and started a slow spiral in that direction. I could feel a gentle tug of centrifugal force in the turn, but nothing to alarm me. Actually, the gliding was too soft. I wanted the sensation of swooping down then gliding up over a ridge of mountain into a next valley, but we just lazily drifted through space, enjoying the panorama below us. Coming down for the landing was a definite manoeuvre of spiraling into position above the beach into he wind. I was surprised as I thought the preparation for the approach would be over the water towards the beach, but we swerved over the town, telephone poles only 20 feet below us as we drifted up the beach parallel to the shoreline, the breeze coming off the water to our right. “Stand up”, the pilot instructed, as we came within two or three feet of our feet touching ground. Then he gently swung the chute to the right, collapsing the left edge onto the ground, and we were stationary with both feet on the ground, and didn’t even have to take more than one or two steps to keep our balance as the rest of the chute gracefully collapsed on itself to the left away from the waterside. We were down!
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