Learning to Soar the Hard Way

If you can’t soar with the eagles, float with the buzzards. I wanted to fly all of my life. I remember my birthday, 1955. They cleaned me up, gave me the first of many spankings, and put me on my back in the crib. I thought, “This is NOT a good thing, it will squash my wings.” When I was old enough to look over my shoulder, I was dismayed to find I wasn’t born with wings. For years, I kept hoping I was a late bloomer and they would grow in later but no such luck. In my single digit years, our family doctor assured me that I would have wings sooner than most of my peers. He even suggested some activity changes that would delay their arrival. What was he thinking? Who would want to delay flying?

The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

While waiting for my wings to arrive, I practiced by jumping off anything taller than I was. The doctor maintained this would result in wings and some sort of shiny headband in short order. Several of my friends suggested big kites, umbrellas, and the like to slow my descent. This seemed like cheating, not to mention undignified.

In spite of the doctor’s promises, I arrived in tweenerhood, which is that period between childhood and human, un-winged. I was devastated until I saw a sign saying, “Uncle Sam wants you.” “Earn your wings.” This seemed promising. I went and talked with the nice man. He promised me I would learn to fly an airplane. This wasn’t really what I wanted but seemed better than nothing. I took several tests and scored near the top, which amazed my family and teachers.

I completed the paperwork and just before I signed my name to make it official, the nice man added that the training would include a tour in a place called Viet Nam. This was a problem. I do not like tours. I like just wandering around. Upon further research, there were also a few negatives involved in learning to fly with this outfit. First, they do not allow jeans and tee shirts. The other was something they call discipline and another called inspection. They guaranteed this would benefit me later in life but I decided I was too young for such trauma.

My next attempt at flying was hang gliding at Kitty Hawk. It was great. Proper attire can be jeans. You strap yourself into a huge kite, run like a duck and then glide down the dune. Beginners can fly anywhere from a few feet to a few hundred feet before landing. The landings are the hard part. The proper way to land is to “flare” the kite and land on your feet. I improved on this method. I usually landed on my stomach, leaving tracks in the sand, which looked like someone had dragged a body and buried it on the dune. The drawback to this was sliding along the sand on your stomach can force an amazing quantity of sand into your shorts. I also tried a nosedive, which involves no sand in the shorts, but the landing is more abrupt. The only drawback in learning to hang glide is having to carry the kite back up the dune while wearing a harness that makes you walk like a duck. There is no dignity in walking like a duck when the intent is to fly like one.

I watched the “pros” leave the dunes, catch a thermal, and float like a buzzard for hours. This was what I wanted. Just as I was beginning to be a proficient beginner, poverty and the imminent arrival of our son intervened. We could no longer afford the trip to Kitty Hawk nor could we afford any recovery time if I made a bad landing. I reluctantly gave up the sport. The son was born right on schedule, which is something I have never tried. He was perfect in every way except for the wings.

© 2005 Hermes Publications