We trained with our excellent instructors for eight days over a week and a half at Ed Levin in Milpitas. First we climbed up 40' and 50' hills and ran down with the wing above our heads, occasionally lifting off and skimming over the ground. On the third day we started flying off a 300' hill. Instructors typically drive students to the top of the 300' hill to expedite flying; otherwise we walk. Ed Levin, though brown in the summer, offers beautiful views of the Bay area (unless a low inversion layer blocks the view), and so hiking up is a pleasure. Hey, if it's good enough for a pterodactyl, it's good enough for me.
The fun really began 7 July, the first day Aaron and I went to Ed Levin without our instructor. We repeated a similar pattern for several days over a few weeks: arrive early, do two or so zero- or low-wind launches without much thermal lift; do two or so launches in 5-8 mph wind in buoyant air; and then perhaps do one launch in 8-12 mph, typically NW, wind. We generally finish at Ed Levin around 12 or 1pm. Early morning flights from the 300' hill last no more than a minute; late morning flights can last two or three if one finds thermals.
I visited family in Skokie, IL, 25 July-3 Aug, so I went for two weeks without flying. When I returned, my harness and Aaron's new wing and harness had arrived. (I had bought my wing very slightly used from my instructor and trained on it.) The new harness is fantastic. It's essential to be able to relax in the seat, and I sit in my new harness very much as though I'm in a recliner.
On Sat 5 Aug, we got a site intro to Pacifica, specifically Mussel Rock, which is one of the best places to ridge soar. In ridge soaring, the paraglider flies parallel to a cliff (ridge), obtaining lift from the wind hitting the cliff and consequently being compressed and redirected upward.
Recreational pilots are a really friendly and helpful bunch, and it is quite customary for the local experts to give plenty of advice to the newbies (who are undoubtedly easy to spot whether or not they choose to identify themselves as such).
First we flew several short flights, about a minute each, to accustom ourselves to the entirely new topography. One launches from one of several spots and lands in either large dirt areas or along the terraces of the shallow cliff that parallel the ocean. On my second flight I became rather well acquainted with some tall weeds on landing. (When I land awkwardly I often think of Hemingway's Nick Adams stories that begin with his either jumping off or being thrown off a freight train on which he had hitched a ride. Sometimes the landing is only the beginning of the adventure.)
Later in the day, we made an attempt at soaring. The lift was questionable; even the local experts were doing a lot of parawaiting (the part of the sport in which one waits for the proper wind). Aaron followed one sage's advice, hugging the cliff after rounding the Westlake Point to the north of the launch. I, alas, did not hear the wise words and didn't hug the cliff until after I sank below the line of the old 1. I learned later that on poor-lift days the 1 line is a good indicator of whether one will rise or sink. After five minutes trying to get lift, I landed on a wide part of the beach, folded up my wing, and parahiked (Can you guess what that means? Think of a prehistoric pterodactyl woefully downed in a bit of sinky air and trudging back to the cliff, sadly bereft of an opposable thumb with which to hitch hike. In our case we needn't fear hungry predators on our hikes back.) back to the launch area. Pacifica is exceedingly beautiful; except for dealing with my frustrated desire to fly, the walk back was quite nice. The beach is often an option for landing if necessary (I was not the only one folding up on the beach that day), and hence pilots pay close attention to tide charts before heading out.
The next day, Sun 6 Aug, we went first to Ed Levin to meet our instructor for a possible flight off the 1750' launch. Conditions were unfavorable and we never quite managed to meet up with our instructor at the right time (we were all hiking up). Once we converged in the landing zone, we decided to abort, and Aaron and I beat it over to Pacifica.
Aaron or Sarah, his wife, caught me launching from the 300' hill at Ed Levin and landing.
We arrived at Pacifica around 12:15. The winds were SW with gusts at 10 mph or more. I launched before Aaron. The launch wasn't pretty, but that wasn't my first graceless launch. (Ha! Far, far from it.) Kiting, where the pilot carefully controls the wing while staying on the ground, is a skill that comes only with long practice, but it paves the way for graceful launches even in gusty conditions. A really skilled pilot, such as our instructor, can walk his aloft wing around as though it is a hat.
Once in the air (courtesy of Scott Hooper), I headed north for the Point, even bowing my course west, away from the bowl that precedes the Point, because of the modestly high winds. I cleared the Point above the 1 and knew I was in for a ride. The ride, it turned out, lasted approximately two hours.
The lift was great -- one could throw a sofa off the launch and it would probably fly -- so I didn't hug the cliffs too closely. I quickly learned that in the conditions prevailing during that first soaring flight, losing, rather than gaining, altitude was the greater techinical challenge. Some experts had warned those of us light on our wings (which I most certainly am) to stay below the top of the cliffs and modestly far over the water to avoid being blown back. I used the speed bar quite often and occasionally big ears to lose altitude to obey this precept.
One other piece of advice which I gratefully followed was to wear a sweatshirt and gloves. I didn't wear the gloves at launch because launching is still a challenge for me and I like to feel the lines very precisely. But once in the air, I donned them appreciatively.
Occasionally writers must excuse themselves from writing about something beautiful, as words provide inadequate substitute. Here I must do the same. I shall attempt only to enumerate a few characteristics of ridge soaring a paraglider to indicate the majesty of the experience. First, there is no engine; one hears only the wind rushing past at 18-22 mph (I don't know my exact air speed, but it's something like that, with the larger number reflecting full speed bar extension.), and there are no vibrations (unless one is shivering from the cold). Second, one reclines in the harness, so one is at perfect ease, legs crossed (if not on the speed bar), while flying. As the wing is above, one can look down in all directions without impedance. Besides watching the clouds, ocean, landscape, launch activity, and various sites in San Francisco, one watches birds, fellow paragliders, and hangliders to note their soaring techniques. It's quite fun to watch the expert paragliders pull fancy tricks. Pilots also take careful note of an incoming marine layer, cloud formation above, choppiness of the ocean, shifting wind direction (indicated, most obviously, by windsocks around the launch area), lurching of the wing relative to topography (for future reference), wind gradient relative to altitude and position along the cliff, and of course the positions of all other pilots. While airborne, I counted over a dozen pilots simultaneously flying, and the broad swath of cliff can accomodate many more.
After approximately two hours, I landed on a large patch of dirt south of two of the major launch points. I landed for three reasons. First, I had watched the marine layer come in and planned to land once it was at the cliffs. Later I learned that the ceiling could be much lower and still permit flying; but in paragliding, it is best to be conservative, especially as an ignorant beginner. Second, I had been somewhat nervous about landing the whole time I was flying as I had previously not had to lose altitude in a planned manner while navigating to the spot I wanted to land and then orient myself relative to the wind direction. I was reminded while flying of a passage in Hemingway's "The Undefeated": "He thought about one thing at a time. The coming things oppressed him, though." Once I saw the marine layer was definitely creeping in, I spent a lot of time doing high-altitude runs over where I had decided to land, evaluating how I sank, my ground speed as I turned into the wind, and so on. Then, once the marine layer was overhead, I went in for the landing, though even in my conservative opinion I knew I could fly for at least a half hour more (as it turned out, pilots were launching long after I landed) under the cloud ceiling. I did long figure eights over the area southwest of the launch, then circled counter-clockwise at the south part of the dirt area, faced into the wind, and then dropped slowly to the ground. I didn't have to run forward at all as the wind was perfect. Once down, though, I had to fight to bring the wing down. Wings are always ready to fly. And, finally, there was that third reason I landed: quickly I heeded the call of nature.
