He’s saying something. I think. I can see his lips moving. He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder, nodding reassuringly. I focus on his hands as he tightens my harness for the third time. He continues to speak. I think. I can’t hear what he says. He motions down the 45 degree incline and I stumble after him, wondering for the tenth time in as many minutes what I’m doing here. My eyes are wide as I refocus on his face. I don’t blink. His lips form silent words and he smiles mockingly. Or maybe it’s reassuringly. My chest rises and falls at an exaggerated pace, and I can feel my lips getting drier as I breathe through my mouth – short, shallow breaths – barely taking in any oxygen. He continues to speak but I turn away from him and face downhill. In front of me, there is only sky.
It’s the height of summer and the sky is as blue as ever – with not a cloud to be seen. The sun beats down upon me, but I don’t feel the heat. I don’t hear anything either, even though I know, rationally, that the air should be filled with the sound of cicadas chirping, of sugar-birds chattering in the fynbos, and of the tourists that have stopped behind us to take photos of my dilemma, not to mention the man behind me. I turn around to check and yes, he’s still speaking, but all I hear is the sound of the blood rushing through my ears, and my short, sharp gasps of breath. I open my hands, but my fingers shake traitorously, so I clasp them into fists and hold them tensely at my side. My whole body focuses on the one sense that hasn’t deserted me – sight. They say if you lose any of your senses, your brain compensates by enhancing the remainder, and that certainly seems to be true now. My eyes focus on the golden stretch of sand far below, hugging the meandering coastline as it follows the Twelve Apostles towards the horizon. I imagine I’m down there – on Clifton, Fourth Beach – the sun beating down on me, the sand between my toes, the icy water taking my breath away. Nothing to worry about but turning evenly, to make sure I don’t burn. But instead, I’m miles above, on the side of Lions Head, suspiciously attached to a man from Turkey, who seems to have chosen the art of mime, over the more widely accepted form of communication: speaking. What am I doing here? Behind him, some men are unfolding a kite. Is that even going to fly? My breaths come faster, shallower. I’m afraid of heights, and this is very high. Suddenly, something that seemed like a great idea becomes a horrible “˜maybe I made a mistake’ moment, and all my senses come rushing back to me. I turn around again, ignoring the man behind me. My eyes find Herman in the crowd, and he smiles excitedly, laughing at my deer-in-the-headlights impersonation. He doesn’t try to be reassuring, doesn’t tell me it will be alright, and I’m grateful. Instead he’s almost jumping up and down in anticipation – he’s next – and gives me the thumbs up sigh. ‘Harden the f*** up!’ he yells, ‘It’s going to be awesome!’ I almost laugh. Almost. I shake my head with a smile that looks more like a grimace and turn back to face down the mountain of death. ‘OK,’ I say to my torturer … umm … instructor, Sukan. ‘Here we go’ he says, ‘Just remember, don’t stop running.’ And so I don’t. And we’re flying.
Being in the air is nothing like I expected it to be. I feel safe – amazingly so. There is no feeling of falling: no sense that I’m dangling precariously from a kite, hundreds of meters above the ground (although I am). Instead, I feel free – as corny as that sounds. The thing that surprises me the most is how quiet everything is up here. My senses are all present and accounted for, but still all I hear is the wind. We glide peacefully along the side of the mountain, turning now and then to gain altitude. Sukan finds a thermal, and we hitch a ride, swooping back and forth and climbing higher and higher until we’re looking down at the very energetic people who climbed to the top in such heat. Below us, I see Herman getting ready to take off. He doesn’t look nervous. Granted, he’s just a yellow speck far below me, but knowing him, I imagine his excited impatience as he waits to take off. And then he does, and it looks so easy, and not scary at all. As easy as running. His paraglider soars below me, and I wave, although I don’t think he can see me – as he is probably focused on the best view in Cape Town. Sukan is speaking again, but this time I hear him. ‘You can let go now,’ he laughs, and I notice how tightly I’m clasping the strings, ‘Put your arms out.’ I’m skeptical, but I do it, smiling incredulously. I’m flying.
The flight lasts twenty minutes. Twenty minutes and I never once get tired of it. The view from every angle is spectacular, and every time we turn, my heart rushes into my throat just a little. We fly out over the ocean, and I see tiny kayakers below me. We turn and head over Clifton, and I see the people spread out, worshipping the sun, but now I’d rather be flying. Sukan if I want to do some tricks. ‘Are you insane?’ I ask him, imagining myself in a spiral of death, ‘let’s just get through this first.’ An answer I now regret. All too soon we’re landing at La Med, and it’s the easiest part yet, I just stand up, and I’m on the ground. I can’t stop smiling. I feel alive. Wow!
Let’s go again!
I’m still alive thanks to Sukan Sahin and the wonderful folk at Para-Taxi in Cape Town. Flights cost R950 and leave you feeling exhilarated and annoyingly perky for the rest of the day/the week/your life. You can also pay R200 extra for photos guaranteed to make your friends and family despise you, and thats always fun. But I warn you, paragliding may make you want to leave it all behind, for a life in the sky … but then again, whats wrong with that?
Contact:
Tel 082-966-2047
