It seemed like a good idea, at the time, the time being September 1981. I came across an advert in the ‘Scotsman’ for training at the Glenshee Hang Gliding Club. I was 29 and looking for a bit of adventure while working in Edinburgh and figured that I needed to do something radical before my big Three O. To my chagrin, none of my mates thought that this was a particularly good idea and so I signed up on my own. The course itself wasn’t cheap and so, in order to make it more cost-effective, I decided to camp in the Glen as the nearest accommodation was in Tomintoul, or Cock Bridge, or Spittal of Glenshee (Such accommodating names) and that involved a serious amount of money and travel.

My girlfriend drove me up there at the appointed time and I chose a location close to running, clean water and sufficiently hidden from the road so that nobody would come round looking for a campsite fee. I had a primus stove, a week’s supplies of food, I was all set. The major drawback was the fact that there wasn’t a pub for about 25 miles which meant I was going to be in bed by around 6.30 every night.

On the first morning, I hiked up to the Club and met my fellow gliding trainees, half a dozen motley youths and our Instructor, Gustaf Fischneller. Gustaf was a wiry Austrian with a huge beard and manic eyes whose grasp of English seemed to have been learnt from English Boys’ Comics of the 1960’s, like ‘Victor’ and ‘Hotspur’ and ‘Eagle’. Only, instead of talking like Alf Tupper, “Tough of the Track” or “Roy of the Rovers”, he talked like every dastardly Gerry that ever fought the gallant British Tommies during WWII. It seemed that we were being taught by some Luftwaffe Pilot who, rather than escaping to South America and getting plastic surgery, had grown a beard and hidden in plain sight while trying to continue the plan to eliminate der Englischer dogs.

For an hour or two in the morning we were lectured at. This involved Gustaf standing in front of a chalkboard, drawing stick men plunging to certain death, while he shouted and waved his arms. None of us had a clue what he was on about. Then, he showed us how to assemble the Kite-Glider, but in reality, just a big kite without a string. Having built it, we then had to run up and down a field with it, feeling the kite fly, balancing it but, as we weren’t attached, never leaving the ground.

Day 2 involved more deaths among the stick men and then we were taken to a field with a bit of a slope. We built the kites and then Gustaf attached a lanyard to the front. Seemingly, this morning we had been taught how to launch the glider by propelling it forward and, as it began to fly, to keep propelling it as it started to lift us off the ground, all the while keeping the forward momentum as our strides became longer and less ground based. Under no circumstances were we to jump into the saddle as soon as we thought the kite was airborne. This was to be a gentle application of load while maintaining propulsion and trim. Of course, all we had actually heard was, “Achtung schvinehund! Die schleeping es verboten! Name, rank unt zerial number Schnell!”

We lined up at the top of the gentle slope. Gustaf cast his beady eyes over us and growled before grabbing the lanyard on the first kite and yelling at the trainee to launch. He pushed forwards, Gustaf ran in front, the kite lifted, the guy jumped into the saddle and the kite immediately nosedived into the turf, as did the trainee. Gustaf was incandescent. His arms windmilling and screaming at the guy that he would have to pay for any repairs and then, “Next!” The next guy did just as well and again, Gustaf went into a rant. I was number 3 but, having watched the other two and, having gleaned some of the sense from the morning’s lecture, I was able to run until I was moonwalking and suddenly, I was flying! For about 3 seconds. At which point Gustaf pulled on the lanyard and I ploughed into the turf. “Okay! Don’t get Cocky Englander pig-dog!”

We did this several times each until we had pretty much got the gist of it. We were bruised and battered and knackered, but there were 7 of us and only one Gustaf to run up and down that slope all afternoon. Next morning, only 2 of us showed up for further training. I think Gustaf built his profit margin around being a mad bastard with a very high rate of attrition amongst his pupils. The other guy, Jacky, was my age and similarly determined not to be done out of the upfront tuition fees.

This morning’s class featured more plunging stick men and a bit of eye-rolling but, having achieved a 70% reduction in class numbers, it seemed like he didn’t want the whole shebang to collapse for want of bodies, so he was a bit more laid back and the decibel level was similarly reduced. Or maybe he had a bit of a hangover. It was difficult to tell because he always looked as if he had a hangover. Anyway, after lunch, we loaded up the van with a couple of training kites and Gustafs’ super-duper personalized kite. We were also joined by a visitor with his own kite, this guy had trained and got his Pilot’s license in Gullen, a school on the South coast of Wales, where they used big sand-dunes to take off from and a broad flat beach for landing.

Gustaf drove us up to a small, heather covered hill with not too many stone walls, scattered boulders and barbed wire fences, and just the one power line snaking off to a lonely farmhouse, and we staggered up to the top loaded with kites and safety gear while trying to high step over the thick, knee high heather. Gustaf, naturally, just goose-stepped over the vegetation, crushing it beneath his steel capped jack-boots. At the top there was a small grassed area and we dumped the gear, got our breath back and then started to assemble the kites, meanwhile, the Welsh guy just sat and watched and breathed in the awesome landscape. Once ready, Gustaf took great pleasure in pointing out all the various opportunities for an untimely death, crashing into a boulder or stone wall, being impaled on a fence post or garotted by barbed wire, electrocuted on the power lines, or simply dismembered by being dragged at speed through the tenacious heather. There was ample choice. Then, we had to plot a route in our mind that would reduce, as far as possible the likelihood of any or all of these eventualities while bringing us close to the designated landing strip. The wind direction was perfect and the strength just enough to get us off the ground with little possibility of getting carried away. Jacky described this route to Gustaf and then, after a suitable pause for Gustaf to windmill his arms and shout at us, Jacky was allowed to take off.

It was beautiful, his launch went well, he steered the kite gently swooping down the route, he never got more than 15 metres off the ground and landed safely. The whole operation took about 3 minutes. Gustaf harrumphed and eyeballed me, he pointed down the hill to Jacky, windmilled his arms and made several bizarre gesticulations whilst shouting. I had absolutely no idea what he was shouting about. My heart seemed to be filling my entire chest and each thump of its beat was so loud in my ears that even real English could not have made sense. Finally, he stepped back, checked my trim and waved me off.

I pushed and the kite responded. I kept pushing and balancing the trim as we gained momentum. I felt the harness tighten across my back as the kite tried to lift me, but I kept pushing down and, gathering momentum, felt my strides getting longer until my toes were scrabbling for purchase. I was flying! For real this time! I slipped the plank seat under my bum and steered, the boulders and the walls and barbed wire floated by beneath my feet, I focused on the landing strip but couldn’t help looking around at this aerial world and laughing like an idiot. All too soon, it was time to come down, I flared the leading edge to slow down and tried to run but my legs were jelly, I stumbled and tripped and made a rather ignominious but safe landing. Then unclipped myself.

Jacky was grinning from ear to ear and the pair of us were shouting and whooping like a couple of crazies, we looked back up the slope to where we had come from and saw the Welshman hauling his still unpacked kite back down the side of the hill. That was the last we saw of him. Then Gustaf launched. Much more elegant by far than either of us, his kite swirled, ducked and dived. We started to disassemble and pack our kites while pausing to check his progress. With his far superior glide ratio, he was able to zig-zag to every one of our zigs, he was half way down the hill and had about 15 metres of height. The next time we looked he was directly over us but had about 30 metres, we saw his wing tilt as he felt a thermal and spiraled into it. Within a few minutes, he was back half way up the hill with 60 metres, then at the top with 90 and then he was gone.

In these circumstances, the drill was to drive back to the school and wait. If he landed close by he would contact by walky-talky and, if out of range, he would find a phone and call. After a couple of hours, the phone rang, he’d managed 30 miles as the crow flies and was sitting in a Farmer’s house drinking tea. He gave us the map co-ordinates and we drove off to pick him up. Even with the late summer Highland evenings, it was dark by the time we got back. I crawled into my tent and crashed from adrenaline exhaustion.

Day 4 was more of the same as we practiced on ‘Safe’ slopes. Gustaf told us how the Welsh guy has watched us fly and then decided against it, sand dunes were just so much more comfy to smack into. Then, having survived thus far, Day 5 was to be given over to some really serious stick-man deaths as he taught us about stalling. We had covered this before, but today was different because we were going have to intentionally cause a stall and recover from it and, to make sure that we had plenty of air-room to do this, we were going to take off from the top of Glenshee ski slope where the height between take-off and landing was 650 metres, as the mountainside was almost sheer.

A kite has to have a certain glide ratio, they are designed to lose height so that the loss is converted into forward propulsion. This is governed by a bar that the pilot uses to shift his weight, pull it into your stomach and speed increases as does the rate of descent, push it away and the speed slows. However, push it too far and the kite stops moving forwards and loses its aerodynamic capability. This is a stall. After you have stalled, the back edge of the wing drops down behind the pilot and he falls backwards, but this gives the kite momentum which will tip the wing back into the correct alignment, unfortunately, the pilot is then swung like a pendulum beneath the wing and the weight shift causes the front edge to tip forwards and he is now diving towards the ground at great speed. Terror ensues, gut churning is already well in place and buttocks must be clenched. If not correctly resolved, this is a stick-man situation, however, the gut reaction is to prevent this by slowing the kite down, by pushing the bar forward but, over compensate and another stall will occur and the process repeats until such time as it doesn’t because the Earth becomes the brake.

The correct procedure is to wait for the forwards dive, hold the bar in and then edge it forwards as slowly and as firmly as your terrorized nerves can allow until the dive bottoms out and you have a controlled forwards momentum. There is only one way to learn this and that is to do it.

We went to the toilet, took our kites, climbed on the ski lift and headed to the top of Glenshee. While we were assembling, a bunch of qualified pilots were lounging about, kites already built, waiting for some good weather to build and having a laugh with Gustaf. It was a warm clear morning and hopefully, thermals would start to build and they could get in some good runs. One guy was standing to one side while the rest were swapping banter, he’d seen some movement of the grass lower down the slope and was watching as a thermal began to grow and spiral towards them. At the last possible moment, he ran to his kite, lifted it and shouted, “So long suckers!” as he launched himself forwards. Startled, the others all turned, annoyed that he had got the jump on them. Pilots are always trying to get one up, to get the solo thermal and leave the rest behind. His kite started to lift and only then did his expression turn from glee to consternation. In his sneaky excitement he had failed to clip his harness into the kite frame and it was lifting without him. Vainly he clung to it with arms outstretched, until his thermal caught it and plucked it from his grasping fingertips. The kite flew up, he crashed down and rolled 20 metres or so down the slope, fortunately on the ski side of the mountain, not the sheer side. Grazed and bruised, he staggered to his feet and trudged back towards his howling comrades, their attention split between deriding him and watching his kite as it lifted, spiraled and then smashed in to the opposite mountainside.

Another thermal built, they all clipped themselves, very carefully, into the frame and disappeared into the sky leaving him, a lone and crumpled figure, with a very expensive pile of crushed aluminium and torn polymers to be recovered.

Gustaf shook his head and spit in disgust. “Dumkopf!”. He gestured at Jacky to clip himself into the harness and stand on the take-off line. There then followed the interminable shouting and railing while he checked the wind and the kite trim. Finally he stood to one side and Jacky launched out over the void. Once he was well out from the mountainside, we watched as the kite slowed and slowed and stopped. The back wing dropped slightly, there was a gentle fall backwards which was quickly arrested, followed by a slight forward plunge and a successful glide out. Jacky had undertaken a successful stall and recovery. I was relieved and pleased for him as, gently, he soared off to the landing zone.

The quiet of the Highlands was ruptured by Gustafs’ scream. “Pussy!… Faggot!.. Mein Gott you fuckin Englischer wimps! Vot is dis?! Dis is not obeyink orders! Don’t fucking come back you fairy arschloch!” He turned and eyeballed me. “You see dis fuckin pussy! Dis is nacht ein stall! Dis is der faggoty ballet dance! When you stall, I want to see a fucking stall. Auffassen?!”

I couldn’t help myself, “Jawol!” I only just managed to stop clicking my heels together.

He looked at me with those beady eyes, he wasn’t sure if I was caught up in the moment or taking the piss. He gestured to my kite. I clipped in, picked it up and stood at the take-off line. My heart was going like the clappers, the kite seemed to sense this and got all frisky on me. I was shaking like a leaf but couldn’t tell if it was fear or simply the wind bucking the wing. Gustaf was yelling at me about the trim, my eyes were locked on the drop into nothingness, my pulse yammering in my ears. Suddenly, he stepped to the side and in a single moment of clarity I heard him yell, “You get dis wrong, we send you home to mutter in ein plastic bag! Vot are you vaiting fir? Go! Schnell!”

I think it was anger that propelled me. I pushed forwards and immediately the wing began to buck but I kept pushing. Within a few strides I was on tiptoe. The kite lifted and took me with it. The ground fell away and I was soaring 650 metres above the ground. There is nothing quite like it. One second you are this clumpy, 2 legged beast anchored to the dirt and the next, you are an Eagle. Your perspective on the World is changed for ever, however, the World is still present and behind me I can hear Gustaf howling across the void, “Okay Birdboy. Gif me ein fucking stall!”

I complied but, this is probably the scariest thing I have ever done in my life and the results were pretty much identical to Jacky’s. I knew it wasn’t good enough and I could almost hear the intake of breath as Gustaf prepared to let go with a lungfull of obscenity. I pushed the bar, hard. The next thing I see is my boots as they rise in front of me. My stomach lurches as I suddenly drop backwards. I seem to be falling into a death that I cannot see and it’s almost impossible not to panic. The fall lasts for about 30 metres but feels like a lifetime before weightlessness is replaced by a slight tug which grows in intensity as the pendulum swings me with crushing G force back towards weightlessness. Only this time, I can see my death because I am now hurtling face forwards towards the ground. The kite is still over my head, but this isn’t reassuring because my body is horizontal to the ground, therefore, the wing is actually vertical to gravity. Something in my brain manages to push through the terror and, white knuckled, I refuse to push the bar away from me. Instead, I ease it gently from the pit of my stomach. The angles slowly change as the wing responds. The terrifying dive is replaced by an exhilarating rush as it hammers forwards, slowly decelerating as I gain control and finally glide again. I can look around and laugh away the terror of 15 seconds ago. I am the Eagle, I soar. From the far mountainside I might just be able to hear a Germanic, “Harrumph!”

All too soon, the landing zone appears and the ground rises up to greet me. Jelly-legged once more, I stumble and trip my way to a less than dignified landing, but I have survived. I hang in the harness for several moments trying to remember it all, but the excitement is such that it will be days before dreams and nightmares reveal the intensity of the experience. Right now, I just feel like a god. That was a lifetime of living in one day.

Day 6 is a Saturday and my girlfriend is driving up to meet me so I’m not flying. The plan is to come back another week or whenever, depending on the weather, for more lessons and then take my P1 Pilot exam. Jacky, however, is in a rush, he has to go home on Sunday and so is trying to cram in as much flying as possible. Once I have packed up my tent and gear, I head up to the Club to check out what’s happening and then hike over to the landing zone to watch. There is another trainee, Jeff, he already has undergone a fair bit of training but Gustaf wants him to undertake a stall recovery. Jacky is being allowed to use a Budgy harness, instead of sitting on the wooden swing seat, he will fly semi-prone thus giving him much improved aerodynamics. I’m pretty jealous but stick to my plan as Kate should be arriving soon.

It’s a beautiful clear, sunny day as I sit by the gurgling stream, the grassy banks are a lush green and the landing field is spotted with the dark, rich earth of countless molehills. I lie on the turf, looking at the magnificence of Glenshee, rising hard and stark against the pure blue sky. I spot a movement at the top and see a lemon yellow triangle sail out from the summit, it’s Jeff and I watch as he prepares, hesitates and then starts his stall. It’s almost over before it’s begun and I can almost hear Gustaf screaming, but there seems to be an issue. Even though the stall was minor, Jeff seems to be going straight into a second stall, this one quite a bit bigger. “Good man!” I think, “Gustaf will be pleased with that.” But Jeff’s second stall leads into another, bigger still. It soon becomes apparent that Jeff has lost the plot. He is panicking.

Each successive drop backwards, results in a sickening, lurching pendulum as Jeff is swung like a rag doll beneath the kite. Then it dives and each dive is longer and faster. Jeff is screaming towards the ground in a gut wrenching series of ever increasing waves. Jeff is going to die. As he nears the inevitable, I put my hands in front of my face, I don’t think I can watch but, something perverse forces my fingers apart. I am rigid with horror as he starts his last, fatal dive. Seconds before he smashes into the ground at some ridiculous speed, fate lends a hand and the kite begins its pendulum swing. The slow curve towards the horizontal becomes stronger and stronger and finally bottoms out about 60 centimetres from the ground. Jeff’s legs become anchors that drag through the grass and occasional clump of heather. The kite slows as it drags him forwards and then pitches into the turf. I shake myself and run forwards. Jeff is pale, vomiting, crying, too weak to unclip himself. I help him out and he staggers round in a circle before collapsing in a pile, sobbing. I leave him to recover his dignity.

I glance up to the mountain and see that, undeterred by this massive failure of bottle, Jacky has launched. I watch as he gracefully zig-zags across the valley and he even manages to get a little lift. Gustaf has also launched and he is making his way down as quickly as possible to see if he needs a body bag for Jeff. Just as he lands, a blue van pulls up on the road above the landing zone and blows its horn. It’s Kate. I wave and signal for her to wait a minute. Gustaf, is already unclipped and raging at the supine Jeff, chivvying him to his feet and inspecting him and the kite for damage. Jacky comes in to land. Gustaf watches him and mutters, “Too low, too fast.” But Jacky is feeling cool, he waits until the last moment to push the bar and initiate a landing stall, he intends for the kite to rear up and drop so that he can come to a standing stop, professional. He pushes the bar hard, but Gustaf is right, too low, too fast and the bar hits a very large mole hill. Jacky is catapulted through the A frame and the kite cartwheels down the field. We both run after it as Jeff starts sobbing again. Jacky is tangled in a web of webbing, polyester and aluminium but he has a huge grin on his face.

“Did you see that?! Epic! I almost nailed it! That was fantastic!”

“Are you alright?” Gustaf and I ask in unison.

“Yeah. No problem.”

“ Are you sure?”

“Positive. Just enjoying the rush.”

“Jacky,” I said. “Don’t look at your elbow…… I said, don’t!”

Too late, he did. Two inches of bloody, jagged bone had punched through the skin just below it.

“Aw fuck!” he said and went all wobbly.

“Shit, what do we do?” I asked Gustaf.

“Aach! I already radio fir de van to come get dat pussy, so now we get two to take to de hospital, schnell. Gut! Is already here. Go! Your girlfren ist waiting. Come beck soon, ve hef more fun eh?”

“Definitely! Thanks Gustaf, it’s been brilliant.”

I hauled my gear over to Kate’s van and climbed in. “Is everything alright? she asked. “That crash was a bit scary. Why is that other man crying?  I’m not sure I want you doing this.”

“No, no,” I lied. “Everything is okay. Looks worse than it really is, no damage done. Come on, let’s head back, I really need a bath.”

Unfortunately (Fortunately?), that weekend turned out to be the end of Summer and I didn’t get to go back to Glenshea and, in the Spring of the following year, I moved to Hong Kong. Nevertheless, for one brief moment, I had been as an Eagle and I would never be the same again.

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