Touching Cloud Base

"I'd find myself in a deeply meditative state of flow, with all my senses focused on the wind and the constant feedback from the glider."

I've lost two friends to paragliding accidents. Over the years, I've helped countless others off the hill with twisted ankles or bruised egos after a hard landing. 

My 15 years of flying ended abruptly when my glider went into a low-level spin, resulting in a collision with a substantial piece of Jurassic real estate called Pyramid Hill. Two fractures to my spine, nine breaks to the left wrist and a concussion resulted. My helmet did its job, sustaining a blow that would have killed me.

The crash was entirely my fault. Trying to remain in the air at the end of the day, riding the last of erratic thermals bubbling up the slope, I'd stalled the left side of the glider. With enough altitude, I'd probably get away with releasing the brakes to gain airspeed. On that occasion,  I'd got too close to the slope, with reduced speed and height.

Stunned and concussed, friends ferried me away in a daze. Later in the hospital, a fierce bollocking from the wife had other patients hiding under beds. And that was the end of my flying days. 

And yet, even now, I'll look at a ridge line or distant hill thinking, could I fly that? Such is the passion.

All this came back to me with a report this week that a 74-year-old retired police officer had crashed and died on Lantau. I didn't know him. What happened to Mr Tang will undoubtedly be the subject of an inquiry. The media is already suggesting that marginal conditions played a role. Let's see.

As a former paraglider, I'm privy to a unique perspective. The passion that drives us to take risks may seem unfathomable to the layperson. After all, attaching oneself to a piece of nylon by high-strength lines and launching off a hill can be perceived as sheer madness. Yet, the indescribable sensation of soaring in ridge lift or a thermal, like a bird, is a realm that words fail to capture. 

I'd find myself in a deeply meditative state of flow, with all my senses focused on the wind and the constant feedback from the glider. Absorbed in the task of catching uplift —avoiding terrain and others in the air — nothing else matters. 

Paragliding is often associated with thrill-seeking, and there is an undeniable element of that, especially when engaging in high-mountain flying. However, frequently overlooked is the profound serenity that accompanies the sport. Picture yourself hanging about the Cape D'Aguilar rock face, with the South China Sea stretching to the horizon and an eagle playfully tumbling in your wake. It's a unique blend of thrill and tranquillity. 

After hauling all the equipment up a hill and waiting for the right conditions, the temptation to fly can be overwhelming when a window of opportunity opens. However, it's crucial to make informed decisions. At sites like Lantau South, the possibility of instantly forming orographic clouds is a constant reminder of the need for caution and vigilance. 

Paragliders fly under 'visual flight rules' for a reason. The onboard collision avoidance system is the pilot and the ability to see the terrain. Lose that ability, drift off course in a whiteout, and the risks escalate off the scale. After all, mountains hide in clouds.

As usual with aviation accidents, a cascading series of instances and decisions lead to the disaster: an urgency to fly in marginal conditions, an unwillingness to face the slog of walking downhill with a heavy pack, and a gung-ho attitude. As the saying goes, there are old pilots and bold pilots, but very few old and bold pilots. 

Mr Tang was no young man, but he undoubtedly had a passion, given the commitment needed to carry his kit to the takeoff point. 

In 2017, Matt Segal had a near-fatal accident while training for a Himalayan expedition. In writing about that accident, Tuttle reflected on the dangers of the sport:

"So, the question I have been asking myself is: how do we keep our ambition in check, yet still push the boundaries of the sport? How do we remain true to those child-like feelings, which made us take those first flights before any knowledge of what was possible?

​How do we keep emotion out of the decision-making process while participating in a sport that at its core delivers such powerful emotional experience?  As a pilot, I face this as my greatest work in progress."