By Helen McKerral

The next day, I’m still on a high. Other pilots flew long distances – Steve N. 180+km, landing at the Flight Park, Geoff at Ro’s parents’ farm nearby.  Marko and Kiwi Matt are chalking up miles. Everyone else is doing great, too, though Scott had a hard landing in his Xtralite with his glider suddenly pointing straight down from 200ft – a dusty, probably.

The uninitiated have also discovered another essential clothing item: after two mornings of grass seeds and prickles, canvas bootguards are high on everyone’s list. The local Mitre 10 sells out and Andy generously gives me his spares.
As the forecast is 40C, several pilots decide on a rest day, but a bunch of diehards head out. Matt has damaged his elbow, Marko his knee, but they come to cheer us on.  The scorching paddock is tolerable only when clouds march by, their big shadows shutting down thermals until the sun’s been back for ten minutes.
Winds are again light and, though I’m dying to fly my Shark, it’s not a literal desire!  I’m too nervous to have my first tow when it’s like this, especially without a dolly. And the tows all week have been incident-free – skiting criteria work. Everyone is foot-launching but our drivers are highly experienced; radio procedure on every tow is:

Driver: Ready to take up tension
Pilot: Helen on the Falcon 175, take up tension please
Driver: tension my end
P: Tension my end too
Locking on radio
Picking up glider
Wind X strength/direction
Wings are level
Bridle free & clear
Go go go
Airborne
Climbing nicely (height/turbulence, pressure, etc)
Releasing/safe release
Thanks for the tow, unlocking mike.

Often, Paul or Ro talk for new tow pilots so we can concentrate and get hints about thermals on tow. They help judge when it’s safe to go, describing the streamers up the strip and implications for launching. The wait is rarely long, with no need for cross-wind launches (we move paddocks or change towstrips). We cap climb rates for the first 300ft to minimise low-level weaklink breaks. In fact, the only minor hiccups all week are a disordered bridle (released safely), and a few unscheduled releases at the car end, with pilots at the highest point of tow.
In the air we hear farmers, busy with harvest, on our channel.  They’re occasionally annoyed (“Helen, unlocking mike, thanks for the tow,” answered by, “Helen, you can shove the bloody mike!”), but we generally rub along okay (“Scott, ten k’s southeast of Birchip, 7500ft,” answered laconically by, “Mick, 20 k’s west of Wyche, one foot!”) Or the reply to Matt’s landing position: “Hey boys, we know where one of ‘em is! Let’s get ‘im!”
I have no mobile, but apparently SMS transmits better than voice here; pressing “send” and tossing up the phone sometimes helps!  Standing on a fencepost is often enough to transmit/receive UHF when the country is this flat.
Paul, Ro and others have offered tips to minimise airsickness: read maps and radio position while gliding, not thermalling! Look at the horizon or in the direction of circling, not up at the high wing, instruments or straight down. Breathe deeply. Pop Kwells.  Today, I’ve also taped a GPS to my vario, so I can simply radio bearing/distance to retrieve.
Unfortunately, map-reading turns out to be moot for me today. The oppressive heat saps everyone’s energy. After only three tows, half an hour between each, I’m bushed, though no doubt my big flight yesterday – and all the adrenaline I expended then – is partly to blame.  Pilots do get away and sky out, but I’m flying badly – too fast, with poorly coordinated turns.  I did fine in yesterday’s big thermals, but now struggle with those same pitch controls;  I’m trying too hard and not letting the glider fly. Ro tells me to relax my elbows and feel the air but, though my brain hears, my limbs refuse to comply. I’m majorly pissed off at myself. It’s my first taste of broken bickies after yesterday’s boiled lollies, but I don’t realise it yet. It will be a big lesson, but I don’t even know that it’s there to be learned. I contemplate a fourth tow but, when I can barely lift my harness, I hear my body hinting it’s had enough. Instead, I offer Matt a flight – my sweet Falcon will be gentler on his elbow than his Combat-2 – and the next moment he’s gone from the paddock.
Plenty of big smiles around the table that night. Andy had a nice flight but, incredibly, battled again with a dusty, after landing this time. It flipped him, then tangled the bridle so he needed twenty minutes to free himself!  I re-read the section in “Performance Flying” about dusties but figure that, if they want to bite when you’re hooked in, there’s not much to do except pray. I want to try so much of the theory I’ve learned, but can’t do it till I get away!
The next day offers a cool front with westerlies.  Cloudbase is lower with scant blue sky but I’m happy because, with a consistent 6-10 knots on the ground and less thermic air, I’m finally confident to try the Shark on tow.  Someone sets up a spot landing because conditions look challenging for getting away.
I’m nervous, but the Shark behaves beautifully! It’s stable and responds reassuringly promptly to inputs under tension. The consistent breeze means tows to 2,000ft+. I tow four times and don’t get away but I’m satisfied, especially with my landings (except one where I’m thinking too much “spot” and not enough “landing” and zoom six feet).
Unfortunately, coordinating turns in the Shark are more difficult than in the Falcon. I either under- or over-correct, so the glider ignores me or goes into a diving turn that takes high-siding to correct – exhausting, and wasteful of precious height. And it’s no better the following day. Conditions are slightly stronger, cloudbase lower.  The wind is a bit much for Jilly in her Fun 160, so Ro takes her tandem and they quickly vanish. Other pilots start to leave. I become increasingly frustrated as I wrestle my glider about the sky above the tow paddock, flying through and around the outside of thermals, or turning in them too fast so I sink instead of gain. The more frustrated I get, the worse I fly.
Those readers who are naturally co-ordinated will find such things effortless. You’ll instinctively know how to move your body for a certain effect, like I use language in my writing craft.  But for those of us whom the Coordination Fairy forgot to bless, it’s a mystifying combination of random movements that we luck upon through trial and error. The brain knows what to do, but the body needs to as well! It’s like learning to ride a bike via telephone instructions, and hang gliding brings my physical limitations into sharper focus than any activity I’ve ever undertaken.  It challenges my psychological limitations, too (Fear Factor 10+). Yet the exhilaration of that initial dream-come-true introductory tandem motivated me through a painfully slow learning curve. First lesson to first solo soaring flight took almost eight months.
Now, discouraged, I watch other pilots fly their beautifully coordinated turns out of the paddock, and it occurs to me that, if it takes me as long to learn this technique as it has everything else, with inland launches at home having two hour turnarounds between bombouts, I’ll be dead of old age before I learn to fly my Shark cross-country! I grit my teeth for another tow. This time I hook something, sort of, but it’s not a pretty sight. I’m in and out, with no clue where it’s gone and only relocating it by chance. I’m barely maintaining as I drift back over the LZ and I’m fighting my glider all the way. We are not one being, we are two and we do not like each other much.  I’m low-ish and wondering whether to commit when I fall out again. Bugger! The bloody thermal disappears as if it were never there. Paul radios, “Did you fall out or is it LZ suck?” Because he’s absolutely right and because I’m tired and pissed off I figure, bugger you, I’ll find another thermal downwind. I get my just desserts for such childish behaviour and land 3.5km away. It’s a good landing, one I should be pleased with as it’s my first landing out in my Shark, but I am too busy feeling sorry for myself as other pilots pass high overhead, on their way to the border or bloody Indonesia.
I pack up feeling lousy, and Col arrives to pick me up. He sees my face and is tactfully silent. When I return to the paddock, mercifully few pilots are left as I grimly set up the Shark again. Then I lug my one ton harness to my glider and, to my complete mortification, burst into tears.
I wasn’t going to admit that, but the lows of XC are as extreme as the highs – literally and figuratively. Some pilots get angry, some get stupid. Others give up, but not me. I’m acutely embarrassed by my lack of grit but Paul has seen it all before and, while the others kindly melt away, says all the right things. XC flying is always boiled lollies to broken bickies, and we all crunch our way through both. As I’m a reasonably sensible adult most of the time, I already know this about life, but I’m reminded that it applies to flying as well.
I explain my misgivings and Paul suggests I go tandem with Ro tomorrow. It’s a fantastic idea: if anything can help me learn, this will. I’m cheered and take another few tows without luck: my frame of mind is hardly conducive to superlative flying.  Hot and tired, I pack up.
In hindsight, my mood is no surprise. The week’s been intense and I’ve had no rest day. I’ve certainly spent more time in the tow paddock and had more tows than everyone else! But they’ve had disappointments and challenges, too, and have overcome them.  Looking forward to flying with Ro tomorrow, I cut myself some slack.
The next day fate is on my side. The day is overcast and so strong I wouldn’t fly solo; several newer pilots don’t set up at all. Cloudbase is barely five grand.  It’s 12-16 knots, more at height. After hearing about Jilly’s technicolour experience the day before, I take two Kwells to get the most out of my tandem, rather than it getting the most out of me.
The 220 is set up quickly but conditions are still gusty. Several pilots wait it out. Far away there’s a glimpse of blue, but it’s too distant to tell if it will reach the paddock. The tows are impressive, with the car creeping along the strip or stopping completely. Above, the thermals lean raggedly.
Ro and I hook in, me with borrowed gloves (bar mitts aren’t suitable).  It’s ages since I’ve flown tandem, but I’ve only gone with pilots I trust so it’s always great fun. I love relinquishing responsibility in the air: I can enjoy situations I’d otherwise be too stressed to appreciate.
We wait for conditions to moderate, then we’re off! I follow Ro’s lead; the air is rough but not ridiculous, and the barge-like 220 wallows about with no problem… and no great thermals, either. The gloves are so bulky I belatedly discover I can’t manipulate cleats and zips, so I pull one off with my teeth and tuck it into my harness to go prone.
Considering conditions I’m surprised there’s anything… but Ro finds it.  We release and circle, Ro explaining the whole time. What an amazing learning experience! After just fifteen minutes, I’m beginning to “see” the thermal. Because I’m quite tall, I can reach across Ro’s shoulder and rest my right hand on his right, my left on his left. I feel every movement and realise immediately that I’ve been over-controlling the Shark. The inputs are so subtle! No wonder it’s been a battle:  I should have been making love, not war! Though this is clearly not an appropriate thing to mention right now.
Still, conditions are so marginal it’s hard work for even Ro to stay aloft. Strong winds shred the weak thermals so they are all over the place but Ro maps them aloud, indicating where to open or close each turn. Later, someone suggests we clone pilots like Ro as Mini-Me’s to clip to our control bars!
To my surprise, we bomb out after about 8km. I’m not a bit disappointed: ironically, this is the most encouraging message Ro could have given me – pro’s eat broken bickies, too!  Regardless of distance, the flight has been terrific… and, after retrieve, I even get a second go!
Conditions are still strong and the tow is exciting, but this time the thermal Ro finds is bigger and we’re in it for good.  I can feel the dance at last: no more trying to ride a bike via  phone instruction – there’s someone alongside while I learn to balance.
I’m also amazed at how effectively the averager finds lift when it’s set correctly, like a voice in blind man’s bluff calling warmer or cooler.  But we don’t get above 2800ft and after 20km we’re losing height, conditions are cranking up and Ro decides to land east of Culgoa. We hit a rowdy thermal down low – a tease and Ro is tempted but, regretfully, lets it go. The wind is very strong now; I help Ro pull in the bar and we descend with almost zero groundspeed to about 200ft. Then we fall into one of those holes that drops us from the sky alarmingly before we’re zipping over the stubble to a good landing.  I’m stoked, and can’t wait for tomorrow to try out all I’ve learned. That night, I close my eyes and hope for lollies.
Last day. Conditions are similar but with lower wind speeds, and I’m optimistic as I set up the Shark. Around me, pilots are preparing for their last chance. The overcast sky suggests little cause for optimism but, such has been the nature of this course – and what we’ve all achieved – that we’re ready to give it a go. For anyone who can climb away, the wind strength promises good distances.
I pre-flight, then pause before hooking in. Around me are the visible signs of my learning curve – radio, GPS, map, harness with water and packup gear. The implications – that I’m comfortable (at least in this big, flat country) landing out alone in my Shark – are more significant.  The biggest changes are inside, invisible to everyone but me.
After practising dance-steps yesterday, I’m bursting with anticipation. I don’t even feel hot in my polarfleece, which I’ve donned with considerably less apprehension than before.  I move forward in the queue; Matt is on the strip beside me and Ro is ahead, taking another tandem. Getting away from the paddock will be challenging, I remind myself. Be content with one or two thermals, stay in them for as long as possible, and coordinate my turns.  Progress, not distance, is my goal today.
Ro tows up, having timed his launch perfectly for one of the patches of sunshine. Andy is away, then Matt. On the radio, pilots work together to find thermals: theory from whiteboard briefings has reached into the sky and now pilots are learning from each other, as well.
My turn.  Five knots straight up the strip, a gust under one wing but it’s okay, a rush of adrenaline and I’m airborne, my Shark no longer an enemy.  I start pushing out at 300ft; by 2000ft at the end of tow my biceps are burning. I’ve passed through nothing startling so I try the adjacent dirt paddock with some zero sink. I turn a few times to test whether I have the dance and – thanks, Ro – yesterday’s lessons have indeed sunk into my bones. The Shark turns with the smallest inputs, my elbows are relaxed, and I’m enjoying the air and my glider.  I’ve never flown the Shark as well as I am now. I make a conservative landing approach and come in fast, hitting all the turbulence I’d missed higher, but I’ve plenty of speed. I land, exhilarated, ready for another go.
And this time, I find something. Not strong, but it’s wide and the moment I release I turn back into it… and again! Got it! My vario beeps cheerfully, while on the ground Paul is enthusiastic. “Don’t worry about replying, just concentrate,” he radios, and I gratefully accede. I’m flying mainly by feel, using the averager only when I fall out, but now I’ve an idea where the thermal has gone and where to look. Slowly I gain, drifting back over the setup area, past the little dam, to the paddock behind, and still I’m going up!  This time it’s not luck, it’s actually me! Steve N has landed, asking for relay of his position. I try but every time I talk on the radio I fall out and Paul finally says not to worry, retrieve will find him, and to keep concentrating.
I don’t know how long I’m in that thermal, but every minute is equivalent to thirty of my first XC flight because this time I am in control. On Monday, the air carried me along as a passenger; a joyous one, certainly, but a passenger nonetheless. Not today. I think I reach about 2700ft but, to be honest, I’m guessing: I’ve forgotten and it doesn’t matter. The ground below spins but the Kwells are working and all I feel is satisfaction. I can’t be far from the paddock because Paul says, “Don’t worry about radioing position, we know where you’re headed, keep concentrating!”
At last I lose the thermal.  I search in the pattern but, this time, have no luck and the averager is despondent. Glide downwind. There’s a few lumps and zero sink but, though I buy some time, I win no height. Over another paddock… another. Mindful of retrieve, I head for a tree-lined road to the north. At about 1000ft I start looking for landing options – everything’s happening much faster on this flight because I’m lower. The wind is quite strong; as I descend, I spot tree branches and leaves moving. Downwind is a town with silos, big buildings and, I bet, nasty rotor.
I choose my paddock, radio location, and Andy says he’s spotted me: I’m landing just upwind of him and Matt. As I box the field I discover turbulence from a block of trees in the adjacent paddock. Conditions must be stronger than I thought if the rotor stretches this far back, but I’ve plenty of time and height so I choose another corner of the paddock. This is just as well because, as I set up behind the fence and enter final at 200ft, bar pulled right in, the thermal I’d been seeking earlier finds me (Murphy?) and the vario sings in spite of my pulling in as hard as I can. It won’t let me down and the air is horrible (well, not for experienced pilots, but the worst I’ve struck). Luckily I have a big, flat empty paddock ahead, buckets of airspeed, and I’m facing straight into the wind. As I fight to keep the Shark level I remember my instructors telling me to relax, remind myself that speed is my friend, then suddenly the air flicks me out like a bug, the ground rushes up, ease out to trim and gentle on the flare, a great landing. Hooray! Hooray!
 I unhook and whoop out loud. My GPS says 8.4km. And I flew every metre!  I’ve landed towards the middle of the paddock – a hike back to the fence where retrieve will come, but hey, who cares? I carry first glider, then harness across, and start breaking down. Damo and Jilly are there to retrieve before I even finish, along with Matt and Andy.  I’m so thrilled with my flight. Distance and height per se are irrelevant today.  What would be broken bickies to another pilot is manna for me. We throw on my glider, retrieve Steve N, and return to the tow paddock.
 Matt watches other pilots leave, then sets up again to better his distance, but I’m utterly content. Anything more would be anticlimactic. I fish a cold beer out of the esky and sit on a stool amongst the stubble and the flies, listening to the radio and pilots still flying. What a day. I crack the beer and take a deep swallow. Normally I don’t drink beer, but it is the perfect drink in this hot dusty country and, this once, it tastes strangely sweet, sweeter than anything.