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Gone with the wind (page 2)
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"Hey, Ricky, waddya think about the
brothers?" asks Claire as we examine the
multimedia exhibits in the visitor centre
and museum. "Maybe they didn't get
along. Can't ya just hear the argument:
'Wilbur, why do I always have to be the one
to pilot this stupid thing?'"
"Nobody likes a whiner," I tell her, pausing
to photograph - as instructed by
Claire's older brother Jasper, who is away
on his own summer quest - the fragilelooking
replica of the wood-and-canvas airplane
into which poor old Orville strapped
himself for that historic first flight. "And
siblings, as you well know, seem to take a
perverse pleasure in bullying each other."
Given our own imminent flight plans,
we pay particular attention to the aerodynamics
of the machine. Outside, on a
broad, sandy field, we step off the distances
between the stone markers showing the
lengths of the first four flights the brothers
took. I keep reminding myself that no
one was injured during these experiments.
I'M NERVOUS because now, after a quick
stop for lunch, we are headed a few kilometres
down the road to Kitty Hawk Kites in
Jockey's Ridge State Park. On arrival, we
are given a sobering lesson on safety precautions
for hang-gliding and view a video
on the pleasures of human-powered flight.
We are fitted with helmets and harnesses
that come with apron-like chest padding,
then take a short walk to the top of what we
are assured is, at 27 metres - roughly the
height of a nine-storey building - the
tallest natural sand dune on the east coast of the United States. Next thing I know,
Claire is being clipped into a hang-glider.
She sprints to the edge of the dune, and
suddenly, she's in the air, sailing gracefully
to a landing, on her feet, at the bottom
of the dune, about two blocks away.
Unharmed.
"It's like being inside a paper airplane,"
she shouts up to me while climbing back
to the top. As if that is supposed to be in
any way reassuring.
Molly has already made it clear she's
not leaving terra firma, but I've recklessly
agreed to attempt a glide. My patient and
cheerful instructor, Andrea Zeger, quickly
shows me how to clip in, how to push the
control bar outward to gain height and
how to land on my feet. I race to the edge
of the dune and feel myself leaving the
ground, then I'm fluttering to a landing like a butterfly, skidding to a stop on my
chest. This is where the padded apron
comes in handy. I rise, trembling, my
knees knocking, exhilarated. Will I go
again? I'm asked. The sound I manage
apparently resembles a yes.
By day's end, after three heart-thumping
flights, I figure I've been in the air longer
and flown farther than Orville on his first
attempt: 12 seconds and 120 feet. That's a
personal record I don't feel I need to best
any time soon. As for Claire, her flights get
longer, her landings more graceful.
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