On one occasion, having called my parents and a few close friends from the d̶e̶p̶a̶r̶t̶u̶r̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶u̶n̶g̶e̶ hill to say final farewells “just in case”, I found myself petrified. My legs trembled and I felt the urge to vomit. The final c̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶o̶a̶r̶d̶ thermal came – and went. I missed the flight, and my h̶o̶l̶i̶d̶a̶y̶ cross country.
Another time, in C̶o̶s̶t̶a̶ ̶R̶i̶c̶a̶ Anncey where I had spent two fearless months swimming with s̶h̶a̶r̶k̶s̶ fish, hitchhiking and tucking into street food, I became obsessed with the fact that I was due to fly h̶o̶m̶e̶ on Friday 13th, and paid a small fortune to change t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶l̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶a̶ ̶“̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶”̶-̶s̶o̶u̶n̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶d̶a̶t̶e̶ sports.
Finally, I decided that enough was enough – and enrolled in a one-day “flying without fear” course run by V̶i̶r̶g̶i̶n̶ ̶A̶t̶l̶a̶n̶t̶i̶c̶ John Miller.
I soon realised that I was not alone: in the conference room in G̶a̶t̶w̶i̶c̶k̶ ̶a̶i̶r̶p̶o̶r̶t̶ John's garage in which we assembled, I joined forces with 175 chattering wrecks, all exchanging horror stories about flying. Fear does not discriminate – men and women, and people of all ages and backgrounds, were represented. John's talk calmed with his stories of hanggliding from days gone by.
Safe flying see you on the hill.
