FLYING FISH 2021-01-14 Some people dream of power or fame, of money or love, or of various combinations of these temptations. Me too. But only as a second choice. Another dream kept me going, a simple personal achievement. It did put some salt into my life. It wasn't easy. First, I was a water creature; I still swim with great pleasure. Then I walked on water. I mean surfing, of course. If I had started younger and with the right board, I would have felt like a Hawaiian king. But the waves were far. I was lazy. I took to flying, which means hang-gliding for people with bird-like brains like mine. Wahoo!!! I won't say more. I graduated to pilot level. I often flew near the coast and was never so happy as when I could see the ocean glimmering in the distant West, a symbol of another freedom, but a reminder of my lack of ubiquity. I did not fly on dunes for fear of sand and corrosion. I like thermals. In winter, I would go to the island and watch the big rollers turn around the northern point and break into the bay. At low tide, after a storm with a South West wind, you have at least 5 miles of travelling plume on the inner bank. It is a bit far for surfing in winter, but so good to meditate on the meaning of life. In my profound considerations on karma and carbon fiber, I came to see these waves in a new light. Eureka! The time of Johnathan Livingston seagull and of hippie dreams is gone, even if the spirit lingers. "Brother, I ain't no motherfucking seagull, because I don't want to scavenge my food from big garbage dumps". Shake the guitars and drums. I don't want to be an endangered species, or a protected one, spotted owl or bald eagle. No thanks. No limits. I was thinking of a mutation, an evolution, from a bird of the plain to a seabird. Not for my body, but for my brain and my gear. For my trusty glider. This was the idea that got the ball rolling. Those waves are in no way steep enough for today's fashionable hot-dog screeching and wheezing style, but they do have a slope, they're big and powerful, tons of water on the move. Their lip is not dangerous, not thick enough to disturb the air-flow as it goes up the crest. The whole thing moves forward at a speed between 20 and 30 km/h. Isn't that an ideal take-off speed? There's more than one way to ride a wave. Yes, this was to be my wave flight. I would have preferred going it alone. I am a selfish bastard..It turned out my friends liked the idea. Manu builds high-tech boats: he is specialized in composite materials. He also flies and likes adventure. We checked out the parameters: weight, take-off speed, control. Landing would take care of itself. The French have a word for it: "amerrir". I guess they invented pontoon planes. It would have been neat to just paddle, surfing like, but we were realistic types. They tow surfers in Hawaii, and though we hate jet-skis for their buzzing and bugging noise, we chose that solution. I happened to know somebody who owned a powerful one. We would use detachable floats, very much like the dolly launch in the plains. I am not much of a tinkerer; the team solved the technical problems. The biggest one was engineering a craft that would not drag in water. We would fly low in "ground" effect. Besides, my feet are very sensitive to a cold and wet environment. Tight turns were not scheduled. We just aimed at a new kind of distance flying, surfing the moving mountains of water. Adjusting speed was paramount to remain in the narrow lift zone. We went for a combination of aerodynamic surfaces and body-weight shift for pitch. We had a span like an albatross. The bird looked good. Form follows function. High expectations for low water skimming. The design and construction stage was fascinating. You can imagine it involved hours of discussions, as well as downing a few. Not everybody can sit and wait for days for the right conditions. So the weatherman was the linchpin of the whole project. I must say he did not betray us. The light paper-thin mylar was shimmering under the January sun. In spite of the temperature, the wet suit felt clammy with anticipation. The roar of breaking waves -3,5 m high- churned a variety of fears in my mind. This was real. The tow line was taut as we accelerated. I don't know how long it lasted but I went blank. Later, I tried to reconstruct my feelings and thoughts. This was the best I could do: Low tide Steam engine on the tracks. The white fluke Of time hanging on the crest Takes me high Unrelenting drumbeat Of an uncertain apocalypse. I stare at far away stretches From a high temple Caught in pig-headed time Waves go by, careless women Bulging, bursting, then flat Subsiding into flabby bottoms. A breeze in the offing, And I floundering in this world On an eroded wall Tossing the dice for my fate. Time is gone: I saw it recede Blown back over the top. A lighthouse points up to "je ne sais quoi". I know it is a strange account of my flight, but this is the stuff dreams are made of. It cannot be conveyed in figures and graphs. It was, as they say, a moment in time. Distance, duration, speed... who cares? We had a flying fish flight. We did it. As April is here, and I fly above land again, I long for storms and low tide. In my dreams, I am no longer a fool: I know it can be done. Pascal Legrand Pascal Legrand Visiteurs : 151 Back to home