Finding Direction: The Wind Vane Chronicles

[Note:  I'm sure I published this before but my mind seems to be playing tricks on me (so what else is new, you ask!) because I could not find it for the life of me in my archives either here at over at Blogger, where I used to be.  So you have the treat of getting to read about some of my Community Editor misadventures either for the first time or again.  Hope you enjoy!] 

The first week of June one year when I was Community Editor I had the opportunity to do a front-page feature, with photographs, on gliders for the Picayune Item and decided to try it myself , seeking material for my weekly column, as well.  I was harassed unmercifully by co-workers, which became part of the adventure, as published then:

    There comes a time when a “new, strange, uncharacteristic, uncharted experience, coming at the needed moment, is sometimes necessary in a person’s life as a plow in a field.”  Reader’s Digest said it, and I always trusted Reader’s Digest.  So when one of the fellows (Tom) told me to check into doing a feature on gliders, I decided to pursue the matter.

    “You should go up in one yourself, you know, to get firsthand feeling for the story,” he added.  “Just think how much fun it would be.”

    Me, in a glider, I thought?  No way.  But, I figured that idea would dead-end somewhere along the way.  All the good stuff usually does.  My managing editor held a similar view. 

   “This mid-life crisis thing must really be getting to you, Dee, for you to want to go up in a glider to do a story.”  But he said, check it out and I did. The fellow didn’t turn me down cold, as I expected, but said, “Sure, you can do a story.  We’ll take you up any time you want to do.”

    “How dangerous is it?” I asked.

    “Not any more dangerous than riding in a sailboat.  It’s a breeze,” the reply came.

    “You’re not really going up,” my story source (Tom) said, when I reported back.  “It’s dangerous.”

    “That’s not what you said before,” I said, with a sinking feeling.  “You told me how exciting it would be.”

    “Oh, it will be,” he said.  “Just be sure to fasten a little parachute to the camera.  Or hold it over your head as you’re going down.  You can take a tape recorder along to record your last words for the story to go with the pictures.  This could be real exciting.”

    He added a note of consolation.  “It probably won’t kill you, though, and you won’t have to worry about the engine exploding and causing bad burns.”  (Just broken bones, I thought, right?)

    “How many people get killed in a sailboat each year do you think?” I asked.

    “Not very many,” came the comforting answer.  “Most of them drown.”

    A friend who sells life insurance called.  By this time excitement was building a little.

    “Guess what I’m going to do.  Go up in a glider,” I said.

    “The wings fall off,” he said.  “By the way, how much life insurance do you have?”

    The harassment continued unceasingly up until departure time and, even then, parting shots were fired.  Everyone in the office was rushing out with quarters to buy life insurance policies on my life in airport machines, naming themselves as beneficiaries.  The boss took out extra insurance on the camera.

    “I’ll send flowers,” one co-worker said.  “Gardenias - I have lots of them in my yard so I won’t have to buy any.”

    Son David went along to drive me to the airport - and to pick up the pieces and notify next-of-kin.  My life was beginning to flash before my eyes and I hadn’t even left the ground.

    My only moment of trepidation occurred when I first walked into the hangar where a group of gliding enthusiasts were working and saw how small gliders are.  The one they were weighing was 500 pounds and I could have circled the tail section with both hands.  But, they were so casual about the event I reasoned it must be safe.  The owner of the glider was a young woman and I didn’t see any casts or scars on her anywhere.

 I was shooting pictures, taking notes and laughing a lot.  I began to loosen up.

    We went out onto the grassy field and watched the small glider so up.  Then the two seat training glider went up and came back down.  Now it was my turn.

    Climbing in the front cockpit was like getting on a horse, one of my least favorite things to do.  But I managed.  I was strapped in and, although it was tight and I didn’t see how I could fall out, I was sure there was a way.  I would find it.

    David grabbed my camera and took my picture as the motor on the tow plane revved up.  I grabbed it back and pulled the plastic bubble down over my head.  Joey, the instructor seated behind me, kept a running conversation going, telling me what was going on and giving me picture ideas (he was a free-lance photographer, too).

    The tow plane pulled us aloft and with a loud thump Joe released the 250 foot line and we were free.  The feeling was one of floating free on the sky.  We were riding on air as smooth as glass.  I suddenly understood why those on the ground had been unable to describe and articulate their feelings about soaring.  Experience was the only way to understand.  I was taking lots of pictures and as we dipped low over the hangar one last time I felt queasy.

Part III - After the flight

    The book, Death of a Glider, would not have to be written, after all.  I might even be able to write a feature if my stomach survived.  The long, hot ride back to Picayune in David’s car with his rock music going full blast didn’t help.  The reception back at the office did.  They were glad to see me.

    My “last lunch” before I left (it was too early for a last supper) hadn’t been my last after all, but the crackers and diet drink afterward tasted much better.  It took several hours to be able to assimilate and put into perspective the venture.  It was a new, strange, uncharacteristic and uncharted experience for me. I then decided Reader’s Digest was right, after all:  “ . . . this is the only kind of experience that is really alive and can lead one anywhere worth going.”

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