johnmaconline

I used to believe every situation had an objective right and a wrong. Our job was to find the right side.
I used to believe there were good guys and bad guys. Our job was to be the good guy.
I used to believe that we found success by walking a linear path built specially for each of us. Our job was to discover it.

Now I believe that rightness and wrongness require context. Our job is to try to understand everyone’s context.
Now I believe that everybody is neither good nor bad, yet both good and bad, and those terms exist across a spectrum with multiple axes. Our job is to lean into empathy.
Now I believe that our path unfolds before us and that success is found in our perspective. Our job is to walk whatever path is before us and to find our perspective.

We waved at Dave as he soared back towards us and yelled down from above, “Thanks!”

To complete the adventure, we had to do our best to get their car to the landing zone, a winding journey about 15 miles away. Since it may run out of gas, I was to take a particular set of roads and just leave it where it quit. That way, if the car wasn’t at the landing zone when they got there, they could backtrack and eventually find it. 

Or I could just take it anywhere. Nothing but my conscience was stopping me. 

I climbed into the beat-up, yellow clunker that may or may not have enough gas, and Chris climbed into the rental car. It started (a good first sign), and I rolled toward the entrance of the mountain road.

Well accustomed to driving a car on fumes, I coasted the stick shift down the mountain as best I could. Once at the bottom, however, I had no choice but to just go for it.

Through the neighborhood, out to the main road, and then around The Point and past the parking lot where this whole adventure began. I babied the accelerator, turned the engine off when stopped, and drove as slowly as possible.

We made it.

I stashed the keys on top of the left front tire, as we agreed upon, and looked up in the sky. 

There they were. Far away and high in the sky. Soaring. Gliding. 

Humans flying.

As Dave circled us, riding higher and higher on the thermal drafts, we could hear him giggling like a schoolgirl. 

Now his buddy was itching to get up there too.

“So…you wanna launch me?”

“Um…hmmm…um…”

“Ha! No problem. It’s not very windy. Can you at least help me get strapped in and over to the platform?”

“Sure!”

Chris and I held the wingtips as he clipped in, and then the three of us walked the awkward contraption over to the platform. After a quick pre-flight check on the cables and mount points, he breathed deeply and kicked off into the nothing. Like Dave, the kite immediately rose into the warm, blue sky, circled back, and he yelled down a big “thank you!” from above.

And then they were off — over the great, green plain below and out towards the blue coast in the distance. Soaring and gliding along the thermal updrafts that took them 100s, if not a thousand feet higher. Then a swoop down only to start the slow, circular rise once more. Rising above the mountain top and then dipping down below. 

We stood and watched for a good 20 minutes. This was real human flight. In that moment, I felt immense gratitude for catching a fleeting glimpse of why they were so hell-bent on getting into the air, no matter the cost. 

I was mesmerized. The feeling was profound. 

And then I saw the car, which yanked me back to reality. Would we make it?

I couldn’t do it.

Ain’t no way I could stand on that tiny platform, with only that thread-bare “safety” strap keeping me from tumbling into the great beyond. 

“Um…dude…umm…”

He could read the room. 

“Hey, no worries. I’ll launch Dave, and you can watch. If you change your mind, you can help me.”

I held one wing tip, and Dave’s buddy held the other as Dave clipped into his glider. The three of us walked Dave and his contraption over to the platform. I helped hold it steady as Dave’s buddy climbed down onto the second level and clipped the strap around him. 

I let go and stepped back. Dave inched towards his friend and the edge of the platform. Dave’s friend stretched forward and grabbed the control arm as Dave put one leg back and squatted slightly. Dave’s fighting the gentle warm breeze to keep the glider still and pointed in the right direction. 

“Pilot ready?”

“Ready!”

“3…2…1…Launch!”

And with that, Dave jumps, and his friend passes the glider over his head.

When a plane takes off, it’s a technological marvel. You know the plane contains people, but you can’t see them. All you see is the aluminum cylinder hurdling down a giant concrete runway 100’s of yards away in a whirlwind of mechanized sound and fury. It leaves the ground and immediately disappears into the distance.

A hang glider launch is a deeply human experience. 

Dave — the person — jumped off the cliff. Not the machine. Dave and his giant kite immediately gained altitude. Never once dropping below the height of our mountain top. But fifty yards out and already 40 or 50 feet above us, Dave circles back towards us and starts yelling.

“Dude, it’s awesome! Get up here!”

Here was a man, and he was flying. Yes, he had a contraption strapped to his back, but it was the man that was flying. Seeing him lazily and soundlessly glide 50 feet directly above and just talking to us was crazy. 

I became overwhelmed. It was truly beautiful. 

We made it to the top of the mountain. The launch point.

And then the fun began. What started out as a haphazard pile of aluminum poles, cables, and nylon sheeting, transformed into two fully functional hang-gliders. An engineering marvel, for sure, and a bit of a miracle. 

There was stuff everywhere, but they were meticulous with the assembly procedure. The discarded shrapnel of the build process left a small pile of bags and parts that Dave tossed into the trunk of their car.

The moment came. 

The launch pad is a two-level, wooden platform perched on the edge of a 1500-foot cliff overlooking a flat, green plain dotted with houses and farms extending to the navy blue coastline a couple miles away. Strapped into his giant kite, the glider pilot stands facing the void on the upper platform. The launch helper stands facing him on the lower platform with his back to that void like a rock climber one final move away from sending the route. The upper platform hits him in the chest, giving him just enough length to reach up and grab the glider’s control bar — the lower leg of the glider’s triangular frame. He’s got nothing behind him except a marginal safety strap and the birds. On command, the pilot kicks off into the nothing as the launch helper passes the glider back over his head like a reverse soccer throw while leaning back into the strap (and praying it holds). 

I stand on the upper platform with Dave’s buddy, surveying the beautiful landscape below as he explains this procedure. My hands sweating and my knees wobbling. 

So you’re just gonna jump off the cliff? I guess I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m sure it was something not quite as dramatic. 

“Hey, look down there. To the left of that big field is where we’ll be landing. You can leave the car there on the side of the road. We’ll find it. And you see that big house to the right of the landing zone? That’s where they filmed Magnum P.I”. 

And then he says it.

“You wanna be the launch helper?”

“Um…hmmmm…ummmm…”

I’m both exhilarated and worried.

I hop in the driver’s side as they climb in through the other doors, and Chris gets in our rental car to follow us. I’m a little nervous about these ragged guys I’ve just met. But as we’re winding our way up the dirt mountain road, they bubble with excitement. I can’t help but catch their energy. It’s happening.  

And then, I take a peak at the gas gauge. It’s pegged on “E.” Not near “E,” or bouncing around. Pegged. 

“Hey guys, is the gas gauge broke?”

“Uh, no. We’re probably outta gas.”

Probably?

“So…”

“Don’t worry, man. All we care about right now is getting into the air. Today is f’n perfect. We just need enough gas to get us up the hill.”

“But what about driving it to the landing zone? What if I don’t make it?”

“No worries, just abandon it where it quits. We’ll find it later.”

Abandon it where it quits? We’ll find it later? The landing zone is at least 15 miles away. I can’t wrap my engineer and conservative brain around it. It doesn’t compute.

“Is there a gas station…”

“No man. Seriously, don’t worry. Leave it. All we care about is getting in the air.”

And what am I gonna do at this point? I’m just gonna keep driving, savor the good vibes as best I can, and let the cards fall where they may. 

Next stop — the top of the hill. 

Could we?

We figured about three or four hours to drive counterclockwise around Diamond Head, then Koko Head, then up the east coast to Kaneohe. From Kaneohe, we’d zip right over the mountain on the H3 to make our way to the airport near Pearl Harbor. 

A relaxing little ride allowing us to revisit a few favorite spots and arrive in plenty of time to make the flight. 

But then we ran into Dave, who blew it all up with an intriguing adventure opportunity — the hang-gliding experience I’d been trying to coordinate for months. 

“So what do you say? Can you give us a ride?”

My hang-gliding was, unfortunately, off the table. Dave and his buddy had their gliders but not the tandem. 

But support crew?

We’d drive them up the mountain, help them get launched, and then deposit the car by the landing zone. How long would that take? Unknown.  

We huddled to the side, and I started making excuses. Got a flight to catch. 

“I don’t know…” 

This is my nature. To back off. To shrink. To be conservative. I hate missing flights, but also, what was this crazy scenario? Who are these guys? And drive their car down the mountain and just leave it there?

Chris says to me, “You’ve been looking forward to this for months. Here it is. If we have to miss the flight, we’ll figure it out. Why wouldn’t we say yes?”

And with that, Dave thew me the keys.  

These guys are ragged and shaggy. Maybe altered. Stereotypical 90s slackers. 

I saw the paraphernalia on top of the beat-up old car, and I had to ask. 

“What the hell are you guys doing?”

“Man, we’re just trying to get in the air. We need a ride up there…”

Pointing again.

“… so we can jump off with our gliders and land over there in that flat spot. Today is the perfect flying day. It’ll only take 15 minutes of your time.”

Gliders! Flying!

I wonder if they know Dave.

“Hey, you guys don’t by any chance know a guy named Dave, do you? I was trying to hook up with him to…”

“Yeah, man! That’s me!”

Boom.

“You’re Dave? Dude, I’ve been trying to reach you for like a week! We were supposed to hook up so you could take me for a ride.”

“Oh, sorry, man. The conditions on the Big Island were stupid. I had to get over there for a few days.”

I just kinda blinked at him. I was floored by the fact that I was standing in front of Dave, in the flesh. Given what I had gone through to try to meet with him, this was just nuts. With today’s technology, sure, no big deal, but in the mid-90s? This was a true coincidence (or divine intervention).

He was crazy. This situation was crazy.

And then I had a crazy idea. 

On the morning of our last day on Oahu, my wife and I decided to take a drive around the island to take a last look at some of our favorite parts (and take a quick peek at the lifeguard’s lost-and-found at Sandy Beach).

We’ve parked at the Makapu’u Lookout, hoping to spot a whale in the bay. Walking back to the car, I see two ragged, agitated-looking guys standing by the railing. Not angry-agitated, but clearly worked up about something. They grab each person walking near them, ask a question, and then I see the head shake “no.” 

Now it’s our turn.

“Hey, man! Can you help us? We’re looking for someone to give us a ride and then park our car.”

“Ummm…”

“We’re just trying to get to the top of that mountain right there. We need someone to drive us up, and then take our car to the bottom of the hill over there.”

He points up to the top of the mountain behind us, then to a flat spot at ground level a mile or so up the coastline, and then to the car we’re all standing next to. 

I’m sort of stammering, internally and externally. What the hell is going on here?

As my head bobs around on my neck following his pointing, I finally notice the car. It’s got a bunch of stuff, like long poles strapped to the roof. 

Wait, it can’t be. 

I was obsessed with hang-gliding in the mid-90s. 

This was early internet and pre-ubiquitous mobile phone days — the days of internet forums and message boards. I’d found a dedicated hang-gliding message board and stalked it daily. I had even started a conversation with the local (eastern PA) hang-gliding club leader. 

But I still hadn’t built up the courage to show up at the hill, let alone try it for myself. I was scared. 

When my wife and I booked a trip to Hawaii, though, I thought, “Why not Hawaii? Maybe this is the kick I need.” I found the contact information for a guy on Oahu with a tandem glider. The perfect exposure to a hang-gliding-curious but ultimately scared newbie like myself. 

I sent him a message, told him when I’d be there, and he agreed. He’s one of those perpetually excited dudes. Just give him a call when I get to the island, and we’ll schedule it.

So we got to Hawaii, and I started calling. No answer for two days. On day three, a woman answers. 

“Um, Hi. My name is John. Dave asked me to call about hang-gliding…”

“Oh? Really? I’m sorry, but Dave’s not here.”

“When will he be back?”

“No, I mean he’s gone. He’s over on the Big Island, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

And that was that. On some level, I was relieved. 

But as it turns out, this wasn’t the end of the story.