Flying for two hours on Saturday the 17th was like flying in vintage champagne -- smooth, mellow, golden, bubbly. Silent and cool, but not cold. Handfuls of us scattered along the ridge, the sun at a low angle over Sand Mountain, us like dozens of butterflies, dancing and bobbing on the waves of the winds. And there was no need to fight this air. It carried us , gentle, like a well-trained horse who you shifted only by the shift of your weight. If you wanted t go 'there' you had only to think it and with fingertip pressure on the bar you were softly, smoothly 'there.' I felt the air and the glider talking to each other and I listened and we three, we flew.
Like the best days on the sloapes when your body and board and the snow have a conversation with no conscious component and you just are, sailing down the face of a mountain on a bed of white satin that welcomes the little track you leave on her face. Like lovers.
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