Flying machines epitomize the realization of a 3-D experience of the world.
Piloting a paraglider around the turn of the millennium. That’s M with outstretched arms.
Now my wing is in the garage, ready for the museum. It’s still flight worthy, and it could still break my neck.
OMG, those were the days when you’d come home from Pacifica with brown stains on your pants…from landing in sea figs! (I believe that’s what they’re called: super juicy light green succulents).
I’m in awe of the guts it takes to jump off a cliff with trust !
Wouldn’t want to jump off any of the cliffs on the west coast. The paraglider wings are too big, and need to be completely kited before one can gain complete control. After carefully picking the right wind speed and direction, we were LIFTED into the sky’s Atmospheric Realm by walking to the edge. You can sense the thin skin of the earth churning energy. Then, landing after an hour gliding up and down the coast is another matter. Pick a spot to touch down where the ice plants are not so widespread. They leave marks that don’t wash away. Kind off like a map on canvas. Of course these were marks of mistakes by choosing the wrong landing spot.