For my first entry about the worlds here in Valle de Bravo, I was planning on writing about how well the US Team is doing. Or maybe how fun and strange it is to fly as an Air Marshal—to be flying with, but not racing the world's best. Or maybe something funny about all the flying mistakes I've made, and what I've learned. Or better yet, the great food, good friends, and all around great time I always have in Valle de Bravo.
But the day that I have time to write, that I chose to write, has been a bad day. The kind of day that all of us who love this sport fear and yet know happens.
A competitor, one of the world's best, crashed while racing and died.
I did not witness the accident. Those who did will probably post details to PGForum in a few days. The brief description is that he was flying in a rough area, had a collapse and large cravat. He pulled a big-ear on the opposite side to fly the glider straight, and to a better place. Then something happened, rough air likely, and he was turned hard into rocks.
A teammate landed nearby. An air marshal in the area relayed coordinates and guided a rescue team to his location. Helicopter rescue was called in, but the pilot did not survive.
I didn't know the pilot and don't feel his death anywhere as deeply as his teammates and friends. But of course I am sad and very sorry for those who do know him well—some of whom I am close to, and many of whom are here.
Tonight I know a lot of us are asking the obvious questions—Why do we do this sport? Why is it such a part of our lives? What would it mean if someone personally close had died—or if, for those who have already lost friends, someone else close dies?
We each have our own answers—and I think for many of us they are similar. We love this sport, we love the beauty, the challenge, the freedom, the visceral joy of flying, of racing, and sharing all this with our competition and our friends.
We know that paragliding is generally safe, but that by competing we sometimes push ourselves into unsafe situations, and we take chances.
But these things—the beauty, the challenge, the joy—make life better, more real, more alive. We couldn't imaging stopping.
Tomorrow is a rest day—the halfway point between the two weeks of racing that comprise the world championships. Sunday the race begins again. We will still be sad, but we will be ready to fly.
