Many pilots wonder what it really takes to
set a world record. Some wonder what it's like to fly at a place like Zapata or
other world class sites. Cloudsuck answers these and other questions while
telling the story of how I set the current Distance World Record for Rigid
Wings. Over this winter, I am pleased to make the book available as a gift to my
readers in serialized form. Each Monday, another chapter will be available for
you to enjoy here on the Oz Report. The best read is the one in it's entirety,
and both the soft cover book and an ebook are available to purchase here:
http://ozreport.com/cloudsuck.php. You can find the Kindle version on
Amazon.

If you enjoy the serialized installments, you may wish to skip the text below
and jump directly to this week's chapter, including any graphics or pictures
here: http://ozreport.com/docs/Cloudsuck9.pdf

I hope you enjoy the book and this week's chapter as much as I enjoyed writing
it.

Finally — Over 200 Miles in the
Eastern U.S.

In the spring of 2000, only a few months after my first flight beyond
two hundred miles in Australia, Mark Poustinchian (usually just called Mark P.)
and Mark ‘Gibbo’ Gibson started making long distance attempts from Quest Air
Soaring Center, twenty air miles north of Wallaby Ranch. In fact, with some
financial encouragement from their glider manufacturer, five pilots at Quest had
taken up the challenge of flying far in Florida.

I had known Gibbo since my first flying days back in
Washington State, and had flown with him in the 1989 Manufacturer’s League Meet
at Pine Mountain. He had often been a member of the national team, and had
placed third in the Worlds when they were held in the Owens Valley in 1993. A
big, heavy guy, he was known for his wild style and willingness to take the
kinds of chances that other pilots shunned. For years he had lived in the Owens
Valley, and he willingly flew in some of the biggest air conditions found in the
western U.S. And it is in the west that the biggest and baddest conditions in
the world can be found.

Mark P., a native of Iran who had previously been a nuclear
plant operator in Arkansas, had just moved to Quest with his wife in their
recreational vehicle with the express desire to set records. He had been a local
hero back home at Mt. Nebo but didn’t have any competition experience. His
desire was to focus on the lone long distance flights.

The guys up at Quest were all flying Ghostbusters — rigid
wing gliders like mine, but from a competing German manufacturer to my ATOS.
They had the advantage of being a group, sometimes flying as a team and
encouraging each other to get going early when it was weak and difficult to stay
up. And they were twenty miles closer to the Georgia border, the big goal line
for every Florida hang glider pilot.

During a normal year they would have had to contend with a
lot of little lakes and marshes at the beginning of a flight north from Quest.
Often I’d found a lot of sink over Quest. But in this drought year, the dried-up
wetlands had proven to be great thermal producers, giving good early conditions
for the start to the Quest pilots.

Down the road at Wallaby, with Mikey busy teaching and
Michael gone, I was feeling a little isolated. Just as much as the guys up
north, I wanted to get to Georgia and set the east coast record. I knew that I
had the experience, the skills, and the hang glider that could get me there. I
was better at understanding and predicting the weather. I would just have to do
it on my own.

On March 9th Gibbo followed a street of clouds starting
southwest of Gainesville, and found himself in a convergence line that headed
straight for the Georgia “finger,” a jog in the state line formed by St. Mary’s
River where it loops fifteen miles to the south. The clouds were drying up
behind Gibbo, but were forming in front of him just as fast. He realized that he
was actually managing to stay in front of the trailing edge of the convergence.
He just had to keep going fast enough to stay in the are where the convergence
was still happening and not get left behind.

A convergence line is an area where winds from two
different directions meet and are forced together upward. In regions with moist
air, areas of convergence are usually marked by a line or lines of cumulus
clouds. For example in Florida, with on-shore flows from both the east and west
coasts, a convergence zone will often form along a generally north/south line,
right up the middle of the state.

Mark P. had gotten an earlier start than Gibbo, but had
taken a slightly different line to the west. His route didn’t take him toward
the Georgia finger but up Interstate 75 to the north-northwest, and in this
direction the Georgia border was another twenty miles further north. At the end
of the day, he hadn’t quite made it to the border, and had to land at 135 miles
out. Gibbo had flown just five miles further, but he had crossed the border into
the finger. That small difference had made Mark Gibson the first hang glider
pilot to fly into Georgia from central Florida, and had earned him the $1,000
prize.

The very next day Mark P., never to be outdone, tried
again. This time he made it to Georgia — the long way, up Interstate 75. And a
month later on April 11th he flew 192 miles, not only surpassing Michael
Champlin’s state record but setting a new East Coast hang gliding record at the
same time. (Because Mark P. flew a rigid wing hang glider Michael’s flex wing
record stood for a few years more.).

By April there was a lot more action at Wallaby Ranch, in
preparation for the Wallaby Open. Mike Barber had given up his instruction
duties to train for the meet, and Kari Castle had arrived from California. On
the day of Mark P.’s record flight, Kari set both the Florida state record for
women and the women's East Coast record at 115 miles.

I had been in the air early myself on that day, out in
front of all the other pilots, feeling pretty good about my prospects. But after
only 35 miles I was forced to land when the new prototype glider I was flying
started to fall apart in the air. The Velcro that attached the sail to the
carbon fiber leading edge had come undone on my left wing, and the sail had
begun to roll up. In spite of a wicked turn, I was still able to fly and land
the glider without having to throw my chute. But as I stood on the ground
looking at the sky, I knew the others were taking advantage of the best day of
the season so far.

The Florida competitions had come and gone, and I was back
to flying on my own, or with Mike. On May 8th I had my longest flight in Florida
so far, 179 miles up Interstate 75 — and landed just short of the Georgia
border. The winds and the convergence had kept drawing me to the northwest, even
though the Georgia border would have been a lot closer if I had just gone
straight north from Wallaby.

Five days later I woke up sick and lacking in sleep. But
the forecast was irresistible: convergence up the middle of the state right
toward the finger, with light southerly winds. I felt terrible, but decided to
give it a try.

It was already after noon when I launched, and when I did
get into the air I was not convinced that the day was any good at all. There
weren't any cumulus clouds at first, even that late, but soon they started
forming near me. This lifted my spirits and I decided to head north. The lift
had turned out to be quite good and I began to enjoy the flight.

Ninety miles into the flight, just southeast of Orange Lake
and only a few miles northeast of Gainesville, I saw a big “blue hole” downwind
of me — a cloudless area on the east side of the lake. I had flown up by Orange
Lake quite a few times, but had always stayed five or ten miles east of Orange
and Lochloosa Lakes, usually because I was fighting a west wind. But to take my
usual course now would put me in big sink, and almost certainly on the ground.

Continue reading here:
http://ozreport.com/docs/Cloudsuck9.pdf