Le Grand Vol

Le Grand Vol
Tu vas bien, Geem!

In the early 1980s when Katherine and I and Lauren still lived in Paris, Tripp was at university in Oregon,  Chris at Williams, Kath and Lauren were away for a week or so, and I was having 'un petit cafe cream tres chaud serré'...and 'une tartine tranchée verticalement'...tartines ...made from baguettes...are usually sliced horizontally... so 'verticalement', that is slicing the baguette to expose in each slice both a top and bottom ...and 'serré'...requesting that the barrister tighten the steel cup in which the ground coffee is contained a notche beyond normal to make the coffee stronger...at Bucheron...a cafe near Saint Paul Cathedral in Rue du Rivoli.

Tartine...'vertical'

Bucheron

I was reading Parapente Magazine to improve my French...it wasn't working... and to fuel my fantasy about parachuting from rugged terrain ...that is 'parapente' ...rather than jumping from an airplane.

St Paul

I came upon an ad in the magazine for a 3-day parapente school in a rural area of southern France somewhat near Avignon. I looked at a map in the magazine and I could see that I could get there by train and bus/taxi. On pure impulse, I got up from the table on the terrasse, paid the bill and found a pay phone booth on the corner and dialed the parapente school telephone number listed in the ad to determine if they would enroll a student with poor French. 

A young woman answered..."Bonjour, c'est Parapente du Sud au téléphone." 

I said: "C'est Jim Ingram. J'appelle de Paris, mais je suis américain. Comme c'est évident, je ne parle pas le français bien. Je voudrais m'inscrire à votre prochaine cours du week-end. Accepterez-vous une demande? 

Pensez-vous que je peux comprendre l'instruction?"

I said all this rapidly without waiting for interim answers, because I had mentally composed in advance and memorized this dialogue, and I was afraid that I would not be able to repeat it, if interrupted.

She said:...in English... with a perfect accent: "There is room in the class and last weekend there was an Englishman who survived."

A French person with a sense of humor...this is good ...and unusual, I thought.

Ok, maybe? Yes!

The class started the next day, so I went back to the apartment, packed a bag, including my new Sony video camera, and walked to Saint Paul to take the metro to Gare de Leon.

The train, after changes, arrived late in the evening at Sault...a really small village somewhere in the area east of Avignon near the Parque Nationciale Luberon.

The parapente school was located 18 kilometers from Sault. I saw a sign upon arrival advertising a hotel associated with the station. So I approached the 'desk' of the hotel ..an older women who probably owned and ran the hotel and served as 'check in' also... attended me...she was suspicious of me, I could tell, when I arrived without reservation or notice, although I would have thought that the arrival of travelers would be a frequent occurrence.

So my task was to book a room and arrange with her to help me find a means to take me to the school and arrive before 7AM ... the starting time for the class.

Seeing me off

Most students, I assume, drove to the school and planned to stay in the dormitory the school offered, after arriving the night before, but it was too late for me to go directly to the school, so I needed to stay the night in Sault and get there early in the morning.

So here's what I formulated in my head and said to her all at once: "Bon soir madame, J'aimerais avoir une chambre pour une nuit. Je viens d'arriver de Paris dans le train. Je suis un American, je ne parle pas bien français. 


En plus d'une chambre, j'ai besoin d'une taxe tôt le matin pour m'emmener à Parapente du Sud près d'ici.

J'espère que vous pouvez m'aider."

It all came to pass. She offered me something to eat that evening...bless her... she woke me in the morning at 5 AM, and she served me coffee and bread before I left ...all in good humor.

I slept fitfully, the sound of locomotive whistles insistent, but I was awake, up, and ready when the 'taxi' arrived right on time...it was rather a bus and I was the only passenger. We drove, the driver and I, in silence, the 18 kilometers to the school and the taciturn driver let me out. Maybe I was not the first to take this trip. The sun was still low... fog covered the ground, no one was around.. was I in the right place?... My impetuousness dawned on me, I wondered what I had gotten myself into, but then I noticed a Peugeot...a cream green...I can still see it in my mind's eye... pulled up with its motor running in the parking lot adjacent to the school.

As the bus vanished around the corner of the entryway, I knocked lightly on the window of the car...the occupant was smoking a Gitane...I could see the package on the seat beside him...and listening to a music station on the radio...a Johnny Hallyday tune. 

I said: "Bonjour Monsieur, Êtes-vous ici pour la classe parapente?"

He said: "Qui, J'ai campé quelques jours avec ma famille quand je me suis disputé avec ma femme."

I said: "Quelle?" wondering at the suddenness of the disclosure...he must have been stewing.

He said:"Oui c'est vrai...alors j'ai décidé que je la conduirais et prendrais la class tout seul"

I said: "Comme c'est évident, je ne suis pas français. Je suis descendu de Paris hier soir."

He said:"Je ne suis pas vraiment ... Je viens d'Algérie."

I said: "Mais vous avez l'air français."

He said: "Je suis français, mais je suis ce qu'on appelle un pied noir. Je suis née en Algérie de parents français."

I said: "OK, je suis Jim Ingram, je suis américain.  Je suis inquiet de savoir si je peux comprendre l'instruction.

He said: "Ne vous inquiétez pas, je parle un peu anglais ... Je vais vous aider."

So Henri...I don't remember his last name...and I became 'buddies' in that we had, at least, this initial interaction in common... whereas among the other students...they were all strangers to each other, as it turned out...the language barrier existed but was overcome with good humor.

Andrei, Philippe, Paul, Erlanger, and, of course, Henri...no women...

The main instructor was Louis...

we slept in bunk beds in a dorm area added on to the side of the main house and had meals in a small dining room ...the openly visible kitchen in the next room...the food was delicious...lots of soups, steak and frites, bread and wine... I remember the glass carafes and the red Rhone Valley wine.

I made it through the end of the second day...I missed a great deal of the class discussion about wind shear near large objects like big trees and barns...I twisted my knee landing awkwardly after a short flight on the practice hill...but I could walk away...I had gotten off the ground on my last practice flights for maybe 100 yards...and I learned to turn and to land...pretty much.

I had learned that on lift off to keep running and then to raise my hands high up...'mains a haute'...the idea was to flatten the wing to quickly move away from a steep rapidly falling away slope....then, after a few seconds, I was to bring my hands to my ears...'mains a oreille' to put curve and control back into the wing and when coming in to land just a few feet off the ground...'mains a la taille' to collapse the wing and eliminate the lift.

so I faced the big day tomorrow when we would finally 'really' fly. 

It was made clear to us that the culmination of the course was the 'grand vol.' This goal ...'objectif'...was used as motivation and a kidding threat. But none of us had any idea of what 'grand vol' meant...big flight yes...but, how big? Grand vol sounded both fun and ominous because the instructors talked about the 'freedom of flight' ...'liberté de vol'... and made vague references to the ridge...'crete'...from which we would launch, but all we could see in the distance were incredibly high ridges a mile or so away and thousands of feet high, when all we had practised on were hills of 50 feet at most and flying off the ground a few yards.

Of course, everyone was excited, but spooked a little, by the thought of the 'grand vol.' I was invited by several students to take a ride up to the takeoff area...the ridge ... ...'zone decollage' ...that we would go up to the next morning early by truck and van...the wind is typically down early in the morning...and for beginners 'no wind' is a necessity. We wanted to see where the 'grand vol' would take place, but were apprehensive at the same time.

I think this is it!

So we...Henri, Philippe, Gascon..yes...Gascon... Andrei winded our way up this very steep ridge on a dirt road that switched back on itself several times. Louis had described the parking area and the launch site and we eventually identified the spot....a slight rise to the summit of the ridge in front of us that hid what was beyond.

We got out and walked up the shallow hill from the road to the edge of the ridge.

Oh my God!

As we topped the hill, we peered over the edge down into the valley...far below it stretched for thousands of feet. I could barely make out the fields below... demarcated into geometric shapes by color and border.

I'm not jumping off this!

I said: My god, I can't even see the landing area it's so far down...'Mon dieu, je ne peux même pas voir la zone d'atterrissage si loin.'

I am not jumping off this cliff....'Je ne saute pas de cette falaise'...

I couldn't sleep that night. My knee ached. As soon as it was light, I was up, looking for Louis. I found him getting out of his car coming from home. 'Louis', I said:  'I can't make the grand vol today. I hurt my knee and I can barely walk'...remembering to limp slightly, as we walked back together toward the building.

Louis said: 'Did some of you go up to the ridge last night?' ...'Est-ce que certains d'entre vous sont montés sur la crête hier soir?'

Yes, I said...'Qui'

And without a miss, Louis said: Ok Jim, maybe you'd help me by driving a truck because we need to get all the gear up to the ridge and later several students will want a second flight and need to be brought back up.

I immediately said yes, so relieved that he didn't embarrass me by questioning my courage and honesty and by trying to talk me into flying.

I thoroughly enjoyed breakfast, having resolved not to fly, but increasingly embarrassed as it became known among the others that I was cop-ing out.

But my fear overcame my chagrin, as I recalled the precipitous slope and the enormous height of that ridge above the landing area.

We gathered all the equipment, loaded the van and truck with the chute bags and harnesses and made our way to the ridge.

I helped the first guy to get ready. It was Henri...he was intrepid.

Louis talked to Henri over a radio clipped to his harness. Louis' voice was soothing, talking slowly...focusing on details.. describing the steps... check your harness...pull on all the straps...lay the chute out across the ridgeline... arrange the lines...untangle the lines...identify the control risers...lean against the harness and pull the risers, steady the chute over your head...watch me for the signal...now...run...run...run...voila!

The next three students went through the routine...successfully...a pause occurred as the next person up had to go back to the van for a clip...Louis said to me: 'Jim, I brought your chute...what do you think?'

For whatever reason, I immediately agreed, grabbed the chute from the truck, buckled up, spread my chute along the ridge, leaned forward against the harness and tugged it up overhead, moving slightly from side to side to stay in the middle of it  and balance it, and watched Louis....he looked at the windsock, saw it was limp, said go, and I ran slightly down the hill and then off the edge of the ridge.

Louis

I dropped precipitously just for a moment, then was almost immediately lifted...I raised my hands on high...a haute... I flew away from the ridge...the radio crackled with Louis's voice: 
'Maintenant faire un virage à droite 90 degrés...voilà...

tu vas bien, Geem'

I brought my hands down to my ears, tugged on the right control line slightly, and I soared out over the valley just like a bird.

Nota Bene: On the trip back to Paris my camera and luggage were stolen from the overhead rack in the train. I had foolishly moved to another car without moving my luggage, dropped off to sleep, and when I woke up my baggage was gone...so I had no images of the weekend.

I had to go immediately to the police station in Paris and then the next day to the American Embassy to replace my passport which was in my luggage.

But recently I found a perfect video on YouTube. It is even titled the 'Grand Vol.' If you have the patience look at it...It is almost exactly my story...except the part about my 'chicken-ing' out. It starts toward the end but if you start from the beginning it tells a very similar story.