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 We’d
spent at least five minutes in a ferocious struggle before Oswaldo gave
the signal that it was the right moment for takeoff. My heart was already
beating at extraordinary speeds. We took a few short steps and all at once
were sucked into the sky. I remember gasping for air, like riding a
roller coaster with the car descending at full speed.
“You can sit down and get
comfortable,” Oswaldo said to me. “The takeoff has been a total success.”
The views from above were even more splendid than those back on the cliff
where our sail took flight. The sky was becoming ever more saturated with
clouds. Little by little I was gaining confidence in the situation, but I
still had a white-knuckle grip on the gear that held us.
I became aware that my
camera was hanging from my neck, and that I was living precious moments
that might not repeat themselves. I made myself let go of the straps and
took hold of the camera. My mind would not be able to store so many
wonderful images, and the memory of that day deserved to be recorded.
Throughout the flight I did not stop taking photos. No matter where I
looked, everything was evocative, amazing and incomparably poetic.
A few days before, I had
started this adventure in Mérida, a city located in the mountainous
western part of Venezuela, 5330 feet above sea level.
 Mérida
is pure Andean contrast, snowcapped peaks and dry flats, white palms on
sandy beaches and cloud-shrouded forests close to the mountains. Such is
its beauty and the poetry that it has served as a source of inspiration to
the most important Venezuelan writers and artists. It is said that
because Mérida is so near to heaven, its character could be nothing but
good-natured.
I
started by just wandering aimlessly through the long and narrow streets,
waiting for the city itself to surprise me. As the day advanced, I
watched the shadows fade with the comings and goings of the people. I was
pleased with the truly abundant supply of adventures: mountain climbing
and biking, trekking, rafting...but what really grabbed my attention was a
poster with photos of a spectacular setting sun. In a sky filled with
colorful fabric, riders were tunneling through space like mad aerial
miners. They were paragliders, defying the law of gravity, flying with the
same majesty that makes eagles seem imperial.
The idea of floating in the
sky attracted me a lot, but the fear of not being on solid ground was in
my throat. Swallowing it, I made my decision. The flight would be that
same afternoon and Oswaldo w ould
be my pilot, the person to whom I would entrust my body and soul. I found
his slow and assertive manner of speech most convincing. He knew exactly
what I was feeling. He explained to me that the fear of the unknown struck
everyone who tried this sport for the first time. A rickety-looking old
army jeep, into which they loaded the huge bags for the parachutes, was
our transportation to the flight zone.
The motor started up.
There was no turning back now. To one side of me was Patrick, a Frenchman
with a loner’s look about him. He quickly figured out that I was a
novice. I suppose that my glassy gaze and my posture as stiff as a tree
trunk gave him some clue. Looking back from the mountain highway that we
were climbing, we watched the city grow smaller and smaller.
Through the dirty plastic
window of the jeep, we were aware of constant change in the landscape. As
we gained altitude, the vegetation became more and more sparse and the
landscape barren and dry. The motor stopped moaning; after 45 minutes of
winding road, at last we had arrived at Las González, a place more
commonly called Tierra Negra, or Black Earth.
The mountain, west of
Mérida, was spectacular in its geography. Its vegetation differed greatly
from typical Andean flora. Here, above timberline, the romanticism and
tranquility of the tundra contrasted strongly with the intense emotions
that can be experienced in the mountains. The impressive altitude, the
spectacular views, and dynamic wind conditions make this an ideal place to
paraglide.
I jumped off the back of
the jeep, my boots sinking into reddish dirt that crunched under my feet.
In the distance, I could hear the echo of whispering wind in the valley.
We were not alone. A nother
twenty-odd seasoned adventurers were prepared to begin flight. Some
on-lookers had also come up to see the parade of multicolored fabrics
defying gravity.
The clouds, pierced by the
now-weakening sun’s rays, looked like pieces of celestial cotton, letting
only occasional bursts of light pass through them, precisely illuminating
certain parts of the slope. A few paragliders disappeared into them,
suddenly appearing again after passing through to the other side. Human
silhouettes
 seemed
to magically fly from one side of the valley to the other. It was ideal
beauty made reality, in its purest state, giving the sensation of a
drunken, dream-like state.
Finally it was my turn.
Oswaldo’s instructions were very clear, “When I run, you run with me, when
I jump you jump, and the rest I will explain to you once we are up and
flying.” I found myself suddenly adorned with a black helmet, strapped
into a harness and tied with special cords to Oswaldo. The tension was
extreme. The parachute, a bright lemon yellow, was fully unfolded now.
Its ends flapped insistently, anxious to take flight.
The wind was blowing with
considerable force. At least six people were holding us down, preventing a
premature takeoff.
My best friend Pedro is a
paragliding aficionado. Several times I had watched him launch from
mountains in Spain. So I knew that we could not fly over the part of the
mountain where we had initiated the flight, since the air hits the
mountain and rises abruptly. Oswaldo was surprised I knew so much about
the subject and encouraged to me to take a one-week course to be able to
fly on my own. He said that when you fly solo it is very different, “The
silence is awe-inspiring, and the mountains seem to speak to you through
the wind.”
We went in and out of
clouds as if they were mirages. Other paragliders crossed our path as if
we were on an aerial highway. I was bewitched by my surroundings, and the
feeling of bone-chilling fear that I had experienced moments before the
takeoff had changed to fascination and admiration. I didn't want to
descend; I swear I could have spent hours imitating the flight of birds in
the sublime Venezuelan sky.
The end of the valley was
becoming visible. We were descending little by little, losing mo re
altitude with each sweeping circle. Oswaldo advised me not to touch my
feet to the ground until he gave me the signal and to watch out for the
camera since our own parachute could flatten us even after we were on the
ground.
The soles of our boots
landed on terra firma, raising a visible cloud of dust. Just like
that, my dream was over.
The return trip was very
different from the one going out. All tension gone, we were radiating the
happiness that comes with having accomplished an important feat. The
brightness in our eyes exposed the truth that we had discovered deep space
for the first time. I promised Oswaldo that I would send him the photos by
mail and I thanked him for an unforgettable day. I had never been so
close to heaven as in those moments. I felt as if I was privy to what
birds feel as they trace the sky with their wings, gliding untiringly,
controlling everything that happens underneath their fragile bodies.
“Freedom, freedom!” I repeated to myself again and again as the rickety
old jeep bounced us down the dirt track back to the city.
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