The tug plane sets off down the grass runway, gathering speed as it rushes towards the far perimeter of the field. Stretched taut behind it is a slender rope, extending 150 feet to the nose of the glider and dragging this second craft along. Twenty five, 30, 35 knots per hour; the towed plane skips above the ground several times, then lifts up smoothly, silently . . . its long, tapering wings generating a huge amount of lift.
As the wind whistles with increasing noise around the canopy, the tug finally realises enough momentum to break free of gravity and climbs steeply towards the clouded sky. Glider in tow, it gains altitude against buffeting winds and, reaching 2,000 feet, releases its payload.
We are soaring. The loud noise of turbulence drops as the glider slows to 42 knots and the air currents passing over the cockpit diminish. Drops of rain on the canopy begin a small migration upwards along the perspex, tiny bubbles mimicking beads of mercury under the external pressures. From the front seat position I can see everything: the tug wheeling around so that The Irish Times photographer can take a few shots, the far off Wicklow mountains, the stunning emerald sheen of the water in the gravel quarry below. And, if I look hard enough, the tiny dots of our parked cars back in the Gowran Grange airfield.
This is something I always wanted to try. Over the years, cycling training spins had led me away from Dublin to locations such as Sally Gap, remote landscapes where hawks could occasionally be seen gliding high above in cloudless skies. Watching them was mesmerising, their effortless circling on currents of hot air appearing to be the ultimate expression of freedom, the epitome of quiet power.
Gliding seemed the closest thing, and was a long-time ambition, but today's first time excursion is a different matter altogether. "It's a little rough up here," says flying instructor Peter Denman, with wonderful understatement. For him, a long-time member of the Dublin Gliding Club, this trip is a doddle. But the turbulence and gusts brought about by today's iffy weather are having a more dramatic effect on me - my head is spinning and stomach growing queasy as the small craft is buffeted about.
To be fair, conditions are far from ideal. Rising winds and incoming rain mean that this flight proves to be the day's last, the other beginners fated to wait until another occasion before they take to the air. And (all machismo out the window) I have never had the strongest stomach when it comes to such things, suffering sensations best described as Death from 1,000 Tiny Groin-Kicks on the Magic Carpet ride in Funderland some years ago. My friends never let me forget that humiliation, coming as it did in the midst of a none-too-successful first date. Now, the memories of that particular experience come flooding back as the small craft dips and rises unpredictably.
Still, the view is fabulous, and the idea of soaring unpowered on air is a fascinating one. Prior to the trip, Denman had explained the science behind the sport, and being part of that whole gravity-cheating process was an experience in itself. Basically, gliders function due to their highly efficient shape, with long tapering wings providing maximum lift and enabling them to remain aloft for a considerable length of time.
One of the most crucial factors is their glide angle, or rate of descent: training planes such as this Schleicher ASK 13 have a glide angle of 25:1, meaning that for every 25 feet travelled forward, the craft will lose 1 foot in height. Up here, at a dizzying 2,000 feet, a straight course would enable us to coast for almost 10 miles. Not bad for an unpowered aircraft.
And you can go further. Columns of hot air called thermals provide lift and enable the glider to gain height and stay aloft for longer. The art of the sport involves finding such thermals and leap-frogging from one to the next, so remaining airborne for hours at a time.
"Stubbled corn fields, mountains and built-up areas all reflect heat and are good target areas," explains Denman. "Other tell-tale signs are cumulus clouds, which sit at the top of columns of hot air. The pilot aims for these points and circles in the thermals, gaining height as he travels."
Incidentally, the world record for altitude is a staggering 46,000 feet, while the longest continuous flight clocks in at about 2,000 kilometres.
That explains why many of the craft have plastic tubes running from the front of the seat down through the cockpit floor. A crude method, but hopping out for a quick toilet break is clearly out of the question.
It may be my first glide, but after a few minutes of flight, Denman decides it is time for me to take over. Sitting in the seat directly behind me, he has until now guided the craft via a control stick and two pedals, but I am told to take my own controls and steer the plane. "Move the stick very gradually," he says, as I push a little too hard, the glider dips abruptly and my stomach leaps up into my throat. "Small movements are all you need, take your time."
Responding to his instructions, I feather the control stick in various directions and feel the craft respond accordingly as the horizon scrolls by.
It's a curious feeling, the glider is surprisingly sensitive and quickly reacts to every movement of the stick. After a few moments I hand back the controls to Denman, who turns the glider back towards the airstrip.
We swoop down low over the hedge lining the perimeter of the field and, to the fascination of the other newcomers, land with a loud swooooosh. I'm rubber-legged and queasy as I step back onto solid ground (terra never felt quite so firma), but two things are clear. For those who enjoy flying, gliding will offer an unrivalled experience. Secondly, this writer is, unfortunately, not hawk material.
Contact Peter Denman (01-6285464) or Ciaran Sinclair (01-6273474) for more information about Dublin Gliding Club. Places are limited
Series concluded
