Category Archives: Uncategorized

The Six Hour Orgasm

Some people find their thrills in drugs, others need group sex to really get their hearts racing. Hell, some almost shit themselves over a new episode of Game of Thrones. Me, I get my jollies by strapping myself to a couple of kilograms of fabric and ascending to the heavens. A year ago I handed myself over to paragliding and decided to put it before pretty much anything else, and that’s why I’m in Bali right now – to rack up as many hours in the air as possible.

After three months of being grounded due to a life-changing journey through the deepest, darkest jungles of Africa, I was absolutely fanging for a fly by the time I swept into Nusa Dua. For the first three days the place was blown out, with winds strong enough to blow a Chinaman’s hat off. And then, on the fourth day, the Wind Gods smiled and everything came together for an epic flight I’ll never forget.

The launch at Payung looks out over a sparkling blue lagoon that looks like something an office worker fantasises about, but as good as it looks from ground level, it’s a helluva lot better from the sky. That first day, I flew for six hours, testing out my new wing and exploring my aerial playground. It was beautiful and exciting, and the sort of experience that reminds me life is pretty bloody good.

I you’ve never been paragliding, the best way to describe it as one long, lingering cumshot hundreds of metres above the ground. And not one of those crap orgasms that you have with a woman you don’t really care about or like very much, or after having a lazy Sunday afternoon wank during an ad break in the footy. I’m talking about one of those senses-shattering, brain-splattering, ball-draining orgasms that make you feel as if nothing outside this moment has ever existed. But with paragliding, it doesn’t last for 30 seconds, it lasts for hours.

Like the best orgasms, I didn’t enjoy this one alone – I got to share it with my good mate Alison (or Al, as he likes to be called. I dunno why, because I think Alison is a very graceful name for a man). Just to be clear, that’s the only orgasmic experience we’ve shared. After making a small fortune as the manager of beloved pop group Milli Vanilli (and experiencing a toreid love affair with Vanilla) he recently retired to Bali and has become something of a legend on launch for his ribald sense of humour and seemingly endless collection of functional sun dresses.

I’ve met a lot of extraodinary people through paragliding, and many have told them that this wonderful sport has filled a void in their life, often one that they didn’t know existed until they first climbed into the sky. I can definitely say that’s the case with me. I spent years trying to fill the empty spacces with alcohol and women whose names I’ve either forgotten or never bothered to learn, when the answers were floating about 210 metres above the coast of Nusa Dua.

Back in Balangan

After three weeks back in Australia, I was sick of winter and ready to head back out into the big wide world, so I hitched a ride on a Qantas jet and zipped over to Bali to go paragliding and chase backpackers for a month. Actually, it wasn’t quite that easy – some Islamic terrorist knob jockeys have been doing their best to blow up Aussie planes, which meant an extended journey through security. I guess rocking up with a backpack full of radio equipment and other electrical goodies probably wasn’t a great move. Sadly Fortunately, I didn’t end up with some customs dude lipping his arm up my arse.

Oh, bloody hell, it's sunny!

The other hassle during my flight over to Asia had less to do with bearded Islamic terrorist bum boys and more to do with my own goofiness, because I wasn’t allowed to check in without having a return ticket booked. With only $126 to my name, a flight back to Sydney was out of the question, so it looks like I’ll be spending a week in Darwin on the way back. Cold beer, hot Euro travellers, and heaps of crocodiles to punch. Oh shit, however will I deal with that?

The place I'm staying at looks like it was built by drunk children

Much like last year I’m kicking off my Bali sojourn with a few days in the hidden paradise of Balangan. If you want to know more about it, just read my award-winning post from this time last year. The only real difference is that I’m 20kg lighter this year, so I’ve been spending every morning jogging around in the heat and trying not to shit myself the whole way. Thanks to the rabid dogs that chase me everywhere, I’ve actually been cracking out som good times, and the seven litres of sweat that pours out of me each morning clears plenty of space for Bintangs.

Olympics, here I come

It was on one such not-so-fun run that this story begins. I was doing my best to sidestep a cow when a motorbike came to a spluttering stop a few metres from me and a stunning sort climbed off. She pulled off her helmet, sending blonde hair cascading halfway down her back. I did my best to hide my erection.

“You look like you have plenty of stamina,” the babe said in a thick eastern European accent. I just nodded dumbly and hoped she wouldn’t realise I was about six steps away from collapsing into a bush and spewing on myself. “You should jump on the back of my bike.”

We've all woken up next to someone who looks like that, right?

I was faced with two options. Either I could continue on my run, improve my health and fitness, and live a longer life, or I could climb on the back of a conked-out bike ridden by someone barely old enough to have the training wheels off and drastically reduce my life expectancy. I’m not a fucking idiot, so I went with the option that offered the best chance of getting laid. By that I mean I got on the bike – I guess I could’ve porked one of the cows wandering around, but even in Indonesia such behaviour is largely frowned upon.

Alright, they are kinda cute

Milana (for that was this lovely lass’s name) took me to a gorgeous bar on the beach, where we ordered icy cold Bintangs and did our best to piece together a conversation, despite her being from Estonia and possessing a looser grasp on the English language than your average Bauer editor. When she told me that she’d been in Balangan a year ago and had a disappointing sexual experience with another Aussie paraglider, who looked like me but was much fatter and had longer hair, I just nodded and pretended not to be hurt.

The long-haired, overweight disappointmnt may have looked something like this

Long story short, after 15 Bintangs each we found ourselves in a run-down shack on the beach, the waves crashing beneath our heaving bodies. After a few minutes of fumbling around like a drunk seal I felt very contented and was ready to roll over and have a sleep, but Milana was somewhat less pleased with the proceedings.

“I take back what I say about you have stamina,” the babe said, struggling into her dress. “Maybe you is more like 100 metre runner.”

“Luv,” I replied with a smile as I swaggered out the door, “that’s the first time anyone’s likened me to Usain Bolt. Cheers.”

I like swingers' parties

Bali is still a beautiful place, but it’s time for me to stop looking at it from ground level, and instead check it out from a couple of hundred metres in the air. I’ve got a brand new wing and an almost aggressive desire to spend as much time paragliding as possible. Let’s just hope I can keep it up for a bit longer than I did with poor bloody Milana!

Patrick Swaziland

I’ve been an admirer of Hollywood heartthrob Patrick Swayze for decades, and was crushed when he was tragically killed during a breakdancing competition several years ago. So when I discovered that there’s an entire country where Swayze fans congregate, I hopped in my 1965 Buick Rivier, blasted the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, and headed over to check it out. Swayzeland, I assured myself, would be as awesome as watching Road House and Ghost back-to-back with a bucket of choc chip ice cream (otherwise known as every Tuesday at my place).

I expected the border to be full of handsome white folk with big hair and acid wash jeans, and was shocked to see large numbers of black people who certainly didn’t look like Swayze’s regular audience (unless his films have found unlikely popularity with people who cook chicken in the burning wrecks of cars). It was then, like a kick to the stomach, that I realised I was actually entering Swaziland. I bet it’s a common mistake.

Swaziland is geographically close to Lesotho, but a world apart in most other ways. Instead of steep, barren mountains, I was greeted by rolling green hills. The capital, Mbabane, is easily bypassed on the impressive road system, but looks tidy and prosperous. It was certainly a gentler welcome than the culture shock of the comparitively bizarre Lesotho. 

I was cruising through the spacious valleys of inner Swaziland when I saw a sign pointing to a concert for one of my favourite black rapping men, the face-tattooed, hat-wearing, buck-toothed singer of Bitch Wat A Ho, Bitch, Yo, Lil Wayne. Seeing him ‘spit fire’ on stage would ease my Swayze disappointment, so I turned up a dirt track and followed the signs. However, instead of finding the finest voice of our generation, I was ambushed by a herd of zebras. Turned out I’d actually ventured into the Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary. Sometimes I think I’m not very smart.

It’s a quiet and peaceful park in a gentle and welcoming country, and offers plenty of hiking opportunities, so I laced up my boots and got out there. Antelope and weird horny cow things grazed in the wide open paddocks that I sauntered through, and birds flapped around me. I just hoped I didn’t bump into the park’s resident hippos, which are known to plod around like they own the place.

Before long I found myself surrounded by dozens of zebras, and they really are goofy-looking things. Fat horses with short legs and mohawks, really. They’re very tame here and I was able to hang out just metres from them, which was a much better experience than watching them from my car in Addo. I was able to get so close that I can confirm they’re not just ponies with spray-painted stripes, so the Swazis are one up on the Chinese in that regard.

Nyonyane Peak dominates the skyline around Mlilwane, so I got my legs moving and powered up there. It provides an incredible look out over the park and a good portion of the tiny country of Swaziland. Even though the park is only 20km out of the capital, the valley it lies in is quiet and rural, with fertile farms and surprisingly tidy villages. This country is certainly a surprise after the shambles that is so much of South Africa, and the barren wastelands of Lesotho.

Now, if they can just stop naming everything after my favourite celebrities, we’ll be fine. What next, Garyglitterville?

A baboon with a view

Of all the monkeys in the world, the baboon is definitely the sexiest. Sure, some people prefer orangutans, and gibbons certainly have their charms, but baboons really know how to turn on the charm and flaunt their simian sexiness. I’ve seen plenty of beautiful ‘boons loitering by the side of the ride as I’ve ruised through South Africa, so I headed to a place that’s crawling with the cute critters.

The Tsitsikamma National Park clings to the rugged coastline between Plettenberg and Port Elizabeth, and is a stunning part of the world. There are windswept beaches and dense forests and hiking trails galore. It’s a truly remote area, but there are plenty of comfortable cottages and lodges to sleep in, restaurants and shops, so it would be a top place to stay for a night or a week. Hell, I could see myself moving there if I met the right baboon.

The most popular walk in the park is the Suspension Bridge Trail which, not surprisingly leads to a series of suspension bridges. It’s an easy one-kilometre stroll, but takes in some stunning coastline. But that all pales into insignificance compared to what’s at the end of the trail – a whole beach full of baboons! The place was absolutely crawling with the sensual beasts, and I raced over to check them out.

It was a unique feeling to be walking amongst the proud primates in their own environment, instead of in a zoo. I guess it’s how foreigners feel when they see kangaroos in the wild. They were climbing through trees, eating food and rooting each other only metres from where I stood. Walking with animals, rather than staring at them in cages, is such a special thing to do. I found it to be a truly unique and awe-inspiring experience, and just another example of why Africa is such a magical place.

Unfortunately, the serenity was spoilt when an obese Russian man named Igor (his identity given away by his unappealing wife, who kept on squealing, “Igor! Igor! Igor!”) trundled across the suspension bridge whilst shouting, “Boonba! Boonba!” I’m not sure whether that’s the Russian word for baboon, or if he just fucked up the name because he’s a dunce, but I suspect the latter. He blundered onto the beach, waving his arms around and trying to chase the poor monkeys, who started screeching at him.

Bloody Igor was ruining the day and I was worried he’d scare off the ‘boons, but they weren’t having any of his shit. The biggest monkey let out a high-pitched shriek and baboons poured out of the trees, surrounding Igor and causing a massive commotion. Igor’s first reaction was to wet his pants; his second was to race back over the suspension bridge while screaming “Boonba! Boonba!”, and almost causing the rickety structure to collapse into the clear blue waters below. What a dickhead.

Oh, and the baboons have the ugliest blurters I’ve ever seen – and having worked at The Picture for the best part of a decade, I’ve seen some crook arses. Seriously, someone needs to get those monkeys a few tubes of Rectinol.

I ended my extraordinary trip to Tsitsikamma with a hike along the mountainous Blue Duiker Trail, which took me through dense forest that was full of birds and looked almost identical to the National Parks back home. Seriously, when I looked around I could’ve been in Girrakool (actually, that would’ve been a good thing, because I could’ve headed home to get some fresh undies. I’ve been rotating the same three pairs for a fortnight and I’m getting funny looks). It was a very pretty walk, and no one else was along it, so it really felt like I was out in the wilderness.

The park also offers the 44km Otter Trail, but it apparently takes five days to traverse and I’m politically opposed to otters, so I gave it a miss. There are comfortable cabins at regular intervals along it, so I’d definitely like to come back and conquer that trail one day. With so many breathtaking places, South Africa is a country that would take a lifetime to explore, and every single moment of it would be a joy.

The Drunk and Jobless World Tour hits Africa

This story starts the way all epic adventures do, in the midst of a four-day cask wine and prostitute bender. I was guzzling a schooner glass of Berri Estates’ finest and checking to make sure my PlayStation hadn’t been pinched when I received an email from none other than Prince Imotep Bobongi of Nigeria. I’m sure he’s in all the womens mags.

It turns out poor ol’ Imotep has been in a bit of trouble for rooting baboons, and needs to get out of Nigeria until things cool down a bit. For some convoluted reason that I could only vaguely understand whilst having a blood alcohol level of .4, he needs me to help him smuggle $100 million out of the country, and for my assistance he’s happy to give me 20 per cent. That’s $40 million!

Prince Imotep (seated) seems like a stand up guy

I was going to email Imotep back with an emphatic YES, but then I had a sit and a think and decided that would be doing him a disservice. Imotep is placing a lot of faith in me, a stranger, to help him with his family’s fortune. I could do better than to simply email him back, so I decided on the spot to fly over to Nigeria and work out the details with Imotep in person. I jumped straight on the interwebs and booked the first flight I could to Africa. It’s not a big place, so I reckon I can just rock up and ask around for Imotep.

I’ve always wanted to visit Africa, anyway. I’ve long been fascinated by the local African people and their ancient customs and culture.

Kids accuse you of the darndest things

Anyone who’s met me knows I’m an animal lover, and Africa is home to some of the strangest critters to ever roam the planet. Monkeys, elephants, bears and chickens are just some of the bizarre beasts I’m hoping to see, and I’m excited that I’ll finally fulfil my dream of cuddling a hippopotamus.

When searching for a photo of a hippo, I put ‘big fat piece of shit’ into the search engine and this is what came up

As a lifeong admirer of beautiful architecture, Africa is the place to be, and offers countless examples of exquisite and inspired design. I’m looking forward to checking out some of the most beautifully and painstakingly-built structures on the planet – some of the structures are sure to put Rome’s Parthenon to shame.

These shacks would be worth $2 million if they were in Sydney

So here I am, 30,000ft in the air with a beer in my hand, on my way to the Dark Continent for two months of fun, sun, and military coups. I don’t know where I’m going to go or who what I’m going to do, but I won’t be alone because you’ll be along for the ride every step of the way. I’m sure I’ll see fascinating landscapes, encounter terrifying animals, meet intriguing people and have outrageous adventures. The plane’s going to land soon, and I can’t wait to explore the African savannah. Oh shit, I probably should’ve gotten an anti-AIDS vaccination before leaving…

Manilla Mayhem Part II: The Mayheming

With paragliding’s State of Origin Championship heating up, I knew I had to make the second day of competition a big one. After bombing out into a field of evil thistles on the first day, I needed a big flight if I was going to win the thing. But the conditions were rubbish in the morning, so I headed out into beautiful downtown Manilla to see what was doing.

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Manilla’s bustling main street

Manilla’s remote location makes it a prime candidate for rampant inbreeding, and I was expecting a horrible, rundown cesspit full of three-legged mutants who think ancestry.com is a dating site. Instead, I was treated to a delightfully prosperous little town complete with heaps of well-preserved buildings, a Chinese graveyard, and even a giant fish.

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Why would a fish need a walking stick?

The centrepiece of the village is the Royal Hotel, which has cold beer and and hot Indian cuisine (thanks to the lovable Sanjay, aka the Hyderabad Heartbreaker). The pub loses a couple of points for being covered in Parra Eeels memorabilia, but gains a thousand for having been owned by rugby league legend Dally Messenger. The Master was in charge of the place back in the early 1900s, and also introduced the great game to the region. I had a few beers in his memory over the weekend.

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Giz a beer, bro!

With the tour out of the way, it was time to head up the hill and write my name in the paragliding history books. The conditions were perfect and I launched into the bright blue sky with the rest of the Central Coast Guy Surfers Minsinks crew. This time, instead of sinking out into the valley, we all soared into the sky. We really did do it as a team, and I boomed into a massive thermal with Scotty and the Wheen Machine. We were 10 metres from each other as we spiralled in our column of hot air (that sounds like a regular club meeting) and gradually lifted up into the sky.

Ready to enter the record books

From 800 metres, to 900 metres, to one kilometre above the earth, we fought our nerves and defied gravity. I’ve spent a huge amount of my flying time within close proximity to Scotty, and it just felt right that the two of us climbed up to cloudbase together, peaking out at around 2100 metres. How high is that? Right, the tallest building in the world, the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, is a frighteningly-high 850 metres tall. This is how high I was in comparison to that.

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I should be a graphic designer

The immense height we reached allowed us to push out into the valley and truly go cross country. With Geoff finding the thermals and leading us on, Philby, Wheen, Scotty and I broke boundaries and traversed mid-western New South Wales. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, covering the world from an immense height in a tiny seat attached to a glorified plastic bag. I made it so high that the temperature was close to zero and the world below me looked tiny, and I was amazed that I was able to take it all in and not be terrified. I’ve come so far as a pilot in the past year, and I didn’t wee or poo myself once.

My legs look great at 2100m

I was thrown around like a hated stepchild (how could I possibly know about that?) in some rugged thermals and landed 18.71km from launch. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, but flying that distance trumps everything. I never would have thought I could achieve that, and I sat in that field for a good half an hour, simply reflecting on what I had done.

I dunno who this bloke is

The rest of my team made it further than I did, and everyone busted their personal bests. I don’t like competitions and couldn’t care less about who I beat or by how much, but seeing everyone improve as pilots and push past their limits was awesome. It was brilliant to spend the weekend with such great pilots, and we’ll continue smashing the guts out of our personal bests in the future.

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Don’t land on a cow, don’t land on a cow…

Of course, Scott’s performance was aided by the fact a bunch of cops were waiting for him when he landed, so he did his best to fly back to his hometown of Bangkok. Sadly, he didn’t make it, but after landing he was chaired into a police car by a group of very impressed policemen. They slapped him high fives whilst returning him to a life surrounded by concrete. Well done, Scott! You might be able to do even better in fifteen-to-twenty years!

An unidentified individual reacts positively to his flight

The results of the comp came out that evening, but my team didn’t find out if we’d won because we had to perform at the Tamworth Entertainment Centre due to Slim Dusty cancelling a concert that night. I assume we won the State of Origin, but the true winners were the middle-aged sheilas when Geoff broke into a spine-tingling rendition of Gwen Stefani’s 2004 classic Hollaback Girl that had everyone in raptures. I can’t remember much about the rest of the night, but apparently I spewed in Lee Kernaghan’s hat, because the prick invoiced me for the cleaning bill the next day.

 

Thanks again to Tina Bednal for some of the photos. Yay!

Closer to the Sun

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Paragliding is cooler than a dog on a skateboard, and I’ve been doing a lot of it lately. Most of my airtime has been spent at Crackneck, on the glorious Central Coast of New South Wales. It’s been more fun than a threesome with Siamese twins.

I took this video on the last day of daylight savings, as the sun died on a memorable summer. I couldn’t hope to capture the fucking awesomeness of flying above Crackneck, but I hope this gives you some idea of the beauty of paragliding. Peace and fucking, homies.

A Night(mare) in Ourimbah

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I haven’t had much of a chance to update Drunk and Jobless lately, for a very good and extremely sad reason. My life has recently been hit by tragedy and disappointment, after learning news that will adversely affect everything about me in the future. My hopes and dreams have been shattered, and my goals will forever go unfulfilled, as I recently received the shocking news that I’ve been refused a spot in the Aldi Testers Club.

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Fuck you too, Aldi

Obviously distraught following this callous twist of events, I packed a bag and headed into the wild, wanting nothing more to do with this open wound of a society. Unsure of where to begin my new life, far away from the heartless guffaws of Aldi employees, I remembered a conversation I’d had with Scott, one of the local paragliding bad boys.

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Scott: rebel with a heart of gold

“Whenever the pigs are after me, I hide out in Ourimbah State Forest,” I recalled Scott telling me, while listing a stolen car radio on Gumtree. “Very beautiful, very remote, nobody find you there. If you need to bury body, you can do that, too. If you find my old business partner One Eyed Sanchez up there, you say hello to him for me – he can probably be found in shallow grave, tee hee!”

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A fish lives in this water

As Scott is currently serving a six-year sentence in jail for participating in the white slavery trade, I was forced to find the track myself, which proved to be quite simple. It’s at the end of Ourimbah Creek Road, and after parking my car I walked through a lovely valley full of very large dogs. Fortunately, they weren’t aggressive, and allowed me to wander into the dense jungle.

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Woof!

The walk from Ourimbah Creek Road up to the old archery fields at the top of the hill is pleasant if not spectacular. Over the course of 10 kilometres I crossed a few streams, climbed some pretty steep hills, picked up heaps of leaches, and finally made it up to the camp grounds just as the sun was setting and the mozzies were getting mad. There’s not much left of the archery range – the targets are gone, as are the sheds and tables once used by the club – but it’s a nice place to spend a night.

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My luxurious accommodation for the evening

I enjoyed a delicious hamburger for dinner and watched the footy on my stream, so while it feels like it’s in the middle of nowhere, it isn’t really. I even managed to match with a couple of good sorts on Tinder, and they were really impressed by my adventurous nature and cheeky smile. I hope to disappoint them in the near future.

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Hey ladies, if you want a mouthful of meat…

The trip home took me along the same road, but this time things were very different. I was nearing the end of the track when I saw something white lurking behind a bush about 100m in front of me. I stopped and realised it was a dude in a white shirt, who popped out as soon as he realised he’d been spotted. He looked around in embarrassment, then sauntered up to me with his hands in his heavily-stained shorts. When he got close he tried to strike up a conversation, but I brushed him and kept walking – I’ve already got enough perverted mates, so I don’t need another one. The man in the white shirt appeared crushed.

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Can you spot the pervert in this photo?

I assumed that was the last I’d see of him, but every time I looked back along the track I could see him hiding behind a tree and weeping. It was a pathetic sight, and I was happy to get back onto the road where there was less chance of him raping me. As I powerwalked back to my car, a filthy white van crept past me, and behind the wheel was the sicko in the white shirt. He stopped next to me and wound down the window, revealing a puffy red face streaked with tears.
“We could’ve been perfect,” he whispered, then drove off into the sunset.

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Mr Flying Man

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I grew up on the hill above Forresters Beach, and one of my most vivid memories from that time is watching hang-gliders cruising through the clear blue sky while I played on the sand. I never grew up dreaming of flying, but those memories obviously had an effect on me, because when I got older and awesomer I started paragliding.

Thirty years on, I was looking down on that patch of sand I used play on, hundreds of metres beneath me. My first flight from Crackneck to Forries was mindblowing, and it was sweet to watch over the town of my youth while doing something I love. It was even better to be up there with great mates.

I’ve spent more than 40 hours flying that site over the past few months, and it gets better every time I leave the ground. More often than not, landing on Bateau Bay Beach attracts a throng of awe-inspired wellwishers who can’t believe what they’ve just seen. Usually, a plucky child will push himself to the front of the delighted crowd and say, “Mister! Mister! Are you Superman?”
“Almost, kid,” I’ll say while packing up my wing. “I’m a paragliding pilot.”

Here are just a handful of the thousands of exquisite photos I’ve taken during my airborne adventures above the Central Coast.

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Breaking barriers: My record-busting paragliding flight through the Victorian wilderness

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When I woke up to the sounds of birds frolicking and Khancoban trailer trash bickering, I didn’t know that I was mere hours away from paragliding immortality. Alright, maybe that’s taking things a bit too far, but I was about to smash my own personal best and have a bloody good time doing it. But there was to be some drama before before I even left the ground.

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The wind looks good, and so do I

As I was unpacking my glider on top of Mt Elliot, Klaus pranced over to me while licking the remnants of last night’s quarkkäulchen from his smug face.
“Perhaps today you fly all the way to the moon!” he chortled, as his followers crowded around. “Nein, nein, who am I kidding? You maybe fly as far as I can throw wiener dog, haha! Silly man!”

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Scotty prepares for another epic jaunt

Klaus’s entourage started laughing at me, and everyone on the hill looked my way to see whether I would respond. Klaus was just leering at me, his stupid German eyes bulging out of his sweaty face, and I knew I had to hit him where it hurt.
“Yeah, well,” I said coolly, putting my helmet on, “I fucked your mum.”
The hill went wild. Pilots slapped each other high fives and started calling me a legend. The Germans pushed Klaus over and surrounded me, chanting my name. My tormentor crawled off into the bushes like some sort of deranged goanna, never to be seen again. My new followers demanded I take to the skies, and I was not about to disappoint them.

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Carvin’ it up above Corryong

Alright, I may have disappointed them a bit, as the light conditions demanded that I make four attempts to actually launch, but when I finally got up there I treated them to an unrivalled display of paragliding glory. I hooked a few thermals and climbed into the sky, making it well above launch before pushing out into the valley. I managed to link a few thermals, which was a skill I definitely didn’t have a few days earlier, and watched as the countryside washed away below me.

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I can see my igloo from here!

Inland is flying is tough, because it’s a rough ride and often incredibly humbling. The rewards are immense, however. Learning how to handle how to thermals, thinking about how to cross the valley, and watching my skills rapidly improve was incredibly satisfying. Soaring above such a beautiful valley, watching dams twinkle far below and mountains look like speed bumps, was humbling and awe-inspiring.

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Geoff in his airborne recliner

As I started to sink out, I looked into the distance and saw a racecourse. I set my sights on landing in front of the historic grandstand, catching a few more small thermals while I imagined touching down in front of an adoring crowd. I brought myself down right next to the home straight and landed like a feather before looking up to see that there wasn’t a person there. I’d missed out on the next meeting by around 11 weeks – but there was a very appreciative donkey tied up to a post.

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Things are getting a bit racy!

There wasn’t anyone there to cheer my epic performance, but that didn’t matter. When I looked at my vario, it told me something that brought a massive smile to my face – I’d flown 6.01 kilometres, my best performance by far! Sure, it probably doesn’t qualify me for the world championships, but I was pretty bloody proud of my effort.

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Well, it’s better than flying with Jetstar

Scott was obviously pretty proud of his flight, too. He’s a deeply troubled individual who struggles every day with being an Oriental in a white man’s world. Paragliding seems to be his only escape from this torment, and I think his time in Corryong was really cathartic for him. I really hope he can overcome his demons and find peace, because his bad boy attitude remains remains a blockade between him and true happiness.

scotty272_n
Honestly, Scott, drop the attitude. You might think it’s cool to stick your finger up at people, but it just makes you look uncouth