The answer may lie somewhere between these two extremes. As the saga of Captain Everett and his companions approaches its fourth year, I’ve found that detailed plot outlines are too restrictive. They can suck some of the life out of a story, and make it difficult to include readers’ suggestions — one of the great advantages an online serial drama has over traditional media. They also make it difficult to tossing in those new characters and ideas that hit you out of the blue, like ‘Howard Philip’, Tank Jousting, or… (drum roll please)… ‘Dan Straight, PI’! But trying to cook up each new episode on its own, without any overall plan, can leave a story drifting aimlessly. This isn’t much fun. Even for the turtles.

How does one achieve the necessary compromise? I’m sure there are many different ways. But I don’t have the slightest idea what they are, so for the Flying Cloud, I begin with my rough plan for the entire story, work out a general outline for each season, flesh this out several episodes in advance… and then feel free to abandon this if someone sends me an email to ask about Captain Everett’s past, or it occurs to me that… hey… Java… isn’t that where Mata Hari came from? Does this work? I leave this for you to decide. But it’s certainly made things more interesting!

The HMS K4

The class was every bit as successful as one might expect for a fleet of fragile, ungainly, poorly armed, expensive and difficult to maintain submersible torpedo boats no meaningful scouting ability or communications equipment. The words we’re looking for here are ‘not very’. Range was limited, the view from the bridge was non-existent in any kind of a sea, diving was an prolonged and potentially irreversible process, and when diving at speed, it was all too easy to exceed the boats’ crush depth of 150’. The consequences were predictable. On the last day of January 1918, two squadrons of K-class boats and several light cruisers spent a wild and stormy night running into each other, with considerable loss on life, in what came to be known as the Battle of May Island.

It’s a testimony to the stubbornness and ’can-do’ attitude of the Royal Navy that they built and operated 17 of the vessels between 1917 and 1931. Well, perhaps it’s just a testimony to their stubbornness. Not satisfied with achievement, they followed it up with the M-class submersible cruiser. These unusual vessels, armed with a 12-inch cannon, rank very high on the Whatever Were They Thinking scale. Long range attacks against surface ships firing a single gun from the rolling deck of a submarine without any way to observe the fall of shot must have set new standards for inaccuracy. And the concept of using a submarine for shore bombardment is eccentric, even by English standards.

Not to be outdone, the French replied with the Surcouf (N N 3), the world’s first – and so far it’s only – submersible aircraft carrier. The air wing consisted of one (1) Besson MB 411 floatplane with a top speed of 118 MPH and a combat capability of pretty much zero. It also carried a motorboat because… well… heck, why not? This remarkable vessel was launched in 1927 and vanished sometime in 1942, no one is quite certain how. Wartime records suggest the craft was sunk, but one imagines the crew woke up one morning, looked around their unwieldy behemoth, thought, “Bugger this,” and used the boat’s 11,000 mile range to nip off to some idyllic tropical island.

Faced with these intriguing exercises in technology, it’s hard not to wonder what might have happened, in a world with more ambition and less common sense than ours. Naval combat would never have been the same. One imagines the Alternate Battle of Jutland (“We thought we had them when Jellicoe crossed their ‘T’, but Scheer ordered the German battle line to dive.”) or the Alternate Battle of the Coral Sea (“Scratch one flattop! No, it just surfaced again, darn it.”)

It’s been a long time, what with a new job, an apartment move, a cylinder head swap on the Miata, and a few hang gliding trips, but this seems like a good time to restart the Flying Wire. Our heroes (and heroines) are into their third season now as the saga continues.

One of the most entertaining things about putting together a story of this sort is researching the background. Back in the days of 1930s serial dramas, this might have meant visiting the library to pour over encyclopedias, old newspapers, and musty reference books. In this modern era, you can find some amazing things on the Internet. That Vauxhall for example. We know Captain Michaelson has a staff car, and given the man’s status and pretensions, it must surely be one of excellent quality. But a Rolls Royce seemed a bit too obvious. A quick search through a historical list of British manufacturers turned up Vauxhall and their remarkable D-type, along with pictures, specifications, and even a few Youtube videos.

It seemed a pity to let this information languish unused, and so Mister MacKiernan’s Wild Ride was born. Unfortunately, nowhere in this vast cornucopia of online material could I find a good picture of a Vauxhall hood ornament from the 1920s. There are any number of poor ones, but they were all too blurry to be useful. So I had to improvise…

This weekend’s return to the training hill was prompted by our first day at Black Cap, when I backed off launch because I wasn’t sure I could pull it off, and our last day, when I most definitely failed to pull off a landing. I figured I’d get some exercise, spruce up my technique, and go home feeling smug and self-righteous. At least that was the plan.

I arrived at Ed Levin Park to discover that conditions were wretched, with high temperatures, dead air, and small thermal cycles blowing fitful little zephyrs from every direction. This was perfect! This was exactly what I wanted! If my goal was to suffer, I had picked the right day. Full of masochism, I set up my wing and harness, preflighted it, and dragged the whole lot – 100 lbs or so – up the 50’ hill for my first flight. There wasn’t a breath of wind, but I knew how to handle a no-wind takeoff on a hot day.

Or so I thought.

Picking myself up after the impact, I checked out my wing to make sure it was OK, then dragged it up the hill for a second flight. Perhaps I’d picked the wrong moment to launch, when the wind had started to blow downhill. Yes, that must be it! Surely there couldn’t be anything wrong with my technique. The second flight was near-perfect, with a smooth launch, good speed and directional control, and a two-step landing after a slightly-too-late flare.

Yes, I thought, I’ve got this figured out! One more flight to make sure I’ve got this all sorted out, then I could head home for a beer. Feeling smug, I slogged back up the hill for what I was certain would be a triumphant conclusion to the T&L session.

Right.

After I’d picked myself up, dusted myself off, and finished grumbling, I dragged my wing over to the breakdown area. Something was wrong, and I wasn’t going to sort it out by banging my head against the wall. Fortunately a friend had set up a camera to film some of his students, I walked over and asked him to back it up so I could looked over my third flight – such as it was.

It was most definitely not a thing of beauty. I’d pitched my wing up to get it off my shoulders early in my takeoff, then failed to run fast enough to really get flying. This is one of those elementary mistakes that one believes one has outgrown… and one of the reasons we head back to the training hill is to see if these beliefs are correct.

I considered heading home at this point. It was hot, I was tired, and I was screwing up – all good reasons to take a break. But I was also stubborn, so I dragged myself back up the hill to give it another go. I should know how to launch a hang glider, darn it! I’d been doing it for 26 years! A few minutes to get my breath back, a few more minutes to visualize the technique I should be using, and a long wait for the breeze to stop blowing downhill. Then it was blowing up – it was now or never…

…and I aced it. Problem solved. Time for that beer!

Hang gliders on launch at Black Cap, overlooking Lakeview. That's my Jeep in the background.

This year’s Festival did not start well. We arrived Friday to learn that a pilot was missing, caught by the gust front that blasted through the valley that afternoon. Search and Rescue was out, but it was growing dark, and there was cause for concern. They found him the next day, alive but badly injured. The word from the hospital sounded optimistic, but he could have some tough months ahead, so send him your best wishes.

With such a beginning to the weekend, we weren’t feeling very aggressive on Saturday. The consequences were predictable: we got a late start, chose the wrong site, spent the day waiting for good launch conditions, and never got to fly. Meanwhile the pilots who flew Hadley’s Butte, 30 miles to the north, had an epic day. One tries to be philosophical about such things, but philosophy only goes so far. Darn it.

Sunday dawned cloudless and unpromising. With a high pressure system building over the Western US, none of the local flying sites looked good. After looking at the forecast, shaking our heads, and cursing our luck, but we decided to give Hadley’s a try ourselves. If nothing else, it would be a change of scenery.

I’ve never been particularly fond of Hadley’s Butte. The view from launch is lifeless and barren, like the surface of Mars. Launch itself can be demanding, and the lift, on days it is present, can be hard to find. In eight trips to the place, I’d only flown it five times and gotten up twice. Those last two flights might have been awesome, but odds of 2 in 8 did not seem good. On this particular day conditions looked quite dead. I spent some time wondering whether to fly at all, then decided to fly my paraglider. If all I could hope for was a five minute sled ride, I wasn’t going to spend the hours it took to set up and break down a hang glider.

The gods watch… and take note… of decisions like these.

It took forever to sort out my lines, connect up my radio gear, and get my canopy ready. When it was my turn to launch, I mismanaged the brakes when I started my run, and my takeoff was not a thing of grace. Annoyed with myself, I bore right and began following the spine that lead down to the LZ. At least I was flying. And a five minute sled ride was better than no flight at all.

Moments later, my variometer started to beep.

I didn’t believe it, or course. At best, this was just a bubble thermal that would be gone in an instant. But there seemed nothing to lose, so I banked into the lift. A dozen or so turns and I was a 500’ feet above launch! Years of trying to stay up on crummy days – three of them at Hadley’s – have taught me a certain amount of cynicism, and there seemed no way this anomaly could last. Anticipating a flush cycle, I headed toward the LZ, only to encounter another thermal. And another. And another…

After 30 minute’s work, a bit of turbulence, and the occasional tip collapse, I was 1000’ up. To the north, the LZ had become irrelevant – it was clear that I would not be landing any time soon. Beyond it, the desert had acquired that strange beauty deserts have when seen from the air. Behind me, the butte rose in a series of steps toward high ground to the west. To the south, an obvious line of lift stretched across the plateau that lead to the town of Paisley.

I’d been here before, back in 1996. And I knew the route to the south, for I’d flown it two days in a row. That might have been in a hang glider, with much better performance than the wing I was on now, but there seemed no reason not give it a try. With a certain amount of glee – the same kind of glee a child might feel when setting out on a bike ride on Saturday morning – I turned south and headed cross-country.

Cross-country — XC — is thought by some to be the ultimate form of soaring flight. Leaving behind the security of the regular LZ, you set off into the unknown, hoping to find thermals along the way. If you succeed, spectacular flights are possible – the World Open Distance Record is well over 400 miles. If you fail, you have to pick a field, scout it for obstacles, set up your approach, and pull of a landing… on your very first try. Even after you’re down, the adventure isn’t over. Lose radio contact, land too far from a road, and you get to practice your wilderness survival skills. This can be serious business.

This particular day was slow going. It was the first time I’d gone cross country on a paraglider, so I flew conservatively, making sure I always had a safe route out of the hills. This might not have been a formula for covering distance, but it was most certainly a formula for fun. With no serious concerns about landing or retrieves, I was free to practice my thermalling technique, admire the scenery, and gloat at all the luckless pilots who were sinking out behind me. It was also a learning experience. Every move upwind toward safety re-impressed me with the fact that paragliders are slow!

At last I came to the crux of the route – a pair of ridges, cut by a deep river canyon, that I’d have to cross if I wanted to get past Paisley. It would have been easy with my hang glider, but with no real clue what it might be like with a paraglider, I was not about to risk going down in some truly nasty terrain. Tug on the left brake, turn west, and I was headed toward the flatlands and safety.

One makes these decisions with a certain amount of smugness. And with a groundspeed of less than 10 MPH, I had plenty of time to feel smug as I made my way out of the hills. I arrived over the road with 500’ of altitude and a keen appreciation of just how slow paragliders are in any kind of a headwind. This lack of speed makes them quite easy to land. Indeed, landing was fun!

There remained the wilderness survival part of the flight. I faced some serious challenges. I’d lost radio contact with my friends. I was at least 100’ from a well-traveled paved road. I only had a substantial supply of water. And the nearest town was almost two miles away! If no one stopped to give me a ride, it might be a 30 minute walk to the nearest place I could find cold drinks and ice cream! Times like these can try men’s souls… though I must admit they don’t try them very hard

That was not the end of the story, of course. We stayed one more day, headed to one more sight, and I got one more flight, which was as dreadful as it was short. But it’s the good flights that count, and it’s the good one I’ll remember.

That ice cream was good too…

A pilot climbing out in front of Timberline launch at Hull

The next morning was gorgeous, but the sky was strange. To the north, Hull was the same as ever, looming above the valley like the lord of some forgotten kingdom, but to the west, an unexpected wall of clouds peered above Sanhedrin – invaders, perhaps, or bearers of some disturbing message. Their meaning was subject of some speculation as we drove around the valley, decided on a landing site, and loaded our gear for the trip up the hill. Whatever this sky meant, it did not seem like an ordinary day.

Unfortunately, it also didn’t seem like I’d be able to fly. I had just recovered from a cold, and by the time we’d reached launch, it was clear I was in no shape for a struggle. If conditions had been mild, I might have given it a go, but they were an thing but mild. With gusts blowing up the hill, clouds boiling with turbulence, and every sign that the air might be stalked by invisible dragons, I decided, reluctantly, to stay on the ground.

One makes these decisions with a mixture of smugness at one’s wisdom and regret for lost opportunities. That evening, as I listened to my friends describe their flights, I felt quite a bit of the latter, for it was clear I’d missed an interesting day. Still, the wine was good, the mountains were beautiful, and the odor of sage was a welcome change from the dust of the city. Also, my lungs seemed to be healing, so I had some hope of flying tomorrow.

The second morning was even more unsettling than the first. Clouds were sweeping in from the north – the wrong side of the mountain – promising conditions that might range from nasty to unfliable. By the time we reached launch, a particularly ominous one had formed directly above the peak: an ugly roll of mist, tattered by the wind, that it was impossible to watch without feelings of concern. I still wasn’t 100%, but I’d come here to fly, darn it, so I unloaded my gear. On the ground, I was a victim, passively accepting my fate. In the air, I might still get hammered, but at least I’d have a chance to fight.

Conversation was more subdued than normal as we set up our wings, and several people elected not to fly. When the first pilot launched, we watched him like penguins watching the first bird into the water, looking for signs of that shark. The air did not look like a terrific amount of fun, but we’d seen and faced, so we followed him, one after another, until it was my turn. My flight plan was simple: I’d get a good strong launch, sniff around in front of the hill, and if I wasn’t entirely happy with what I felt, turn left and flee for the LZ with my tail between my legs.

Conditions were not was bad as I’d expected: a few jolts of adrenaline, perhaps, but no real Sacred Excrement moments. My vario beeped, so I tried a few circles and found that I was going up. But I wasn’t going up very fast. There was a lot of sink mixed in with the lift, which was hardly surprising with the wind at altitude spilling over the top of the mountain to funnel down the canyon. Worse, that wind was drifting me east, over Rattlesnake Canyon. As its name suggests, this is a place of evil legend, to which I had no desire to contribute.

It was time for the part of my plan that involved tails and legs, so I turned left slammed through a few bumps, and scurried down the spine that lead to the airfield. I’d have measured myself against the day and found myself wanting, but hey, at least I’d measured myself. My cowardice might have caused me to miss some excitement, but I don’t fly to have excitement, I fly for the mental challenge, the physical sensation, the glorious view, and to have fun. I reached the strip with 1200’ of altitude to spare, and wouldn’t you know it: my vario was beeping!

With a safe landing zone just a short glide away, there seemed no reason not to work this lift, hang out, and get a bit more airtime. Besides, I was curious where this thermal might lead. A few minutes later, I was 1000’ higher, curiosity unsatisfied. The lift seemed to be building and the sink diminishing. Would this trend continue? With wind blowing from the north on top of the mountain but from the south on the lake, there was every chance that a ‘convergence band’ might form, with air going up over a broad area.

Soon, other people noticed. “Paul, is that a convergence?” called Robert over the radio.

“Yes!” I replied. “It’s great! I’m climbing through 5700’! Get over here!”

An hour later, three of us were above the level of the mountains, flying broad easy laps up and down the east side of the valley. It wasn’t a very good convergence, as such things go, with a top at 6500’, and some spiteful bits of turbulence to remind us to pay attention. But ambiguous though it might be, this was an unexpected gift on what had seemed an unpromising day, and I was determined to enjoy it. I stayed up until I grew tired – this didn’t take very long, given my recent cold – then headed down.

Landing can be food for thought, particularly when a convergence is nearby. There’s always that nagging concern that the bottom of the thing might push though the landing zone, bringing with it all manner of nastiness. So thinking, I planned an approach that left me with several options if the wind started switching or dust devils started cooking off when I arrived. Would this plan have worked? I’ll never know, for the wind stayed smooth, straight, and forgiving from 500’ all the way down to the ground. Landing, was a pleasure, and the air was sweet with the scent of sage.

We forget the details of these flights. Indeed, on mediocre days such this, there may not be many details to begin with. But we remember our feelings of expectation at the beginning of the flight, the hopes, the curiosity, the delight after each minor success. And years later, when everything else is forgotten, we still remember the sage.

All sarcasm aside for a moment… we can do better…

Forewarned, I made sure to get Episode 75 ready before I lost access to my primary computer. But I’ll be heading off to the Lassen region for a major flying trip while I wait for the contractors to finish, so it might not get posted until the wee hours of Monday morning. Stay tuned!

At least that’s the theory.

In practice, I’d lost interest in smug virtue by the time I reached the 600’ level, and when a truckload of friends offered me a ride, I was happy to hop aboard and be a slob for the rest of the 1700’ climb. On top of the mountain, things looked promising. It was summer, which usually means stable air and unsoarable conditions here in the Bay Area. But the sky was blue, the horizon was sharp, and the inversion didn’t look too strong, which meant there was a chance for a sea breeze front.

We’re all familiar with the concept. Cool air blows in from the ocean, gets heated by the land, and rises, pulling more air in behind it. (I’ve never been quite sure what happens to the air after it has risen – kidnapped by aliens, perhaps.) This wall of rising air is the ‘sea breeze front’. Here in the Bay Area, it forms near the coast and moves inland as the day progresses, passing through Ed Levin Park sometime between 11 and noon. It was 11 now. And did I mention that the air in a sea breeze front is rising?

By the time I’d laid out my gear, puffs of wind were blowing up the slope. When I looked from launch, I could see a gaggle of vultures climbing as they circled below me. The only thing missing was a voice from the heavens shouting, “Launch now, you dufus”. (Dufus – noun, plural dufii: a person who waits too long to get off the hill). Switch on my variometer, check my harness straps, tug on the risers to get the canopy overhead, kite it for a moment to check the lines, turn, run, and I’m off.

When the sea breeze front pushes past Ed Levin, the best place to look for lift is in front of the 1500’ hill, so I turned left, flew to the shelf in front of it, and made a few passes. The results were disappointing: a few beeps from the vario, but I was losing altitude. The next place to try was the bowl in front of the 1200’ hill. This wasn’t much better, and I’ve always felt nervous getting low over those trees. It seemed today was not my day, so I shrugged – easier to do while seated in a paraglider harness than lying prone in a hang glider harness – and headed out toward the LZ.

As I passed the end of the 1200’, my canopy surged upwards. I didn’t need a vario to recognize this! One s-turn, another, and the hill was below me. Not bad for a summer day! This lift wasn’t steady enough to keep me up, but surely there was more to find. Below me, I could see the windsock on the 600’ hill flicking back and forth as if a thermal was blowing through. This was worth a look.

Seconds later, I was climbing in a nice well-defined core. Life was good. My vario was beeping, the ground was dropping away, and all was right with the world. Well… almost right. In addition to going up, I was also getting pushed downwind. This can be food for thought on an aircraft with a top speed on a par with a Frisbee.

Concerned about losing touch with the LZ, I turned upwind and found myself just barely moving forward. My smugness at anticipating this situation was counterbalanced by a nagging concern that the situation I’d anticipated was not an unmixed blessing. A bit of patience got me back over the 600’ hill into another thermal. Then I was climbing again… and getting swept downwind… again. I could see a pattern here. I could also see that the wind was picking up. This time when I turned upwind, I was almost stationary.

Skilled pilots notice things like this. I notice them too. I’d had my fun, now I was time to head down for a gelatto. I reached the field with plenty of altitude, plenty of room, and plenty of time to set up my approach. There was a bit of traffic in the pattern, but only enough to keep things from getting boring. And landing a paraglider in a smooth steady breeze is a non-event. After I’d toted my canopy over to the parking area, I got to enjoy another advantage of paragliders. With no battens to pull, wing to fold, sail to furl, or control frame to disassemble, you can pack one away in a fraction of the time it takes to break down a hang glider. Minutes later, I was on my way back to town.

And that gelato was delicious!