Ian rules the skies, or so he thinks.
He sweeps, swoops and flies.
Ian flies high, but often sinks.
This chimp thinks he is a master of the skies.

Wind strong, gusty and more east.
#Ianthechimp eyes up his strong launch stance.
Paragliding wing is placed in full view of the beast.
The beast, the east, sees his chance.

With gusto, malice and a cheeky blast.
The east wind has no regret.
Ian, launch, lifted as he is turned fast.
Words wafted up high ... OH ****.

A wild swing as the chimp holds rake.
The beastly east tries some more.
One eye closed, Ian applies brake.
East is beaten, Ian is secure.

Yet the east, the beast, lies at height wait.
Ian climbs out of Cayton Bay.
The wind is hiding high with lifty bait.
Ian takes the leaving line, refusing to stay.

The beast announces himself with malice.
Ian regrets his cross country aim.
Losing speed and height palace.
Reach for Filey Brigg, or run without shame.

Turn, aim home and fly fast.
The beast has one more trick.
Return to the bay with turn last.
He hits the paraglider like a brick.

Wobble, rotor, accelerated flight.
A return to the safety of the bay.
To land on top would cause fright.
****** that Ian, beach landing with obey.

What have we learnt about the beastly east.
With its mean, malice and playful unfun.
Don't challenge, else decease.
Play in the air, climb and top land shun.

Harry, 27 years of flight and knowledge
Flies, has flown and will to fly.
Who taught his skill and grace.
To launch soar, to climb and land.
Long experience is no replacement.
Perhaps a want to listen, even with my only 5.
Primrose eats unwary or over ripe pilots.
The ones who think rotor is flyable.
The ones who think rotor is kind.
Primrose rotor is a monster lying in wait.
He will bite any pilot, whether 1, 5 or 27.
Be warned, listen to those who have seen others damaged.
Don't walk away with sarcastic thanks.
Listen ... avoid the Primrose rotor monster.

Free flight is freedom in its purest form,
To cloud play with must to avoid storm.
To roll, glide, dive, spiral and avoid spin,
To feel the scream that swells within.

Climb thermals, leave the earth, troubles and fly,
Know thermic air warmth of a clear spring sky.
Back to ground at the end of a day,
Tensions, stress and worries which have melted away.

Should my terminal come while I am in flight,
Sky clear, rain or darkest blight;
Your unwanted pity, I shrug off the pain.
My knowledge is secure that I'd do it again.

For each paraglider pilot was created to fly,
Gravity, earth and water defy.
And within me I know, I was born to soar,
With life, to live, to fly and restore.

Paragliding is a matter of maths.
You launch, fly, land, bash or crash.
How you meet the ground depends on maths.
Maths is key to survival.

Allowances for maths out of your control, will drive your fun.
Wind, heat, thermals and other pilots in the sky.
Unforgiving ground is gravity's final aim.
The wind will blow, thermals will lift, but gravity's maths will always win.

Your time in the air, and possibly life's end, will depend pilot error.
But gravity's maths doesn't care, he is all.
Gravity is annoyed with paragliders aiming at the ground with miss.
Gravity has calculated it's maths.

He spies those who fly forever, and wishes them on the ground.
With silence and invisibility, he draws those pilots in.
Some follow the maths and land with ease.
Some ignore the maths with peril.

Gravity's maths will always win.

I smile more than most I know,
I look down at many pilots below.
I laugh at those of equal height,
I look up to others with envious might.

Clouds with beckoning feel,
draw my want without reveal.
To look down on birds in flight,
paragliding is my delight.

Those who offer venomous spite,
will suffer fools contrite.
Flying restricted on various days,
with onlooker bewildered daze.

Begger them and with angry call,
those who fly will avoid the squall.
We laugh, we hollow, we fly,
best to avoid the obvious lie.

Live to paraglide, live to glide,
avoid stupid behaviour cause of collide.
Sink, soar, climb or thermal,
delay the inevitable deferral.

Land with full public gaze,
out of seat, hands up with awesome grace.
Just a want to fly and sky play,
with sky gods I pray.

Avoid stupid maniac behaviour,
the club is heading towards failure.
For we, the coastal pilots may vote,
to tell the hill types to revoke.

I because I Iove to fly,
not to to fight with overlie.
Reasons to fly, avoid obvious scorn,
I because paragliding ****.

It’s as though Filey Bay with its east-facing rifts and cliffs were visible;
as though the full-bodied gusts that blow over it, freighted with lift, sea thermals and the bloated bodies of over-ripe chimps, were thermals, sideways tracking and printed with spirals that mark a slow convergence of warm and nutrient-rich, cold air.

What rides this marriage of elements
does so with a paragliding wingspan
hammered from great distances,
its leading edge containing worn emblems and fading lines, such as might be found within the pages of a flight log from a time when travel was slow, when destinations involved a leaving of land based friends and tidal lines while crossing of Bay of Filey.

Soaring and gliding are this flying chimps only reasons, in all type of weathers and seasons cold, for flight. Reighton in from the south, it angles away and down, almost wetting the tip of his leeward wing before braking alternative, for upswell of Ian's wing, missing the cliff and sampling his own reflection, where he brays a holler, from missing Micks tree, so this long-range survivor.

And when, after days of gliding, its Ians bones take on the ache of flying high above sea, Ian will follow a fellow wing, inspecting it for a fellow chimp pilot, a friend or foe, for anything upon which to follow.

To find a paragliding mate, the female paragliders gather on barren Speeton cliffs surrounded by suitors, each one expectant and competitive in the sleek, highly coloured wings of their kind.

Flying chimps having found each other, they remain at the centre of flying weather cycles, expecting to fly, remain in company and lack separation for up to eighty years (Eighty YEARS!), despite some absences, despite their differences.

See them coming in – multicoloured gliders with harness gear and boots that paddle for purchase on the stones of slippery landings and wet beaches where their paragliding friends are waiting, alike
and yet unique, their singular wants and call to flying, dividing a raucous field with welcome.

One paragliding want. One life, together. And for every chimp that crashes and breaks under terrible weather, a fledgling pilot will emerge to test his wings and stand its ground after 2 long weeks training, and then leave the paragliding school to circle the globe, solitary in its preparations for flight, #Ianthechimps flying in thermic air made manifest in his I love to fly chimp brain.

There's nothing untoward counting the aftermath facing everyone latter beckoning a risky endeavour.  Soaring inward masks a 'orrible through east down overbeach.