Soaring: A Search for the Perfect Updraft

On a breezy day near Torrey Pines, Calif., the air over the beach and cliffs is filled with man-made wings. A ten-year-old boy strapped to a purple and gold hang-glider--a huge swatch of fabric, a metal frame, a trapeze-like seat --leaps from a cliff and circles toward the sand. A middle-aged businessman in a stiletto-winged sailplane, or conventional glider, weaves figure eights. They have plenty of company aloft, flying a variety of craft that come in a rainbow of colors.

Just as surfers roam the world in search of the perfect wave, glider people seek the perfect updraft--a magical surge of rising air that bestows a feeling of buoyant freedom. Thousands of Americans, from the mountainsides of Hawaii to the dunes of Cape Hatteras, are yielding to what Richard Bach calls "the real Jonathan Livingston Seagull who lives within all of us."

The cult contains two subcultures. The larger and more familiar group flies sophisticated sailplanes that routinely cover dozens or even hundreds of miles and soar to altitudes that may require oxygen masks. The Soaring Society of America estimates that in ten years the number of licensed sailplane pilots has grown from 5,000 to 15,000. Many of them are affluent business people.

Hang-gliding folk are much younger. Some have organized clubs, but no Government license is required for hang-gliding. Lacking cockpits, they dangle from kitelike contraptions that usually return to earth in minutes. This more primitive--and more dangerous --form of flight has drawn 5,000 to 10,000 followers in only a few years.

The two groups are bound by a simple adage. Says Truxton Pratt, a senior vice president of Bankers Trust Co. who flies a sailplane in New England: "You reach a point in life and the adventure stops. Soaring puts it back." Hang-gliding and soaring have common roots in the 19th century, when English Inventor George Cayley and later, German Engineer Otto Lilienthal began applying their knowledge of birds to efforts to get man off the ground. After World War I, the Versailles Treaty denied military aircraft to the vanquished and the Germans trained some 50,000 glider pilots. Americans began picking up the gliding habit in the late 1920s; in 1939 three brothers, Ernest, Paul and William Schweizer, set up the Schweizer Aircraft Corp. in Elmira, N.Y., which is still the principal American manufacturer.

Leisurely Speeds. Schweizer turns out over 100 sailplanes a year. About half are the two-seat model 2-33, used primarily by flying schools and clubs for training (cost: $7,750). Schweizer also produces the popular single seater in this country, the medium-performance 1-26 (about $6,000). Competition flying is still dominated by German fiber-glass models, such as the AS-W 17, Nimbus, Kestrel and Cirrus, featuring long, albatross-like wings for higher performance. They fetch between $11,000 and $20,000. A beginner usually spends $400-$500 on lessons, though membership in a club can cut training costs in half.

Many pilots belong to one of the country's more than 200 clubs, which conduct a variety of meets, outings and contests. They gather at such airstrips as Sugarbush Soaring's field at Warren, Vt., built in 1966 by a former ski-lodge owner, John Macone. He calls it the nation's first "soaring resort." Pilots circle over the beautiful Mad River valley at leisurely air speeds of 45 m.p.h. to 55 m.p.h.

Soaring competitions are faster, more serious affairs. The pace builds to 120 m.p.h. or more over a triangular course, as the pilots vie for world or national records for speed. "They tend to be introverted, highly individualistic and sure of themselves," says U.S. National Champion George Moffat, 46, a New Jersey schoolteacher. "When they are in the air, they are completely involved. I figure if you haven't made an important decision in the last minute, you are loafing. The air is always trying to tell you something. It is a matter of experience to find out what."

The message every pilot seeks is where to find updrafts, or lift, that will provide precious altitude. Lift comes in three main forms: thermals, ridge currents and mountain waves. Thermals are capricious updrafts generated by such sun-warmed spots as hilltops, deserts, parking lots and plowed fields. Large fires at garbage dumps will also do the trick. In competition, pilots try to gain altitude by rising with one thermal, then diving to another near by. They may be detected by clouds, airborne debris, hawks or odors. "Thermals pick up the odor of the ground where they form," says Lloyd Licher of the Soaring Society of America. "If you smell cow manure or garbage at 10,000 ft., you can assume you're onto something." By using thermals alone, Hans-Werner Grosse, a German, set the world's distance record of 907.7 miles last year, spanning Germany and France.

Ridge currents--winds deflected upward by ridges or cliffs--are less challenging. They are "ridden" on the windward side of a ridge or cliff. Waves are formed when a steady wind blows over a mountain and forms vast smooth currents of undulating air that may lift a glider to an altitude ten times higher than the mountain. The altitude record was made in 1961 when Paul Bikle soared in a Schweizer 1-23E from 3,964 ft. to 46,267 ft. in a wave over the Mojave Desert.

The search for rising air often leads to unanticipated landings--most often in the fields of surprised farmers. One pilot who touched down on a private ranch airstrip in Nevada found himself at the center of an impromptu cocktail party for 20 and was invited to dinner. Not all forced landings turn out so well. Industrial Engineer George Asdel recalls putting down at a military base where nuclear weapons were stored; he was greeted by machine guns and kept under armed guard for five hours. "We are always in trouble," says Dan Danieli, a grocer who practices his best manners on surprised hosts. "We get so humble you wouldn't believe it." Even with unplanned landings, boosters like TWA Jumbo Jet Pilot Robert Buck maintain that soaring is no more hazardous than flying in a commercial airliner.

The kitelike hang-gliders, aerodynamically more modest, are less secure by contrast. The most popular model is a flimsy-looking, delta-shaped affair designed by Francis Rogallo, a former NASA engineer. The pilot usually takes off by leaping from a cliff or dune. He hangs suspended in a harness, and steers by leaning right or left. He may also get aloft behind a motorboat or automobile --a more dangerous technique. Though James Bond used a Rogallo in his latest flick to swoop down on the bad guy, a far more spectacular flight was made recently when Jim Weir, 26, a gardener, and Burke Ewing, a 19-year-old student, both from San Diego, jumped from the top of 10,830-ft. Mount San Jacinto above Palm Springs. Recalls Weir: "I was in a screaming dive toward the mountain and there was nothing I could do about it. That was it, the end. But just as quickly as the drop started, it stopped. I seemed to have control of the kite and was in relatively smooth flight. Then I dipped again, plummeting toward the mountain, only to be 'rescued' by an updraft. It was as if the wind was playing with us, tossing us around like dandelion seeds. I would talk to my kite: 'Come on, baby, hang in there.' "

Crash Prizes. Such adventures have turned into bad trips, too, causing six or seven deaths over the past two years and many broken bones and teeth. This does not worry boosters of the sport; indeed, prizes are sometimes given for the most interesting crashes. Sales of more than 30 manufacturers are booming, partially because the craft are not regulated by the Federal Aviation Administration. Hang-gliding is also cheap. Depending on do-it-yourself inclinations, the glider can be in the air for as little as $50 or as much as $800. Says Bill Allen of Eipper-formance, a California manufacturer: "This sport is going where motorcycles and surfing have already been."

Some sailplane pilots would sooner see hang-gliding go the way of pigsticking and jousting. Alvin Owens, vice president of San Diego's Decision Science, Inc., bristles at the mere mention of it. "It's a step backward," says Owens. "I think it's extremely unfortunate for people to think about soaring and hang-gliding in the same context. It's like comparing the Soap Box Derby to the Indianapolis 500." The feud is particularly sharp at Torrey Pines, where all hands compete for precious air space in one of the country's best-known updrafts. Even the most adamant partisans, however, seem willing to glide and let glide in the common pursuit of lift.

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