Flying Vomite

The Mankofskys, as I know them, are not flyers, and so it was with great trepadition that I strapped on my harness. Let me back up and explain how it is that I came to strapping in. It’s my sister Smith’s fault. I wouldn’t have given it any thought without her. She saw the advertisements for paragliding and was instantly in. I said it was too expensive but she got me anyway. The deal became, if our mom would pay for half, I would go. I counted on Holly saying no. Not so much because of the cost but because of the danger. I was wrong and so I found myself atop Saronghot, strapped to a dreadlocked Frenchman telling me to walk to the edge of the hill until I felt the parachute pulling me back, at which point I was to run as hard as I could. I had already witnessed several other paragliders take off, including Smith, and with each one my fears grew. There really was no turning back though. I’d paid my money. I was strapped in. The Frenchman was strapped in behind me. What else could I do?



I started walking to the edge and well I felt the wind pulling the parachute back, I tried to run, but there wasn’t time enough. I didn’t get a single step in. We were lifted right up into the air and I was left to look down at the ground as I was pulled away from it higher and higher. We rode a drift of warm air that radiated from the ground below, making a long, slow spiral up and people went from old GI Joes to Lego men and women, to ants, to specs. As we wound up, my pilot began shouting, “Vomite! Vomite! Vomite!” I was a little disoriented, due to the fact that I was flying via a parachute with my feet dangling over nothing but air and that he was saying vomite, but by the third time, I picked it up. Someone above us was vomiting and we were taking evasive action. It was a close one, but the vomit passed us safely by, not so much as misting a shoe toe. Now, it’s not like our parachute would’ve collapsed had we been struck by the vomit, but who wants to be thrown up on. Not the pilot and I, and I’d venture not any of you either. It was after we averted this minor disaster that the Frenchman at my back informed me that I was to tell him if I felt sick. I should tell him post haste. Stat. Pronto. ASAP. I scoffed. Me, sick? Ha! Laughable!

Naturally, five minutes later I was fighting back nausea. Choking it back. Taking big, deep breaths of air. Focusing on placid things like soft green moss and citrus fruits arranged in glass bowls… And then I was puking. Not rough, relieving burps but outright vomit. Thick vomit. I rued breakfast. Why of all things had I ordered a set breakfast? Was I crazy? Had I wanted this for myself secretly all along? I don’t know, but half-digested potatoes, eggs, toast, jam, muesli, fruit and curd and tea were spraying from my mouth and drifting down to fertilize the rice terraces below. It had tasted much better going down. It was time to call it a wrap. We headed for the landing site.

Smith was waiting for me, equally disheveled. She was pleased to see me, vomit driblets on my coat sleeve. She was relieved to not be the only one who had tossed their breakfast back, and knew she wasn’t alone upon seeing me. I needn’t say a thing. We took the van back to Pokhara, bought a bunch of oranges and went to meet Hilary who had declined the adventure.

It wasn't a disaster in the end. The vomit came out of my jacket and it was a nice experience in retrospect, especially the first fifteen minutes for me. Unfortunately for Smith, she'd been sick upon lift-off. But we did it, though surprisingly there was no adrenaline to it. There's more thrill in jumping off of a 10 foot rock then drifting 3,000 feet above the ground. I never got the sensation of my stomach leaping into my throat, though it's contents did make there way. I can't say I'd do it again, but then maybe I would. I'll avoid the eggs and potatoes in the future.