The Courage to Fly

OLUDENIZ, Turkey--After spending the first 19 years of my life with my feet firmly planted on American soil, I embarked on the adventure of a lifetime. In a whirlwind two-week tour, I would see London and then travel to Turkey to sail the Mediterranean isles of the southern coast. It was marvelous.

In London, I dragged my British friend (and host) around her hometown on the upper level of an open-air, double-decker bus where a dorky tour guide gave a running commentary on the sights of the city. As if that wasn't proof enough, I later discovered I was the ultimate tourist when I schlepped through endless souvenir shops searching for the perfect Union Jack pencil case for my sister, boxers for my boyfriend and tie for my dad. Somehow I didn't mind examining every London beer stein and every London magnet in every single store while my friend looked ready to strangle me along with every other foreigner in sight.

Turkey was a different story, though. Unlike much of the Mediterranean in the summertime, where tourists are packed on beaches like sardines, Turkey was breathtakingly serene and surprisingly unadulterated. We lived for a week on the 75-foot sailing vessel Acanthus, navigating the incredibly calm, warm, clear waters of the Turkish coast. The sea in this region is dotted with tiny, mountainous islands covered with nothing but trees, rocks and, occasionally, goats. There are no giant hotels spoiling the landscape, and boats are certainly the preferred mode of transportation--most of the places we visited could be reached only by water.

In the mornings, various small boats would make the rounds to the large anchored pleasure-craft offering medical services, garbage pick-up and fish for sale. There was even an ice cream man!

While I loved the lack of commercialism and relative absence of Western influence in Turkey, my most exciting adventure was not seeing dolphins or hiking among ruins. In a surge of spontaneity I decided to paraglide--a feat I had not only never aspired to, I'd never even heard of it.

But, when the opportunity presented itself, I decided to give it a whirl. And I lived to tell about it--that is, rave about it. Of our eight person party, only four were stalwart enough to sign up (and pay the $100 it cost). At around 7:30 p.m. we set out in the back of a rickety pickup truck for a 45-minute drive to the top of a 6,500-foot mountain on a dirt road exactly the width of the truck's wheel-base. As the non-English speaking driver shifted into lower and lower gear in an attempt to climb the mountain and I looked over the side of the truck and out over the cliff, I felt like I was going to throw up. At this point, Sugar, one of the pilots, asked me if I was scared. Managing my most sincere smile, I assured him that I wasn't. Even though I was on the verge of screaming WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE! this wasn't a total lie. I was so consumed with my vision of the truck tumbling down the side of the cliff that I didn't have time to think about the trip down.

When we reached the top, I scrambled to free myself from my torture chamber. But the sadistic Turk in the driver's seat had other plans. With us all in the back, he proceeded to execute what I later realized was the most expert 3-point turn ever performed. At the time, however, I lacked such clarity of mind and viewed this feat as a nearly successful attempt to stop my otherwise healthy teenage heart. When we finally disembarked, I was more than willing to parachute down the mountain, imagining it would be a much more civilized ride. But Sugar was quick to squelch that pleasant thought when he informed us that conditions at the top were not good, that there was not enough wind and what little wind there was was blowing in the wrong direction. I pretended I didn't notice the bewildered stares of my friends when I asked Sugar if he thought we could at least try. Alas, no. In a matter of minutes we were loaded back in the truck for the even scarier trip down the mountain with plans to return early the next morning for a sunrise jump.

The next morning we went back and tried again. On this third trip in the truck, I began to have a small, albeit very small, amount of faith in our driver. I also managed to keep my eyes fixed on the floor of the truck for the duration of the ride and, as if he read my mind, the driver let us out before performing his dance with death.

When we alighted, Sugar informed us that the conditions were excellent and that we'd be able to jump. When I met my pilot, Eric, he asked me how I was feeling before I took flight. I said I was just glad to be out of the truck, neglecting to mention the most recent bout of nausea and accompanying thoughts of "What am I doing?!" But as he spread out the parachute and we attached our harnesses, and the chute filled with air and jerked us even higher than our take-off point, thoughts of plummeting to my death were replaced by the pleasant sensation of floating through the sky. The 30-minute flight down to the beach was like viewing the world from the window-seat of a plane, only better. Eric even let me take off my helmet to get the full effect, which he assured me he only does for his best customers. And as we touched down on the soft sand of the beach in Oludeniz, I figured my three trips in the truck were worth it. And I think I found a new hobby.

Allison A. Melia '03, a Crimson editor, is a government concentrator in Currier House.