Up, up, and away
Part of the fun of being a reporter is
getting to go and try things that most don’t get to do.
So it was with the recent Gulf Coast
Balloon Festival. The festival organizes a “media day” so TV and
print journalists can go behind the scenes and experience whatever
and take lots of pictures, write lots of words and hopefully provide
some free publicity for the festival.
It’s something a lot of fests and
fairs do, and as long as there isn’t some dark or commercial
purpose to the event, it’s harmless.
So, when a reporter from a sister paper
called and asked if I was up to going and taking some photos, I did
not have to be asked twice.
It seemed that a balloon ride was
involved.
I thought it was to be a “tethered”
ride, one where you only go up 50 or 60 feet, hang for a few minutes
and then float back down. At least, that is what I told my mother.
A quick e-mail to the festival’s
organizers disabused me of that notion. This was to be a free flight
from some field in Foley or near there and we’d drift in the
direction of the festival grounds.
Ulp. Now I was very glad that my Mom
was a thousand miles away. She was seeing my brother retire from the
Marine Corps, and while it seemed that she got one chick safe at
last, the oldest was going to fly. Literally.
So, I pored over ballooning Web sites,
trying to figure out what I’d gotten myself into. Of course, I came
across all the horror stories, tales of balloons getting caught in
power lines and other lovely mishaps. I had also covered an emergency
landing of a balloon and knew that not all rides are uneventful.
But, I noticed all the companies
offering rides, and that this was the fifth year for the festival. If
the local media had lost someone or if there had been a bad accident,
I know I’d have found it. Besides, killing or maiming the media
does not generate good PR.
So, I relaxed, and was really looking
forward to the adventure.
Some of those doubts came back when the
flight master for the event said that the winds were a little high
for ballooning and that landing might be rough. He mentioned that the
festival could not guarantee the safety of our cameras. Oh, and
anybody with recent surgery or other handicap was to drop out. Now.
That got one local photographer to drop
out, and caused a local TV news crew to call their boss for
instructions.
You see, a journalist can be replaced.
A camera, on the other hand …
Fortunately, the camera I carry is my
own, and if it got hurt, I’d be in the hospital, not caring one way
or the other. Think Psych ward, doped to the gills.
We broke into groups, and I met my
pilot, Ken Garner. He seemed a steady, no nonsense sort, and I
learned later he’d taken Chuck Yeager up in his balloon.
Cool.
Garner had a few “dos and don’ts”
for me and the other passenger. Don’t ever touch the red rope, (it
releases all the hot air from the “envelope,” the balloonist’s
term for the colorful bag that holds the hot air that keeps you
aloft) do what he said to do, let him know if we spotted a power
line, and stow cameras for landing. And he’d have a release form
that basically covered everything. And I do mean everything from
pimples to hangnail and much, much, worse. Ulp.
He and his ground crew had Black Magic,
a black and multi-colored balloon, together and almost floating in a
few minutes.
Of course getting into the basket was
something else. The wicker basket is about waist-high to me and
Garner had already said there was no ladylike way into it.
Fortunately, a member of the crew made a gentlemanly step with his
hands and we two passengers were in.
Taking off in a balloon isn’t like a
plane. There’s not taxiing, no dash down a runway. One second you
are on the ground, the next, you’re aloft.
Oh, and what a view. It’s quiet,
except for the burners that keep the air in the envelope hot, and you
could hear cows lowing below. We could see the condo towers of Gulf
Shores in the distance. Beyond that was the Gulf of Mexico.
We passed over homes and subdivisions
and people came out to look at the flotilla of balloons passing
overhead. I waved to the kids, knowing that many of them would tell
their friends and family about it for years.
It’s not often that you become a
memory. Watching the sun set, the other balloons and the whole
experience will be one of my treasured memories.
And then Garner said it was time to
land. He found a likely field, directed the chase team to it, and
descended. It was time to stow the camera, hold on tight, and bend
the knees.
We hit, and the wind did drag the
balloon and basket. The other passenger landed on top of me. But, we
were all fine, if somewhat bruised and that was what was important.
One of the people who lived near the
field had crewed for another balloon, and another gentleman came
over, his little daughter on his shoulders, and helped pack the
balloon away.
If a few minutes, everything was stowed
and we were on our way to the festival grounds. The adventure was
over.
Maybe.
If the chance comes to ride again next
year, I’m going to take it.
And my I add, you should too!
