Maneuver 1 was a full stall, coached by David Prentice.  It was the first time my hands would drive the controls to places that were so adamantly formerly forbidden in flight.  I watched above as the trailing edge was pulled lower and lower, wind noise slowly softening in my ears, and the wing eased back behind me.  
    It was Day 2 of a 3-day SIV clinic at Carlyle Lake, the biggest freshwater reservoir in the grand state of Illinois.  Day 1 had been blown out, and Day 3 wasn’t looking too promising, so today was the day.  In the first three flights we had built confidence and covered asymmetric collapses and full frontals in various stages of speed bar and weight shift, stabilo pulls, B-line stalls, and even a few wingovers for good measure.  Now it was time for the big kahuna, the full stall.  But as my launch from the boat dock parking lot began to feel routine, my flight would be anything but.
    “All the way down, lock your arms,” came the calm demeanor over the radio.  With that, the glider was no longer in my sight.    For a moment I fell weightless, facing up, staring at nothing but the cloudless sky above.  Within seconds that went surprisingly faster than imagined, I was pitched back forward and could feel the pressure of the wing overhead once again through my toggles.
    “And half release…” Hands half-way up.  The glider began to take shape.  
    “And release.”  
    With a thwack the glider was once again flying, with so much eagerness it was now diving towards the ground, as expected.  
    “Check the surge.” Heavy brake pressure calmed down the kimchi-red fabric and had it flying steady again.  
    “Good,” with an elongated, reassuring emphasis on the vowel sound.
    Take 2.  Full stall.  Once again, all went according to plan, but the glider came out with tip tucks, each end of the wing packed tightly within the cascading lines.  Stabilo pull right, stabilo pull left, and the glider was clean.
    “Okay, get ready for a spin.”  Deep breath.  
    “Sit up, like the full stall, when you’re ready.” I slowed the glider slowed to a creep.
    “Now.”
    The glider instantly responded to the sudden weight shift and deep control input to the right and began to spin overhead, instantly spinning me with it.  As the horizon blurred past, my world was reduced to a partially deflated paraglider, my arms holding an opposing and somewhat unsettling position, and a mellow voice over the radio.  Wait for the command.  
    “You're in the spin…hold it…hold it….”
    Blurs.
     “…and half release.”  
    With a release of the deep right turn and weight now centered, the spin slowed.  
    “And full release.”
    With hands up, the glider shot forward, yearning for the ground, and would have headed there quickly if not told otherwise by my hands.  With a short summary of uncanny wisdom over the radio, David suggested I may not have checked the surge enough.  
    I had a smooth entrance into my second spin.  It is surprisingly easy to enter into such a severe maneuver as a spin once you venture below the safety zone of the nipples.  The wing rotated, spinning on an axis straight through the wing and my body dangling below it.  A slight slowing of the rotation and dropping back of the wing brought the command.
    “Half release…” Get me outta this thing.  
    “And full release.”
    Hands up.  The glider surged forward into territory I had never seen.  As I observed the glider to be out in front of, slightly to the right of, and below me, an out-of-body image was instantaneously seared into my mind.  I saw myself from above, weightless, legs curled under, facing right, horizontal, hands up, the glider mostly inflated, lines beginning to slacken as I fell towards the left side of the wing, with the lake glistening behind it.  My best explanation is that I must have gone to “hands up” too quickly and failed to check the surge.  From that moment I was instantly below the wing, with risers wrapped around each other like vines in front of my face.  The left side was severely cravated, with the left tip snagged a good distance down the lines.  My world was once again blurred and simplified: canopy, hand positions, risers, wind noise, rotating horizon, and a voice on the radio.  A calm, cool, collected voice on the radio.  
    “Ok, man, you’ve got a pretty nasty cravat.  Let’s do a full stall, reset button.  Go.”   
    This was no longer a simulation.  My wing was disabled and I was falling out of the sky.  The toggles were difficult to pull due to the twists in the risers, and the full stall took more force than before.  I felt the glider drop back, which was suddenly a somewhat comforting feeling. Weightless. Quiet.  Sky.
    Pressure returned to my arms, and voice reminded me to release to the half-way point.  
    “And release, all the way.”  
    The wing returned overhead, but was still cravated.  Reserve?  I waited for the voice to tell me to throw the reserve.  I knew where the handle was, and I was ready to use it.  The momentum continued to spin me and twist the risers; however, at some point my rotation reversed direction, perhaps after the full stall.   
    “Ok, man, we’re going to do one more full stall.  Go.”  
    Shit. Trust. I put the brakes on as slowly as I could, attempting to recreate the motion which I had practiced successfully only a few minutes before.  While my hands covered the distance, I realized my risers were nearly clear of one another.  I paused for a moment amongst the chaos and watched the risers take their parting ways.  A grunt of determination slipped out as I buried my hands against the bottom of my harness.  
    Weightless.  Quiet.  Sky.
     I dropped back under the wing and the pressure returned to the brake toggles.
    “Half release.”
    The wing looked to be oriented forward.  
    “Hands up”.  
    This surge, I caught.  The wing wasn't perfect, but it was mostly inflated and not spinning, diving, or cravated.  What a glorious sight.  
    With the glider’s tips perfectly, symmetrically tucked in, I emerged from the stall about 500’ over the water, facing the LZ.  Just out of reach.  David reminded me that it was a down-wind glide and there was a chance I could make it.  Eager to save every foot of altitude, I began work on the tip tucks.  Stabilo pull right.  No change.  Harder stabilo pull right.  Got it.  Lean right.  Stabilo pull left.  Got it.  Clean wing.  
    Skeptical I’d make the LZ, I unclipped the small, unnecessary, sternum strap, beginning preparations for a water landing.  In front of me lay a stretch of lake, a limestone cobble of man-made shoreline, and the asphalt LZ.  Standing figures lined the LZ near the shore with attention focused in my direction.  They were falling out of reach.   
    “You dry faster than you heal, man, you don’t want to come in downwind on those rocks.”  
    Good call.  Definitely not worth it.  Not going to make it anyways.  I unbuckled my leg straps and went to best glide.  With my radio buried below a life jacket, I decided it was not worth the effort to turn off.  Any last-minute inputs from the guardian-angel voice would be more valuable than a cheap radio.  In the end, I actually had to slow my speed to ensure I would not accidentally and unfortunately land on the rocks.  
    My body plunged forward into the water.  With my hands in the up position, the harness was effortlessly plucked from behind me and was over my head once I was submerged.  I kicked my feet to tread water, but found solid ground instead.  I stood up, water at waist level, wing floating at the shoreline in front of me, and walked out of the water.

The author would like to thank SIV instructor David Prentice for the invaluable knowledge shared and his dedication during our clinic, from ground school to in-flight.  David coaches SIV clinics in various locations around the country and can be reached at earthcog@yahoo.com.

Originally published in Hangliding and Paragliding magazine, Aug. 2015 issue.