My flying had been in a rut for at least half a year

Meeting the monk.

My flying had been in a rut for at least half a year.

I’d been getting good, too good - too quick, may have been my problem. I’d worked my way up the competition ladders, local, state, national, then international. But I’d just come to a full stop in the very bottom ranks of the international ladder, and it didn’t look like I was going to get any further.

Ok, you can say I’m in an enviable position. My parents left me a lot of cash, enough to live on comfortably and then some, so I didn’t ever have to consider working. I’d bummed about around the world, travelling cheap, seeing the sights, experiencing other cultures, doing the whole "hippy trail" thing. But I was bored and unsatisfied by the lifestyle. I had nothing that made me get up in the mornings, so most mornings I just didn’t. That was until I saw some paragliders flying at Annecy. I was hooked from the first time I saw them.

I took lessons in France, then returned home to Oz. I’d heard so much about the flying in Oz, all the international pilots held it in high esteem. I enjoyed the irony of finding what I had travelled all over the world looking for, a sense of purpose, available back on my own doorstep. I hooked up with the local club, I took some advanced training from the local school, and got all the SIV and other courses under my belt. Due to my freedom and financial independence I rose through the ranks quickly, and just loved the thrill of flying with the best.

But not being the best was getting me down.

I’d been watching everyone I flew against, trying to find out what made the best better than the rest, what they had that sorted the wheat from the chaff. I couldn’t for the life of me figure it out. It wasn’t the gliders or the equipment I used, I flew the best. It wasn’t their physical fitness, I was as fit as, if not more fit than, most of them. It wasn’t their "balls", I had thrown myself into situations that they had backed out of. I was at a loss.

Then I remembered something I had heard about on my travels. At a monastery in Nepal was a teacher of Buddhism, who had the reputation of being able teach anyone how to improve their life, happiness, and skills and, well to improve just about any-bloody-thing about them, really.

So the end of the flying season saw me heading back down the hippy trails, looking for Shechen Tennyi Dargye Ling Monastery in the Nepali hinterlands. I’d been in contact with the monastery via some old mates who had volunteered there, and who still had contacts amongst the monks and nuns. I’d been granted an afternoon interview with Ang Nam-kha Sherap, the monk I’d heard about, and he’d graciously offered to talk to me about my problem.

The monastery finally appeared after two days of trekking, and a day of violent dysentery, were behind us. I’d hired a couple of Nepali Sherpa's to carry my belongings, and of course my paraglider. I wasn’t going to wait to put my new knowledge into practice, and intended flying from the ridge over looking the monastery the day following my meeting. The monastery itself was a grand, opulent place, highly decorated in gold’s and deep reds, with prayer flags flying over all the buildings. The sound of the monks chanting filled the squares constantly, giving a movie soundtrack to the whole place. Everywhere monks with shaved heads sat in contemplation, or discussed and debated in twos and threes, while others did nothing. They were very good at doing nothing.

I was shown into a small room and told what ritual cleansings I had to observe before meeting "Nam-Ka", as I’d been told I should call him. I was told how I should present they small gift I knew was a good thing to bring, and what I should do, and not do, in his presence. It was fortunate for me, I learned, that Nam-ka had spent time as a Sherpa on mountaineering expeditions, and had a good command of English, as I had never learned any Nepali.

Eventually I was shown into his cell, a small room that contained a bed, a writing table, and not much else. I’d been expecting someone resembling the Dalai Lama, so I was a bit shocked to meet a rounded, youngish man of maybe mid thirties, with a big grin on his face, who slapped me on the back, told me to take a seat on the bed, and seemed to know less about, (and obviously cared less about,) the rituals we were supposed to be observing than I did.
"Ok, so you’re a good, what is it? Paraglider flyer! But you aren’t the best, and you want me to help you to fly your paraglider better, that’s right?"

I was gobsmacked to say the least!

He smiled at me; "your friends who fixed up this meeting told me," he clarified. "So tell me about this paragliding then."

I gave him a run down on the paraglider, how it works, how you fly it, what you do and don’t do, all about the conditions you need etc. He nodded and asked me to clarify when I was unclear, and seemed to find the whole idea interesting.

"So lets think about you now," he said, when I had exhausted my "beginners guide to paragliding" spiel. "What is this drive you have to be the best? What is it that you want to achieve really?" I explained my lack of direction in life until I found flying, and how it had given me a reason, a direction, a focus.

"So why is that not enough for you?" he replied, "if you have a direction in life, and a reason for your living, why do you need to be better than others?"

I explained how we had leagues, and how we competed, and how we were ranked, but he interrupted me, politely, and asked again; "if you have a direction in life, and a reason for your living, why do you need to better than others?"

I explained that I had to have a goal, had to have a focus, had to have an end result.
"Once you are the best in the world, what then?"

I hadn’t really thought that far ahead until that point, but suddenly it hit me. Once your the best at something, you may as well quit, may as well give it up, as it’s only downhill from there. Sure, you can struggle on, trying to maintain the quality, trying to keep the edge. But younger, more driven, more hungry, people will always be chasing your tail, and is the fight worth the candle? The realisation hit me like a blow. Once I’d achieved my goal I’d kill what I’d been seeking.

I realised I’d said nothing for a long time while I’d been lost in thought, so I asked; "is every attainment the death of ambition?" He smiled at me, "every life is a journey, every attainment brings new challenges, every challenge is not an end in itself but a way of finding what lies behind the end. Once you have reached the end of this journey, you may find your challenge flying without competing, or a new challenge may present itself." He laughed at this, "I sound like those people who wrote "Buddhism for beginners!"" I winced at this, as I’d read the book on the flight over.

Nam-Ka looked at me, smiling, as if he’d read my thoughts, "It’s not that bad a book." He paused for a short while, composing himself. Then he took both my hands in his; "But think on this, our beloved Dalai Lama in his present incarnation, said; "We can never obtain peace in the outer world until we make peace with ourselves. Self-hatred and self-loathing often comes from having too high expectations of yourself. You may need to reduce your expectations of yourself, to accept yourself as you are.""

I thought about it, all the fighting with others, competing for take-off places, pushing out for thermals, squeaking lift, flying at the edge, bully and hammering my gliders, to get what? A tin cup, and ten points on the ladder? I’d been fighting myself mainly, always down on myself for missed chances, poor decisions, bad flights. I’d never enjoyed a flight unless there was a winner’s trophy at the end of it. I realised now that the reason I’d never achieved what I wanted was I’d been fighting with myself half the time, pouring pain, scorn, and hurt onto my own back.

"So what I need to do to improve my flying is to stop fighting myself, and enjoy what I’m doing?" I balked at that, "It can’t be that simple surely!"

"Why do you need to make it harder?" was the cheerful reply.

I had no answer to that.

He looked at me, still with that happy smile on his face; "let’s do a little exercise," he suggested.

He made me sit comfortably upright on the bed, and then in a low calm voice, started talking to me about flying, he talked a good flight. He’d picked up, and remembered, all I had told him, and made me a believable scenario for me to follow. Then in a voice as low as a whisper he talked me down, down through relaxation, down into myself, into a state of consciousness I’d not felt before, not even on good grass. Suddenly I felt my "flying" become more fine tuned to the air, I felt myself let go of tension, the need to compete, the desire to be best, and I flew like an eagle. I flew as part of the air, of the sky, of nothing and everything.

I had to shake myself after we had finished. I asked him if I could do that for myself? "With a little practice you should learn it, maybe a couple, three, four, years of daily practice. But remember, you force it and you’ll lose it." I resolved to practice daily, no matter what.

We shook hands at the end, I gave him my gift, he seemed pleased.

I slept overnight in a monks cell.

The next day loomed clear and crisp; I had a Sherpa carry my glider the mile or two to the top of the ridge overlooking the monastery. I was hoping to land in the big square at the front of the monastery as a tribute to Nam-Ka. I took off, there was some nice lift from the ridge, and soared around finally letting go of the need to impress the monks below, and just flew for the sheer enjoyment.

I could have slapped myself for missing the simplicity of learning to fly well; the doing is in the not doing. I had gained a great deal, or at least I was using fully what I already had had, I could feel it. My flying was fluid, relaxed, effortless. The most important difference wasn’t in my no longer competing with others, or in my stopping fighting the air for the best lift, or not trying to force the flight the way I wanted it to go, it was in letting go of everything. I’m not saying I just hung there like a puppet, that’s not it. I just stopped consciously forcing things, I relaxed, I flew naturally, I felt at one with my flying. There was no conscious effort, I was at one with the glider, the air, and most importantly myself. I flew just the way I’d seen the top boys fly. "Have they met Nam-Ka?" I wondered.

I was setting up for a final pass before landing, when Nam-Ka spoke in my left ear; "This is fun, I may take it up sometime."

No I wasn’t hallucinating in the thin air, I hadn’t done any drugs or become schizophrenic. He was up there with me, sat just to my left, smiling and enjoying the ride. He was there and not there. You’ll just have to take my word on this; words cannot describe the indescribable.

But I knew then that I could truly give up my ambition to be the best pilot in the world.

The best pilot in the world isn’t even a pilot.