I was afraid of heights. So when a group of friends and I set out on a road trip to San Juan de los Morros — a picturesque Venezuelan town known for its verdant peaks and ideal hang gliding conditions — I wore sandals, an intentional choice to ensure I wouldn’t have to participate. The thought of being strapped to a thin aluminum rail, entirely at the mercy of fickle winds felt daunting. Doing so in a pair of black Esprit slingbacks? Unthinkable.
Hernan led the charge. Tall, lean and athletic, bearing a permanent smile, he fit the role of trusted older brother, faithful boyfriend or steadfast confidant. While he was none of those things to me (he was my friend’s boyfriend, who also happened to be a hang-gliding instructor) I still fell under his spell.
“It’s so much fun,” he promised as he drove us along narrow roads, explaining that the pulley system attached to his Jeep would launch him and his companion into the sky.
The idea seemed absurd. I habitually avoided rollercoasters, kept my feet planted firmly on the ground and steered clear of anything too high. But it was hard to resist Hernan’s green eyes and unwavering reassurance. I nodded, warily beginning to consider it.
We arrived in the early morning, just as the dew evaporated, leaving the mountains with a fresh, emerald glow. One by one, my friends followed Hernan’s instructions as he strapped them into harnesses, clipped them to his own and attached them to the glider.
I sat in the back of the open-air Jeep as it accelerated, watching them rise like a kite before being released to climb even higher, gliding over the mountain range before touching down, exhilarated.
Each time someone else’s adventure ended, he’d look at me with that strong-jawed, movie-star face and ask, “Lista?” — Spanish for “Ready?”
Life presents moments where you have to step outside your comfort zone. You can ignore them, or you can take the leap — literally.
My heart pounded as Hernan secured my harness, repeating the instructions I had heard countless times. Logic fought back, asking questions like, “What will your parents say when you die in such a ridiculous way?” but I silenced the thought. Instead, I clasped the bar as the Jeep rolled forward and looked at the man I had entrusted with my life.
“You are going to love it. Just wait and see. Flying like a bird — there’s nothing like it,” Hernan said, his voice so calm and confident it quieted the storm in my head.
We ascended slowly and steadily, the cable attaching us to the Jeep growing taught. Hernan turned to me and smiled and I knew what was coming next.
“Lista?” he asked just before he released the cable.
A loud whoosh filled my ears as we shot up toward the clouds, leaving the Jeep and everyone in it as tiny specks below. Lush, green mountains surrounded us, and the only sound I heard was the wind rushing past.
The view was spectacular. The sensation was so exhilarating that I forgot to be afraid.
We glided for about five minutes — not long, but long enough to leave a lasting impression. The landing was smooth and uneventful, even in sandals.
We often impose limits on ourselves, defining what we can and can’t do before ever giving it a chance. But sometimes, all it takes is the right push. And in that moment, soaring above the mountains, I realized that fear isn’t always a sign to stop. Sometimes, it’s an invitation to fly.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com