High Above Serra du Pignu
    The morning awakening by the sound of the ocean waves is really an unusual sensation. Only by daylight do we finally see what the sandy beach in the bay looks like in the off-season. Cans, bottles, barrels, canisters, plastic caps, an old sandal, two tires, cubes of Lego, plastic bags, driftwood. In short, an unbelievable mess. Except of course for the wood, which will be useful for our campfire.



    The ocean tide heaves tons of seaweed onto the shore, creating a gooey barrier cliff of dark brown color. Even the most daring Milan in his bathing suit enters the water only up to his knees and then runs away disgusted. During the tourist season, the beaches are of course cleaned daily, but at the beginning of March the Corsicans consider it a waste of time. The main season begins here at the end of June or early July.



    Virtually 1000 meters above the surface of the Mediterranean tower the poles of transmitters, up on the crests above the port city of Bastia. This area is called Serra du Pignu and from the crests by the transmitters it's possible to take off on both sides. So in the morning we pack up our tents, clean up our trash, strike camp and around 10 o'clock head up. We stop along the way up the winding route to refill our supplies of drinking water and we're at the top before noon. From the crests there's a beautiful view over the ocean on both sides of the island. But there's a slight southwesterly wind blowing, so we traipse among the boulders with our gliders on our backs, up several tens of potentially neck-breaking elevation meters, to beneath the transmitter on the western take-off side and silently envy the paragliding pilots at this point. The sky is a clear blue and the sun, for us Czechs, considering it's the beginning of March, is surprisingly bright. While we build the wings, work being occasionally interrupted by some pilots ducking behind boulders with rolls of toilet paper, the first white cloud puffs begin to appear above the southwest side of the hill. It's time to fly.



    Because out of the seven of us only Honza has been here before, and because he didn't waste any time behind boulders with toilet paper, he moves up to start off first. The wind is really very weak and Honza carefully selects a position with enough runway amongst all the boulders. The wind indicators waver and Honza starts running. An unbelievably long run and he's there. It's evident that the thermics by the starting ground are livening up, but Honza looks down his nose upon the weak bubbles and after several minutes turns a corner to the south side of the mountain. Surprisingly, the south side is devoid of even the weak bubbles, and Honza loosely drops below the crest and flies out over the landing on the eastern shore.



    Oh well, nothing then. We'll have to pick it up patiently right at the start. Considering the shape of the slope, I carry my wing down several meters, over the mild break in terrain and go for it. There are truly only weak pockets with a small diameter, but by a tactic of slowing and turning on a small radius, I manage to at least avoid losing altitude.

    Out of the corner of my eye I see that Milan has thrown himself right into my altitude. This'll be something. We both jump at the thermic bubbles like monkeys and try not to take each other down in the restricted space. After several minutes of struggle we are barely at the half height of the transmitter tower, which suddenly starts getting in our way. One eye on Milan, the other on the transmitter, while also trying hopelessly to spot the anchor lines in the space around the transmitter. I don't see them and it's making me nervous. Suddenly there's a bang from below and the variometer shrieks. I brake instinctively and from the strength in the bar I feel the core of a riser to the right, so I immediately hang a sharp right turn. It's here! The rapid beeping of the vario changes to a continuous shriek and up I go at 6m/s. The transmitter , along with Milan, immediately disappears far below me. The core is truly strong, but damned narrow. It's all I can do to fit in and not fall out of that express elevator. Milan has also been able to climb slowly, while a white mist begins to condense above me. Rising stops right at it at a height of 1670m. A relatively high altitude of condensation for ocean air. To the East and to the West the Mediterranean spills to the horizon and in the East the outlines of Elba, where Napoleon was once imprisoned, rise out of it. I look for the coast of France, but the 180km distant shores are not visible today. Meanwhile, towards the southwest, out of the central part of the island, the snow-covered peaks stand out, over 2500m high, and over them a band of cloud, which I had noticed before starting. No movement on the starting ground though.

    On the southern edge of the city of Bastia, on a large beach, I distinctly recognize Honza's already parked wing. Below me Milan is evidently losing altitude and heading over the eastern shore out over the beach. Another four wings are ready at the start, but still nothing moves there.

     As soon as the clouds obscure the sun, taking off will surely be problematic.



    Finally, Mila's wing unsticks itself from the starting ground and after two shuttles at a loss, in front of the slope, turns left and over the saddle, flying to the eastern side. He's heading right over the shore. It appears as though he's losing altitude, as he literally flows through the center of the narrow valley, without trying to find a better route. I can virtually hear the - 4m/s that he later talked about. Finally he flies out of the valley but he still has a good two kilometers to the beach. From above it looks as though he was already touching the rooftops with his feet as he at times drops from sight among the houses. I follow him continuously with my eyes so that I can help pinpoint his landing over the walkie-talkie. Happily he gets over another row of houses, flies over a factory and even passes over a football field without blinking. A little further and he's finally over the beach. One turn in the right direction and he's touched down! There'll be some stories around the campfire tonight!



    High clouds obscure the sun and even I slowly start to lose altitude. I still, however, 1200 meters and so head out across the eastern shore and over the ocean. Above the water as usual, there is very little fall off, in place even zero. Again I get the familiar feeling of endless space and freedom above the ocean.



    Three wings are parked on the beach, and the remaining three on the starting ground will have a hard time taking off anymore today. I descend slowly and watch the signs of wind on the shore. It seems to be a mild northeast wind slightly diagonal to the beach. A few more descending turns for the pleasure of onlookers with twisted necks and I land softly in the sand as if into a bed.



    After a desperate carrying of all three wings from the western starting ground to the eastern one Vlada at least manages to take off and fly down to the beach, while the others sorely pack up. We return to camp at the dirty beach.



    That evening we already decide to move to the northwest shore of the island.