First tentative steps on a black mat. The lake shimmers far below. The landing site falls out of sight and out of mind as the mind soars upwards. The wing comes up square, a small correction and then forward. Commit. Run run run. Airborne above the meanacing trees as the vista opens up beneath my feet. The lake shines a deep cold blue, stretching into the distance. Ridges descend from every side to meet the water in thick swathes of darkness. Welcoming fields of smooth browns and green beckon with the reassurance of terra firma. Not quite yet. Straight out over the water. Hang a left and settle on a new bearing. A straight glide to the landing site. Loads of height spare, got to lose it somehow. Tracing curves in the air. Turbulence disturbing the tranquility for a moment. Figures of eight laid one beneath another towards home. Large, green, flat and deviod of obstacles. Check the windsock one more time. Straight into the breeze, still lower. Ground rush. Stand up. Flare! It's time to become a biped again.