I won’t lie, the boxes of new foiling gear sat in my toy shed for a solid three weeks before I was brave enough to open them.
The onset of winter, fresh snow, and a very chilly, cold lake combined with attempting to learn a new sport like wing foiling will do that to you. If I’m really honest, I was sh*t scared of what lay ahead of me; even more petrified of pulling that dagger-like mast with a couple of filet knives screwed onto it, and really, really afraid that my three weeks of learning and progress prior to going into lockdown in March 2020 would be forgotten.
The lure of multiple falls of late winter snow provided an easy diversion from the new foil gear that lay sitting idle, waiting to be assembled.
Finally my conscience got the better of me and I gathered up the courage to take a knife to the boxes that had arrived. I opened them, and began to consult the sheet of diagrammed instructions along with searching the internet to ensure that at the very least I put the dagger-filet-knife combo together properly.
I don’t know what prompted me to want to learn this new wing thing, but it likely had something to do with a desire to feel the sensation of flying on the foil without relying on a boat and other people for a tow. I also happen to live in a very breezy place where the prevailing wind is known to drive people bonkers for nine out of twelve months a year.
What started as a coincidence to learn to fly (foil) in Tahiti, a flight layover on a trip back to Southern California had morphed into a couple of summer months riding boat wake and trying to locate one of those new ‘wing things’ to harness the power of the ever present northwest winds that whip the waters of Lake Wanaka into a sea of white horses with regularity. While winging was becoming increasingly popular in the North Island of New Zealand, the buzz was late to catch on further south where I lived. So, I was a party of one.
Equipped with a 7’2 140L sled that I had christened the 'Queen Mary', a prototype wing with a slow leak (the only one I could find), and a pump with a faulty pressure gauge, it’s fair to say that my early foray into harnessing the wind and flying was disrupted by gear issues.
A new wing and a new pump made all the difference, and the time spent riding boat wake soon came in handy as I began to figure out the nuances of how the wind behaved as it carved its way around the mountains. I thought I already understood how the wind worked in these parts, having spent countless hours paddling and downwinding, but I can now confirm that reading wind downwind and winging across it are fundamentally different and I found myself on a steep learning curve if I didn't want to make the walk of shame back upwind on the regular.
Just as I was mastering the critical maneuvers of turning while flying (a.k.a the gybe/jibe) aboard the Queen Mary, New Zealand got sent into a lengthy lockdown due to COVID, and my progression was put on ice just as it was starting to take flight. By the time we came out of lockdown it was winter. The wind was gone for the year as the temperatures dropped and the snow line descended.
Meanwhile the joys of living in a mountain town in winter meant that life above the snow line came to life and it was easy to ignore the flying gear that was lying there, waiting for me.
Enter the 'Snowmageddon of September' and my attention was diverted once again, but I could only ignore the first winds of spring for so long.
I won’t lie. I was sh*t scared of the cold water. I was sh*t scared of the ferocity of how the winds can blow here in spring, and I was sh*t scared of how I was going to cope with a new board, foil and wing. Would my early progress be retained? Would I remember anything I had so diligently learned thus far? Could I rely on muscle memory? Or was I back to starting from ground zero and having to learn everything from scratch all over again?
I can tell you with total honesty that even putting the foil together had butterflies fluttering in my abdomen. Add in a wing with a different inflation system and the need for reading instructions to ensure I could inflate/deflate it are moments of this journey that I’m only too happy to put behind me.
With a dry run on the lawn at home successfully completed, I donned the thickest neoprene I own (4/3 with a hood), found my booties and made my way to the safest place I knew of to restart this winging thing after the intermission of lockdowns, winter and Snowmageddon.
As I prone paddled out into the wind line, I got to my knees, flipped my wing and felt the breeze start to catch the bladder of the leading edge. I started to draw my back arm in, powering up the wing and all of a sudden I was flying again. With a runway that was fast approaching the shores of Ruby Island and needing to turn, I made my way through the gybe and remained on the foil.
After a six month hiatus I was back in the game and I was flying again! Maybe my fears of dancing solo on a knife edge in 10 degree celsius water were all for nothing.
Fast forward a year, another winter and another round of lockdowns, and I can confirm that the courage to show up, to fail and to continually learn from these failures has proven to be time well spent, garnering me a large amount of satisfaction that could be likened to standing atop a major winners’ podium.
While there have been no podiums and most definitely no trophies, there have been a large number of skunkings, walks of shame carting gear back upwind and running miles back to a car in full wetsuit and booties after the wind has swung 50 degrees.
When once I was scared of the cold, of what lay beneath me and of the wind (no kidding I was petrified of anything over 20 knots), I have now learned to channel that fear into a focus and to embrace the elements and harness them to my potential.
The progression with this has not been fast, but the more I turn up, the more I learn, the more I progress, the more confidence I gain.
What am I most proud of? The commitment to continue turning up, to crack the code on this 'wing thing’ and to know that I did it in one of the most challenging places to do so. That, my friends, is just as gratifying as the reward of that flying feeling which is extremely addictive. Once you know it, I can promise you that you’ll be back for more.
