...psyching myself out
The Walrus almost has its first flight this morning, but it wasn't to be. My usual field was occupied with dog-walkers, and so was my second option. Arrived at the last field, the breeze had already picked up by the time I had got everything ready.
So I was standing indecisively in the middle of the field, wafting the Walrus around in my hand trying to determine whether it was worth risking the breeze or not when my musings were disturbed by new arrivals at the field.
Taking this as a sign, I packed the things up and decided to settle for a stroll around the park instead...
...why've I lost control again..?
The flurry of treetop activity led me to explore more appropriate venues. Happily I found a sports field not far away, adjacent to grazing paddocks, with open fields extending several hundred metres in either direction - plenty of space to retrieve lost aircraft in peace without having to leave the ground. Also a decided lack of people, especially at seven o'clock on a winter's morning - an excellent feature for reducing liability.
So a day or two later I arrived with the Floater Jet and high hopes of happy flying. The craft launched successfully and I flew it a few tentative laps around the field to settle my nerves before giving it some throttle to see how it behaved under powered climb.
The Floater launched itself upwards with a bit of a spiral as it rose upwards, its propellor buzzing busily. Having climbed quite a bit I cut the throttle to enjoy a serene gliding descent. But once again, that simultaneously sinking and alarming sensation of things being suddenly and inexplicably out of control. Fortunately the Floater was drifting down in slow spirals over the paddocks and not near the busy arterial road on the opposite side of the field...
So, with a sense of déjà vu I strode across the sports field sans aircraft, to the barbed wire fence bordering the paddock. Now I should explain that the morning was cold and with an unusually heavy low mist cloaking the paddocks, although relatively clear over the field where I had been flying. It was with some alarm then, that as I approached the boundary ready to do battle with the fence I began to discern a dark motionless shape looming through the mist. A few steps more and with furtive glances to my left and right I was aghast to see now perhaps a dozen black humps - a herd of cattle.
Now, I like animals. Dogs and cats understandably top the list. Horses are nice, although large and intelligent is cause for concern until such time as their disposition has been reliably determined. Cattle, large and not terribly bright, are somewhere lower on the list, in the region of bull terriers and territorial eland.
Standing at the fence I pondered my situation - about fifty metres of tussocky paddock and a herd of beef cattle separated me from the downed Floater. Should I take the risk, slip in sprint for the glider and beat a hasty yet victorious exit. Or would I get halfway there, pique the interest of the herd and beat have to beat an ignominious and fearful retreat without my property.
A quick mental risk assessment determined the risk of the latter to be high and the consequences potentially severe (who wants to get charged before work and have to explain your appearance), so I headed back to the car pondering what to do...
