Paragliding in Ölüdeniz, Turkey
We returned to the scene of the incident. Back when Kelton was six years old, we arrived in Ölüdeniz, Turkey in the middle of the night. On our arrival to the sleepy town, not a soul around nor a light on, we were approached by two guys riding a motorcycle. They told us to follow them. Well, common sense told us otherwise, but we followed them anyway. They found us a place to stay and convinced us to give paragliding a try. The hotel worked out ok, but by morning, my wild imagination dreamed up a long con where we eventually were robbed. Were we going to be robbed in the back woods or fly off a 6,000 foot peak? The whole affair felt sketchy. In the morning, we bumped and jostled up a gravel road in the back of a freezing, beat-up, red truck for a couple hours with a bunch of hairy bearded guys. The going was hard, but our wallet was still in our pocket. It was an eventful day, with the most pivotal fact being there was absolutely no wind. We sat by a bonfire and waited and waited for wind—still no wind. That wasn’t enough to stop us, though. Long story short, the lack of wind led to Kelton’s parachute collapsing on itself during takeoff and my baby boy skipping down the side of a mountain like a rock across a lake with a full-grown pilot strapped to his back. Bumps, scraped, bruises, and tears were logged, but thankfully not reported to social services. The day was a complete failure. The hairy bearded men convinced us to try again the next day. So, after a lot of discussion and thought (clearly not enough of the latter), Kelton took to the skies the next day with actual wind blowing and paraglided off a 6,000 foot mountain, soared out over the sea, and landed like a baby duck on the beach. A triumph for a six-year-old, or anyone, for that matter.
Now, sixteen years later, we were back to the same place with a new offspring who has the unfortunate luck of being born to parents who never learn. She too would paraglide off a 6,000 foot peak and land softly on the beach like a duck. To be fair, we warned her. “The road up to the top of the mountain is rough and long, the conditions are challenging, you may skip like a rock down a mountain with a full-grown pilot on your back. Bumps, bruises, and scrapes may be inflicted and logged, but not reported to social services.”
She said, “Fine, I can do it.”
We arrived to Ölüdeniz midmorning. The sun was shining, and the streets were jam packed with large, barely clothed, pink cheeked British tourists. Locals on a motorcycle didn’t follow us to help. We wondered where we should even park? Can you believe we were left to figure it out on our own. The clean shaven paragliding guides required upfront payment via credit cards and required us to sign a release form. We got in a temperature-controlled Mercedes van, stopped by a roadside government office to purchase a flight permit, and cruised up the mountain on asphalt! Wait, what??? Our journey up the mountain was a good reminder to keep exploring the world before a Subway sandwich stop is literally on every corner. The top of the mountain had a weather station and a paved stone take off zone. Channing looked at us like we were crazy liars. Absolutely nothing was the same, except for one thing.
Channing was strapped to the front of her pilot. The wind filled her parachute and she started running, AND THEN….…..the wind curiously just stopped. Her parachute deflated and collapsed. My heart sank and limbs sizzled numb. A fast-acting assistant trailing them ran forward and caught them just in time before another Miller child repeated a face plant and panni sandwiching. Crisis interrupted. In the arms of the assistant, Channing seemed determined and unfazed…Mom, not so much. After a ten minute wait, not a 24 hour deep re-evaluation of the safety of paragliding, Channing and the rest of the Millers safely glided off the top of a 6,000 foot mountain. We floated and spiraled high above the amazing earth admiring the rugged landscape and turquoise sea forever expanding between our small and dangling feet.
