I got the virus too. But no, you have to stop thinking in clichés, reading what follows.
I have not been infected by the infamous coronavirus, but by its more subtle, albeit less lethal, relative: the one that causes the disease of the headline writers. You know when you start reading an article because the headline seems catchy, but then the gist of the issue expressed is completely different? Great, then put aside your prurient instincts and fantasies of 'let's do it weird': for now I have nothing to declare about sex in a hot air balloon, and even if I did I'm not so sure I want to reveal it to you, you old rascals
With my friend Nicola, years ago, we decided to participate in the Forlì hot air balloon festival. A hot air balloon festival is generally something exciting. First of all, there are a lot of people, and they are all in a good mood. Balloons have this magic, and I assure you that we do not use chemical tricks, we do not burn marijuana but propane. As far as I'm concerned, it's nice to stay on the sidelines in civilian clothes and observe the expressions of amazement and admiration, especially on the faces of children but not only. Everyone with their noses in the air, trying to straighten those necks bent all week on a PC keyboard, on the screen of a smartphone or in the best of cases on the pages of a book. (I think we should also be recognized as having a therapeutic value).
It is also exciting because you meet characters outside the norm, and in these frenetic hours you are somehow forced to spend a lot of time next to them, and to listen to incredible anecdotes of stories passed off as true. Certainly the pilots in this particular fauna occupy a prominent place, but in my eyes it seems now clear that our activity has the peculiarity of attracting eccentric and sometimes acrobatic personalities, in various roles. I promise you that I will return to the subject on other occasions.
Nicola and I were new pilots at the time, but both with a dream as a goal: to become commercial pilots sooner or later. A commercial pilot is someone who is authorized to transport people for payment. In essence, our aspiration was to transform our simple passion into an all-round profession. It is not a simple task, but not impossible either, the difficulties are of various kinds. The one that seemed the most insurmountable to us, the oasis to reach in the mirage, was linked to the limit of hours.
Every commercial pilot, at the time (now the rules have changed slightly), had to have completed at least 100 hours of flight time before being able to take a qualification exam.
In hindsight, it is an absolutely reasonable number, considering the sensitivity of the profession. At the time, however, it seemed almost an imposition worthy of the worst dictatorial regime, and we were champing at the bit to complete them as soon as possible. And what better occasion than a gathering? In an event like that, a good part of the expenses are covered, which is a fact that should not be overlooked when talking about hot air balloons. Furthermore, we had the opportunity to meet more experienced pilots, listen to their advice, and fly with them without worrying too much about the bureaucratic issues that had already been addressed by the organizers. We take off in the morning and in the evening, which is basically the most that can be done... perfect for our plans.
For the occasion, I had borrowed a 360° video camera from a dear friend: for those who understand, it is essentially a double opposing fish-eye, for those who don't, a small technological monster that returns spherical photos and videos, and which therefore tries to record all the space possible, left and right, above and below, even if deforming it at the extremities.
With these beautiful premises and with the safety of a substantially flat orography in the middle of the Po Valley, therefore congenial for landings even for inexperienced pilots, good Nicola and I take off from the ground the first morning, with the intention of filming from start to finish. Video camera fixed to the frame of the burner, just above our heads, and off we go.
Everything is perfect, what else is there to say?
The tarallucci and wine they toasted with once they landed?
The beauty of hot air balloons is precisely this: as long as you are on the ground, all the variables are defined. In flight, no. You don’t know exactly how long the flight will last, or where you will land. It is only partially governable, as the direction is decided by the wind, and a pilot can only choose at what height to direct it to look for the best currents. Especially when you are a young pilot, you are overwhelmed by the surrounding beauty but an underlying sense of uneasiness persists, a buzzing drone that whispers to you that you could have stayed home with your feet warm: contrasting feelings that on another scale probably all explorers experience.
Shortly after takeoff the wind begins to strengthen. It was something expected, even if as newbies it catches us a bit unprepared: we had always flown only in the Cuneo area, where the Alps and Apennines surround us as a natural windbreak. And we begin to notice something else: the vast majority of the fields are cultivated. Which, added to the fast winds, is not a good thing: it greatly limits the possibility of landing without causing damage on the ground.
During the gatherings, a maximum overflight area is established; technically it is called Notam, and it is essentially a virtual cylinder, with a defined radius and height within the airspace, in which the various aircraft can move freely but which does not
should exceed. In our case we had 5 miles, just over 9 km. The winds zigzagged a bit, but were pushing around 20 km/h.
Nicola and I had agreed that we would alternate piloting, one flight for me, one for him. That day it was my turn. Nicola, who knows math, after about half an hour of flight points out to me that it is necessary to look for a landing, as we have now exceeded the Notam limit.
to find a place that can accept you again, on earth.
I clearly remember the expression of amazement of an inhabitant of a small village perched on a hill: with the balloon we climb the hill, therefore hidden from view, and we reach the height of the street lamps. We arrive silently behind the passerby and then I absolutely have to turn on the burner to avoid having to replace the street lighting bulbs. Imagine walking to work around 7 in the morning, you hear a strange noise, you turn around and just above your head you see a gray whale of 4000 cubic meters in volume pass by. I think that before saying goodbye he seriously considered insulting us, rightly so.
We continue low for a while, we can't see anything on the horizon.
‘Mauro, we have to land.’
‘I know Nicola, but where the f**k am I landing? It’s all cultivated!’
‘Land there!’ – Nicola points to a small patch of land beyond a busy highway. With those wind speeds, it’s absolutely insufficient to allow the balloon to stop: there’s no brake of any kind, and the envelope is a powerful sail that drags you along until it completely deflates.
‘Nick, we don’t fit in there!’
‘That’s true, but you have no alternatives. Do you feel up to it?’
‘Yes.’ Damn the moral obligation, for male humans, to flaunt virility. It would have been wonderful at that moment to throw myself on the ground, hug Nicola’s knees and in a tearful voice beg him: ‘No! You do it! Tell me that everything will be okay!’
And instead I proceed, and I do it quite well. I fly over the highway, accompanied by horns, I control the balloon descending at the right rate and we touch the ground just before the triangle identified by my friend, ruining a couple of meters of wheat. I pull with all my strength the cord that allows the deflation of the envelope and 10/15 seconds that last a century begin. The basket tips 90°, it slides and before losing speed and stopping we cross the entire chosen field, a small climb that divided it from a dirt road, the road itself and finally we stop at the foot of a hill covered with small, newly planted trees. Hugs and laughter with
Nicola, after all we didn’t do any damage to the aircraft or the crops except for a minimal amount. A lady passes by in a car and asks if we’re okay: given our euphoria, I assume she thought we were drunk. We pick up everything, the ground crew had chased us admirably and arrived within a few minutes. We tell each other about the feat, with our egos of youngsters growing exponentially.
Only when we have a moment to breathe, before lunch, do we remember the 360° video camera.
‘Hey Nick, aren’t you curious to see our faces when we land?’
‘Why not! The face of terror’
Big laughs. Easy to do with your feet on the ground. We turn on the video camera, look for a preview and… nothing. The damn thing, after a few dozen minutes, had decided to turn off, who knows why. The final scene of the film, the hot one we were all waiting for, lost in time, like tears in the rain: a second take is not a conceivable hypothesis.
Damn technology, the more complex it is, the more treacherous it is. That's why we like late 18th century aircraft so much!
