MY FIRST WAVE FLIGHT
By Steve Corich

At Prescott, I was awed to see these ships, which seemed so clumsy on the ground, towed to a thousand feet, release and climb with more style than a bird could ever dream of. I was hoping for a flight in the Club's 2-22, but thunder clouds were moving in, and my chances seemed thin. Al said we might get in a quick flight and began to pre-flight the odd-looking trainer. Just then the first drops of rain began to fall. We hoped it would blow over but it continued to get worse. A few times the rain slowed up enough for us to poke our heads out of the car windows and take a look around.

Finally it stopped. Immediately dozen figures darted from cars and opened
trailers in attempts to disassemble their ships before the rain started again.

It was then that Al surprised me by saying, "Come on Steve, we'll take a quick flight."

A few people pulled the trainer off the grass onto the wet pavement and Joe Lincoln taxied the Citabria into position. Someone helped me into the backseat of the trainer, while Al set the altimeter to field elevation and pulled the release for the lineman. In seconds the canopy was closed, the wings were leveled and we were rolling down the runway at sixty miles per hour. It seemed as if the towplane would never leave the runway, but suddenly it was off and we were climbing.

We released at 1500 feet and over the roar of the air, I heard Al say to expect only a short glide down. It was about that time that the vario pegged at 500 up and the left wing seemed to be thrown out of a mass of turbulent rising air. We then made a steep bank to the left and climbed out to 4500 feet.

I was hooked! For the next three weeks I thought only of gliders and how to get started. Then one day, Nancy called and told me about Estrella Sailport, which had just opened near Maricopa, and that it was owned by two brothers, Les and Stephen Horvath. She suggested I give Les a call and ask about a job.

The brothers agreed to five me lessons in exchange for the work I did as a lineboy. Stephen taught me everything I would need to know and after my 30th flight, he soloed me. Now I was on my own. Within a week I had my A and B pins. My C pin was a little harder to get but after an hour and a half of ridge soaring, the third badge was mine. I began to come out to work more often now in hopes of a "Silver leg" day.

Shortly after my first solo flight in the 1 26D, there was such a day, January 31, 1970. My main concern was getting 5 hours duration, and the wind velocity, and direction seemed to be perfect for the ridge. After-towing parallel to the ridge and releasing at 2500 feet, I found no lift. Apparently the wind direction was not as good as I thought. 
Immediately after that disheartening flight, Stephen told me I would be towed into the, wave; and before I knew it I was towing through a very rough rotor and finally into the wave. I released at 3100 and quickly climbed to 8000 feet. It was at this altitude that I first realized how much I appreciated the jacket Dale Donahoe, our tow pilot, had loaned me for the flight.

It was at 8500 feet that I first ran into a little trouble; I lost contact with the wave. Since I had never been alone in a wave before, the only knowledge I could draw on was a short lecture before the flight. Stephen had said; " If you lose the wave" first try flying upwind. This I did, and sure enough the vario slowly wound to 300 up. It was about this time I noticed another 1-26 off to my right about 500 feet. Suddenly the pilot pulled dive brakes and banked down below my ship. I got a good look at the pilot as he came out to the left. It was Les. He was with me again, and again he dove down below me. What was he doing? At 10,000 I realized what it was he was trying to tell me. He wanted me to land. It took me a few minutes to figure why. I had forgotten to take a barograph.

I was really upset. I had already made Silver altitude and was climbing toward Gold. Maybe I should head down and pick up a barograph. I toyed with the idea for a few minutes, but decided to stay and try for five hours. At 12,000 feet I began to get uncomfortable. First, there was the cold; I can't remember ever being so cold. Second, I would have given anything to have had a relief tube. Third, I was 'gaining altitude more slowly now, and I knew the wave was about to top. Also. I was, beginning to feel the effects of lack of oxygen. I did not have any trouble breathing as I thought might happen. Instead I just began to feel quite pleasant and a little dizzy. Fortunately (?) at 12,600 feet the wave topped out and I slowly lost altitude.

I was up for three hours when I reached 10,000. I knew it was going to be a steady glide down from then on, and my best bet would be to stay at my lowest sink speed and to search for some lift to keep me, up for, two more hours.

At 7000 feet, I was level with four other ships (all-26's) working a small
area of leftover wave. I managed around 7000 for almost half an hour, but slowly I fell into the rotor of the disappearing wave and I knew my flight was almost over. When at last I did touch down, I felt more tired than sad.

Learning to walk again was an experience I won't soon forget. I made a
beeline for the restroom. Then I checked my time and found the flight to be four hours and seven minutes long, with a net gain of 9500 feet. I don't think I've ever heard the phrase, "chalk it up to experience", more times than I did the rest of that day. Don Barnard made me feel quite good when he commented, "There's the champion for today, four hours" Almost everyone had the same last helpful hint to offer, "Next time take a barograph."