Sucked Up To 30,000 feet in a paraglider

By Ewa Wisnierska, re: 2007-02-14

FEBRUARY 14, 2007, was the first day of a paragliding competition in Manilla, New South Wales, Australia, a run-up to the Paragliding World Championships that would be held in Sydney. I’ll remember the day for another reason.

That morning, competition organizers had told us there was a chance of thunderstorms. Generally, if a front is passing through, organizers will cancel the day’s competition. But the forecast noted only isolated thunderstorms, so they just warned us to be careful. If you stay clear of clouds, there’s no problem.

About 100 pilots were competing in a series of tasks. In one event, we would race from one point to another, trying for the best time. In another, we would be judged by precision on a course from point A to B to C. Today was a distance race; we were to fly as far as possible.

It was sunny, with fluffy cumulus clouds and wind out of the south—perfect flying conditions. I took off around noon and turned to the north, as did everybody else, to take advantage of a tailwind.

I flew for two hours at an altitude of about 6,800 feet, maybe 300 feet below the cloud bases. Ahead were two big cumuli. I flew between them, as did most of the 60 or so pilots around me. As we left them behind us, the clouds merged and grew into a thunderstorm. I believe most of us thought we were far enough away from it, about 10 miles. That may not seem like a healthy distance, but as a competition pilot, I was confident that if I got into trouble, I could spiral down very fast and land by initiating a tight turn with the left or right brake, which would increase the bank angle of the wing and enable me to descend vertically, with no horizontal movement. It’s a high-G maneuver that can make you dizzy, but in a competition, you tend to push the limits just a little.

To the north were beautiful sunny skies—no danger. Just ahead and slightly above me was an innocent-looking cumulus, maybe 1,500 feet tall. I knew I couldn’t fly under it because if I caught any lift, I’d be sucked into the cloud, where turbulence could collapse my wing or strong updrafts could pull me to unsafe altitudes. As I tried to edge around it, I suddenly got very strong lift. Three times I tried to spiral down but I couldn’t descend faster than the lift was carrying me up.

I realized that I was not going to get down. I was deep into the cloud and I couldn’t even tell what direction I was flying in. My Global Positioning System heading indicator was spinning wildly. I tried to just fly straight, hoping I could get out of the powerful updraft, but it was not possible. The paraglider was turning on its own—I had no control, and the lift kept getting stronger.

I remember thinking that since the cloud hadn’t looked so big, I would soon pop out of the top. Even if it was 10,000 feet tall, I should be okay. But when my altitude read 13,000 feet, I was still in cloud. It got dark; there was rain and then hail and a lot of turbulence. The wing kept collapsing—I had to work hard to keep it filled with air.

I used my radio to call my team leader and crew. All I could get out was “I’m in cloud and it’s raining and hailing and I can’t do anything.”

I considered using my reserve chute. It’s a simple round parachute designed to open by static line. But I couldn’t free-fall through the cloud and then open it because the rapid descent would destroy it. And after the reserve opened, I’d have no control.

At around 16,000 feet, it got pitch-black and terribly cold. I could hear thunder all around me, but I never saw lightning; my sunglasses were covered with ice. I couldn’t even see my wing. I said to myself, Not here. Not like this. Please let me come down, anywhere.

Then, another jolt of very strong lift sent me hurtling upward. G-forces pushed my head back and pressed my body into the harness. I felt my eyes roll back. I believe that not long after, I passed out. Judging from the time that passed and my rate of climb, I must have been at about 21,000 feet.

My onboard tracking equipment showed that my glider continued to climb in a slow right turn, so when I passed out I must have been leaning to the right. I got to 32,631 feet before the lift ended. The glider flew big circles to the right for some 20 minutes. Then I started to sink a little bit, and after another 20 minutes I hit a big downdraft and descended at 75 mph. I fell 10,000 feet, and then I think the wing must have fully inflated because a jolt woke me up.

How long had I been unconscious? At first I thought it was only a moment, like when you nod off for a second while you’re driving and then snap to. I was limp in the harness. I tried to pull on the brakes and realized I didn’t have them in my hands. They were hanging, covered in ice. My gloves were frozen. I had to sit up in the harness to grab the brakes. I then realized I must have been out for more than a moment or two.

I was exhausted—largely due to the lack of oxygen at the altitudes I reached. The wing was fully inflated and the paraglider was flying normally. The air was smooth. But I was still in cloud, in the dark. I had to scratch the ice off the face of my GPS to read it: 22,600 feet. A long way to go.

I was trembling violently from the cold. I saw that I had traveled about three miles horizontally since I’d gotten sucked into the cloud, but I had no idea where I was.

I was descending, but after 15 minutes I thought I should hurry it up and spiral down. From 13,000 feet I gently spiraled until I could see the ground. Only at that point did I think I was probably going to make it.

I couldn’t see any roads. If I just landed, I might have to walk for days to get help. I leveled off and kept flying. Finally I saw a small farm. A tail wind helped speed me toward it.

My radio was frozen, so I had no way to contact my team. After I landed, I just curled up on the ground, waiting to warm up. After a minute my cell phone started ringing. I had forgotten that I even had it. It was my crew.

When they got to me, we went straight to the hospital, where physicians diagnosed frostbite on my nose and ears and bruises from the hail. My blood oxygen level was normal.

I learned that fellow pilot He Zhongpin had also been sucked into the killer cloud, but he had not been as fortunate as I’d been. He died of hypoxia or hypothermia or both.

Why did I survive? Perhaps I had gained a slight advantage by spending a month at high altitude in Mexico just before I came to Australia. And when you’re unconscious, body functions slow and the need for oxygen decreases. That helped, and sheer luck. I had the number 9946 (meters; 32,631 feet, my maximum altitude) stitched into my paraglider wing as a tribute to that luck.