Flying over fear

“Did you know someone recently plunged to their death because they weren’t securely attached to the hang glider?” said Heather, one of the group we were touring South America with.

“And do you know what the safety stats are for hang-gliding?” added Sanjay, who had been travelling with us for the past 19 days.

It was the evening before I was booked to launch myself off a mountain overlooking the ocean in Rio de Janeiro. The timing of this conversation? Impeccably unhelpful.

We had started our 21-day tour in Santiago, Chile, and were nearing its end. It had already been a trip of firsts: white-water rafting that included a 4-metre jump into fast-moving water, horse riding on a ranch in Argentina, and plenty of cultural highs. Fear, I had learned, comes in waves—anticipation, panic, adrenaline, relief, elation. Up to this point, I’d always felt like I could ride those waves. But this… this was different.

The idea for hang-gliding (alongside catching a football match at the iconic Maracanã) had come from Dave, another traveller, just four days earlier. It had seemed like a great way to close out the trip. Now, it was turning into the most fear-inducing thing I’d ever voluntarily agreed to do.

That night, fear moved in and set up camp. My thoughts looped relentlessly: What if the equipment fails? What if I freeze? Why on earth did I say yes to this? I couldn’t engage with the group anymore—conversations blurred into background noise. I was locked in my own internal theatre of doom.

Over the years I’d picked up techniques for dealing with fear—visualisation, reframing, breathing exercises—but this time, my body had other ideas. My lungs felt like they were refusing to cooperate, shallow breaths catching in my chest. Adrenaline was already pulsing through me like electricity, making my limbs jittery and my stomach twist. Positive thinking? It lasted about as long as a thought about what to put on a piece of toast before fading under the weight of raw panic.

Oddly enough, it was Googling accident statistics—something I’d normally avoid—that began to restore a sliver of rationality. The risks were lower than I feared. I began to recall peaceful images of people soaring silently over coastal cliffs or descending gently over Mediterranean bays. Slowly, I coaxed my mind toward possibility rather than catastrophe.

Sleep that night was shallow. The Oura ring said it was “fair”—a generous interpretation—but I was up early for the 6am pickup. Five of us were doing the flight. The journey to the beach was a blur of tension, but also a strange sense of inevitability. I wasn’t backing out now.

At the landing site, we met our pilots. Mine introduced himself with calm authority: born and raised on the mountain, with over 10,000 flights to his name. That helped—slightly. I checked and rechecked my harness straps. Heather’s story still echoed.

The landing area on the beach

The ride up the mountain twisted through lush rainforest, and the moment we stepped out of the van and saw the ramp, the adrenaline surged again. The runway—a narrow plank jutting out from the slope, covered in synthetic turf—looked impossibly small, terrifyingly real. My inner monologue? What the hell are you doing, Erlend? It’s not too late to back out. Is it?

View from the takeoff runway

My pilot walked me through the takeoff: “When I say run, you run. Look at the island in the ocean—don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

A tidal wave of adrenaline hit. I felt like I might pass out or burst into a sprint in the wrong direction. Every instinct screamed “no.” But three others had already launched. There was no way I was quitting now.

Harness clipped. Straps checked again. We walked to the edge. Legs trembling.

“Erlend ready?”

A weak “yes.”

“Erlend, ready?”

Louder this time: “YES!”

“Hold onto my shoulder. Look at the island. Run.”

We ran. Six steps. And suddenly—flight.

The shift from dread to awe was immediate and surreal. The air rushed past as Rio unfolded beneath us—beaches, forest, Sugarloaf Mountain to the left. It was silent except for the wind. My body flooded with the exhilaration I’d been chasing—and dreading—all along. We glided, turned, posed for photos. I could breathe again.

The landing came fast, feet dangling as we skimmed the sand. We touched down, ran a few paces, and stopped.

I had done it. I had flown!!!

Reflection

Fear is real. It’s visceral. It can hijack your senses and your rational mind. But it’s also a gateway. On the other side of fear is growth, exhilaration, and a reminder of what it means to be fully alive.