Preparing for take-off

Cockpit drill requires some serious concentration from Derek Cheng as he prepares for take-off.

"Don't touch the yellow knob," says Owen Jones of the Beverley Soaring Society, pointing out the devices clogging up the cockpit of a two-seater glider. As a virgin glider, I appreciate a tour of the cockpit before ascending into the skies above Western Australia, 100km northeast of Perth.

By virtue of having no engine, the glider is towed into the air by another plane. A long rope attached to this yellow knob makes this possible. It should not be tampered with.

I flash Owen a mischievous look and raise my eye-brows. "Don't touch the yellow knob," he repeats.

I'm free to touch anything else - eject button excluded - except while taking off or landing. My controls link to his and he can take the reins at any time if I lose the plot.

Having satisfied Owen I am of sound body and mind, a cropduster tows us into the air as we sit just below its slipstream.

The front seat of a half-tonne glider, 1500m above sea-level, is a great way to view the terrain. It's green, serene, speckled with the townships of Beverley and York, with a lazy stream of Lego-like cars meandering through.

However, the view is not something you can fully appreciate; flying is quite the multi-task and requires concentration.

The many dials and buttons that show altitude, speed, air pressure and so on scream for attention. And there's the small matter of keeping the glider steady.

Each foot controls a pedal that move the rudders, turning the glider left and right. Then there's the joystick, a simple nudge of which will cause the glider to nose-dive, climb, or tumble left or right. What power! What freedom! But at 100kmh in the air, the horizon wobbling ahead of you, subtle movements are advised.

It's not very intimidating to the likes of Owen, who has been gliding at speeds of 250kmh. Omarama, central Otago, is his favourite gliding spot, but it's not for the over-confident; mountains and fickle weather aren't the best safety ingredients.

The gliding objective here is the pure sensation of flying, whether it be at great speed or over a great distance.

To stay airborne, we go in search of thermals - pockets of rising hot air that, if met by the long wings of a glider, allow us to overcome laws such as gravity.

Flying through a thermal is indicated first by slight turbulence, and then by a beeper in the cockpit that sounds more frequently when the glider rises.

On our overcast winter's day, there are just a few pockets of sunshine and a danger of what is known in the trade as a "sled ride", a steady drift back to earth. But against the odds, we locate a thermal and proceed to spiral into its heart, trying to heat the glider's armpits with as much hot air as possible.

A beeper in the cockpit sounds and becomes more rapid as we rise - by 100ft, 200ft, 300ft and counting.

It's quite unreal, elevating while eye-balling the ground as the glider steadies itself in a left-leaning tumble. And all without the spit and splutter of a deafening engine.

How is this possible?

The glider is made to slice through the air without so much as a tickle. It is curvy, sleek and sexy, shaped like a torpedo with wings. And it has a 17m wingspan - more than double the length of its 8m fuselage.

Owen's 13 years of experience ensures a smooth landing after a 30-minute glide. "It's got bad wheel brakes," he says once I'm out of the cockpit. Now he tells me.