Lessons from Air Balloon Flight Attempt #19

My partner and I have a long-standing agreement that we can only buy each other experiences as gifts for special occasions. It’s an excellent practice because the experiences are always built for two doing something unexpected and delightful.

Five years ago, I was inspired to gift him the experience of an air balloon ride for his birthday. Long has he been enamoured with flight, so much so that in his younger days, he pursued and obtained his private pilot’s license. Because his birthday falls in January, it was a “coming soon” kind of gift, and we were both excited and looking forward to taking in the splendour of the Fall colours in the Gatineau Hills in precisely nine months’ time—or so I thought.

What I did not know about hot air ballooning was that it requires an unbelievably specific set of weather conditions to get off the ground — light, stable winds, clear skies, and just the right conditions for takeoff and landing. Period.

Of course, this all sounds very reasonable and makes perfect sense. The last thing anyone wants or needs is to be caught in any kind of inclement weather situation while dangling in a wicker basket several thousand feet above the ground. Safety first!

Anyway, how hard can it be for these conditions to materialize? At the time, I had no idea that this simple gift would turn into a four-year lesson in patience, control, and perspective — or that attempt number nineteen would finally lift more than just a balloon off the ground.

In year one, we had two failed flight attempts, one in September and the other in October. Instantly disappointed that our birthday air balloon adventure didn’t transpire, I called the balloon company to request a refund, only to learn that there was no such thing as refunds in the world of air ballooning.

In year two, we made five attempts, starting in July and going straight through to October. Once again, neither one of us got any further off the ground than we had the year before, and my state of discontent inflated.

In year three, it was time to get serious. We started “going for it” as soon as the season opened in May. We signed up for morning flights. We signed up for evening flights. We became obsessed with the weather channel and wind speeds. The “Hot Air Balloon Hotline” phone number was burned into my brain, and I started calling it even on days we weren’t scheduled to fly — just to see if anyone else was having better luck than we were. In October the season ended and our tally of flight attempts sat at eleven.

In year four, I was deflated about the whole thing. Every flight booking turned into a comedy routine. We took bets on what reason the hotline would give us for the next cancellation: wet fields, shifting winds, a slight chance of rain that never materialized. We’d heard them all.

One morning, we were driving down the highway and saw an air balloon floating in the sky. Tony and I looked at each other and then back at the balloon in disbelief, talk about salt in the wound. Earlier that week, our 18th flight attempt had gone sideways.

On the evening of September 10th, I once again called the hotline and waited for the familiar voice recording of the air balloon pilot to come on and tell me why the next morning’s flight would be cancelled. Only this time, he said a series of words I had never heard before. “Conditions are good for the morning flight. Meet us at the Embrun Aerodrome at 5:00 am.”. “Finally,” I said with a hint of indignation, “Let’s get this over with.”

When we arrived at the aerodrome, bright and early, the massive air balloon was already unfurled across the lawn of the otherwise empty landing strip. The air was crisp, fresh and dewy and felt good against the skin. Two huge fans whirred intensely into the mouth of the balloon as the pilot released countless shots of propane through a pair of high-powered gas burners. Swirls of black, white and yellow nylon material bounced and billowed about the fresh green grass as the balloon slowly came to life. Going from zero balloon to giant, tethered orb took about 45 minutes, and just as the sun began to kiss the horizon, we hopped inside the chest-high wicker basket and were gently released into the pink-hued sky.

Up, up we went. Twisting gracefully in a corkscrew-like fashion. A panorama of unspeakable beauty stretched out for miles all around us. In the distance, the pilot pointed out the dark grey peaks of the Adirondack mountains. Endless square plots of farmers’ fields, countless tufts of trees and doll-house-sized houses with teensy-tiny cars dotted the landscape. Everything felt small and huge at the same time. We floated over a forest with a stream winding through it, and I stood there speechless, listening to the echoes of blue jays and staring at the odd shapes of treetops. The peace and silence were indescribable, and the only thing to remind me that I hadn’t died and gone to heaven were the infrequent bursts of hot air being released into the balloon to keep us delicately dancing across the sky.

We floated around the countryside for a solid 60 minutes. Standing there, suspended in mid-air, filled with awe and wonder, I thought about how senseless my agitation over the 18 failed flight attempts had been. My preconceived notions about how the adventure was supposed to unfold — and the stories I attached to circumstances beyond my control — were the cause of a lot of unnecessary, self-induced “suffering,” albeit comical at times. My genuine desire to create a special experience for my partner had resulted in me losing sight of the big picture. As a coach, I am well-versed in the realm of perspective-taking, but even coaches can go off course from time to time. It was a great lesson and reminder to pay closer attention to what I’m giving my attention to.

We drifted back down to earth and landed as effortlessly as we had floated up into the sky. Tony and I walked away starstruck and grateful for the life-enriching experience of lucky flight #19, and I couldn’t help but feel that my journey in the air balloon had given me not only a new appreciation for the stunning world around me but also a newfound perspective on how I choose to frame events and circumstances.

If given the opportunity, I would do it all over again, including the four-year wait, only this time, I would metaphorically lift myself up a thousand feet to consider the bigger picture and the many variables at play. I would let go of the things I have no control over and grab the reins on the one thing I can always control—the quality of my thoughts.

The view from this perspective is expansive, life becomes so much easier to navigate when you accept what is and go with the flow.