January–February 2014 77of creeks; and the contours of gentle hills ringing the valley.
But I preferred those times we dipped low. Nearing
Canowindra itself, we swung down to the paddocks. Up high
I had felt suspended, as if held by a giant crane. Close to the
ground, however, where the rough imperfections of the earth
itself were apparent, the sense of being air-cushioned, of truly
fl oating, was heightened. And after rising in a graceful arc over
the buildings, we dropped again, this time so low the basket
brushed the whispering heads of wheat.
Nearing touchdown, Phil feathered the vent and we landed
with a surprising gentleness. I came away with an overwhelm-
ing feeling of calm, but I still couldn’t understand what had
compelled Dad to devote his life to ballooning. There were,
of course, aspects Dad relished that I couldn’t even begin to
appreciate after just one fl ight, because largely they had little
to do with fl ying. Terry had hinted at them the day before my
fl ight, when he said that if Dad hadn’t died so young, he could
have achieved signifi cant greatness. “He was just that sort of a
man,” Terry said. “Your father would never buy a lottery ticket;
if he won it, he said, the whole challenge in life would disappear.”
There are very few of us – and I’m not one of them – who
don’t want to win the lottery, metaphorically speaking. For those
rare few, the very marrow of life lies neither in mere survival
nor comfort, but rather in confronting both. I actually believe
there is a biological necessity for this. Not just for the pioneers,
explorers, adventurers and risk-takers involved, but for us as a
species to have such people – they are the ones that move us
forward, the ones that achieve signifi cant greatness.
After returning home to Sydney, I discovered my attitude
towards my father had shifted. When I began researching his
balloon exploits, I believed the respect I had for him was no
dif erent from that of most sons towards their fathers – espe-
cially sons with dead fathers.
But for years, I have been passing a sign near my apartment
quoting Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Do not go where the path may
lead,” it reads. “Go instead where there is no path and leave a
trail.” It is, of course, a beautiful sentiment. Yet I’ve always con-
sidered it unattainably lofty; who have I ever met, I’ve thought,
who’s truly had the courage to do so?
I look at the sign now and realise I know a man who did. AGThey are the ones that move
us forward, the ones that
achieve significant greatness.
Past revisited. With Phil
Kavanagh in The Captain,
James makes his fi rst fl ight
since before his father’s death.