I feel the tug, countering it with a slight move of my hand on the stick, a little pressure to the pedal under my right foot, then the left pedal. In front of me the small airplane bobs up and I follow an instant later. I gyrate from side to side and correct for the bow in the line strung between us. The sound of the wind changes like the south of tires on a changing road surface, louder then softer, then…
If I see the stick moves as I correct my position behind the other aircraft, it is too much. I match my wing level with theirs. They turn right or left, I follow.
One more bobble, one my stagger, I look left then right and reach for the tell handle, the time of freedom.
“Pop” and we part ways as the rope wiggles away like a snake through grass.
They roll left and dive, I roll right pointing skyward, my speed decreases and the rushing winds dissipate. I survey the horizon and once again am one with the craft. Quiet envelopes me and thoughts of ground-bound worldly problems disappear as I pirouette in rising air under a small puffy cloud.