Rafael Hanuman

I don’t have photos of myself flying.

I have never done a tandem paragliding flight, like they do for tourism.

I took the course in Jaraguá do Sul, in a system that started from low altitudes.

The longer a person wanted to stay in the air, they obviously had to start from a higher point.

And starting from low, I went high. And I never feared heights, as long as I checked each rope and strap myself.

There were skydiver friends who insisted that I take at least one jump, and I never did.

I said that I would only go out with the wing open.


But I have no photos.

Partly because it used to be harder.
There was film, and you couldn’t mess up the pose, etc.

Now, what was definitive was when a flying colleague died.

He was a drinking buddy of mine, and the son of a friend of my mother.

And the guy died at the Jaraguá peak, in the city of Jaraguá do Sul, Santa Catarina.

And I made one flight there. Just one flight in that city where he died.

And I almost went to the grave too. My mother never knew.

Well, she never knew about the hundred times I could have died.

Returning to the story’s theme,

At the time of landing,... the landing was at a school.

It was so long ago that I can hardly remember.

The landing was in the middle of a bunch of wires.

I thought: I’m screwed.

Big poles.

I aimed for the center of the soccer field and landed.

I dropped about 10 meters in height over 50cm in length.

Almost like a parachute.



It was a tense situation.

When I hit the ground, I thought I was going to break my back.

Then I rolled and lay down.

I was fine.

It was a bit of a scare, but I was fine.

And since then, I’ve never had the courage to do it again.