Every word you will meet in the school modules, in a briefing at the launch site and in conversation with an instructor. Each term has four lines: the English name, the Russian one, what it means in plain words, and what it is like in everyday life. The Russian name is there for a reason: our instructors and half the pilots in Gudauri use it, and with it you will follow a briefing without guessing.
Nothing found. Try another word, or a shorter one — “stall” rather than “full stall”.
The inflated central part of the wing — what you see above your head. A legitimate word, but only for that part, not for the whole aircraft.
Put simply. Like the “body” of a car: a part, not the whole car.
Flying with no engine: only air and height. Hence the English term free flight, used for both paragliders and hang gliders.
Put simply. Like going down on a sledge: nobody pulls you up, you spend the height you were given at the top.
In paragliding this word belongs in only two places: the reserve parachute, and skydiving. Your aircraft is a wing, not a parachute.
Put simply. Calling a paraglider a parachute is like calling an aeroplane a helicopter: both fly, but a pilot hears the mistake at once.
An aircraft with a soft wing. It has no engine: it flies on the air and on the height you launched from. The wing holds its shape because air is packed into it through the openings in the leading edge.
Put simply. Like an air mattress, except the pump is the oncoming wind. While the boat is moving, the mattress is firm.
A wing with no rigid part at all: its shape is held by the air inside and by the tension in the lines.
Put simply. Like a tent: while the guy lines are tight and there is pressure inside, it stands. Slacken them and it folds.
The correct word for that orange (or any other) thing above you. Not a “parachute” and not a “canopy”.
Put simply. A parachute is for falling slowly. A wing is for flying forward. Two different objects with two different jobs.
How stretched the wing is: span squared divided by area. The higher it is, the better the wing glides and the stricter it is about mistakes.
Put simply. Like the difference between wide touring skis and narrow racing ones: the racing pair is faster but demands skill.
How much more convex the upper surface of the wing is than the lower. Plenty of camber holds on at low speed and forgives rough handling; little camber gives speed and less margin.
Put simply. Like the curve of a spoon: deeper holds more, and cuts less well.
Openings along the leading edge of the wing. The oncoming flow inflates the wing from inside through them.
Put simply. Like an open mouth while running: as long as you are moving, air comes in by itself.
The compartments inside the wing between the ribs. Air enters them through the openings at the front.
Put simply. Like the sections of an inflatable pool: each inflates separately, but together they hold the shape.
The straight line from the leading edge of the wing to the trailing edge. The simplest dimension of a profile.
Put simply. Like the length of a foot, if the profile is a shoe seen from the side.
Holes in the ribs that let air move between cells and equalise the pressure across the whole wing.
Put simply. Like doors between rooms: shut them and one is stuffy while the other has a draught.
Slanting internal walls. They spread the load from one line across several ribs, so fewer lines are needed.
Put simply. Like the braces in a chair: one leg carries the load because it is tied to the others.
The front edge of the wing, the one that cuts the air. This is where the cell openings and the stiffeners are.
Put simply. Like the bow of a boat: it meets the wave first.
Small walls along the trailing edge. They stop the fabric sagging, so the air leaves the wing more cleanly.
Put simply. Like the stiffened rim of an umbrella: without it the edge flaps.
A film insert along the edge of the cell opening. It sets the shape of the air intake.
Put simply. Like the stiff peak of a cap: it holds its shape although the cap is soft.
The shape of the wing in cross-section — like a slice through a loaf of bread. It is this shape that makes the air above travel faster and creates lift.
Put simply. Cut the wing across and you see a teardrop with a thick nose and a thin tail. That is the profile.
Fabric walls inside the wing between the upper and lower surfaces. They divide the wing into cells and hold the profile.
Put simply. Like the baffles in an air mattress: without them it would be a ball; with them it is flat.
The concave leading edge of modern wings. It holds pressure both at low speed and on full speed system.
Put simply. Like a funnel: not wider, but easier to hit from any angle.
The distance from one wingtip to the other.
Put simply. Like the span of your arms held out sideways.
The place on the leading edge where the flow divides: some air goes over the wing, some under it. The pressure there is highest, and that is where designers try to put the cell opening.
Put simply. Like a jet of water hitting the edge of a spoon: it splits in two, and presses hardest exactly there.
Plastic rods and film inserts in the leading edge. They keep the nose of the wing open.
Put simply. Like the stays in a shirt collar: take them out and the collar droops.
The rear edge of the wing. The brake lines run to it — pull them and you turn and slow down.
Put simply. Like the tail of a kite: tug it and the kite turns.
How many square metres of fabric are working. On a typical single-seat wing, roughly 22–28 m².
Put simply. Like the area of a rug: the bigger it is, the more air it “holds”.
The label with the model, size, serial number and weight range. Without it the wing will not pass an airworthiness check.
Put simply. Like a car’s registration document, except sewn into the fabric.
The outermost sections of the wing, left and right. These are what you fold in when you take big ears.
Put simply. Like the tips of a rabbit’s ears: fold them and it gets shorter.
A periodic inspection at a service centre: fabric porosity, strength, line lengths, the state of the seams.
Put simply. Like a car’s roadworthiness test: until it is passed, you formally may not drive.
You, plus all your equipment, plus the wing itself. That is the number compared with the weight range.
Put simply. Like your weight with the rucksack on the airport scales: everything counts together.
A line material: it does not shrink and holds its length for years, but ages fast in sunlight and dislikes kinks.
Put simply. Like a good but fussy fabric: it keeps its shape perfectly, and you cannot wash it any old way.
A foam or inflatable block under the seat and behind your back. It softens the impact of a hard landing.
Put simply. Like a helmet, but for the back. It does not cancel the impact; it takes part of it.
How deep a brake can be pulled, from released to the stop. Most pilots use about a third of that travel.
Put simply. Like an accelerator pedal: not everyone floors it, but everyone must know where the floor is.
The handles you hold. Through the lines they pull the trailing edge down: that is how you turn and slow down.
Put simply. Like reins on a horse: pull the right one and you turn right; pull both and you slow down.
The distance between the two harness carabiners. It has to match the setting the wing was tested at.
Put simply. Like the track width of a car: change it and the way it corners changes too.
The two load-bearing links that connect the wing’s risers to the harness. Their condition and separation are checked before every flight.
Put simply. Like the buckle on a seatbelt: one part that everything else depends on.
The tiers in which many thin lines converge into fewer, thicker ones.
Put simply. Like the branches of a tree: from the crown to the trunk there are fewer and thicker.
The strap between the carabiners across your chest. It sets how far apart the hang points are and affects how the wing answers weight shift.
Put simply. Like the width of your stance on skis: a little wider is steadier, a little narrower is livelier.
A radio that works on two frequency bands. At a site you need it to hear both the flight director and your own group.
Put simply. Like a phone with two SIM cards: two conversations without changing handsets.
A line material: very strong for its diameter, hardly stretches, but shrinks over time and dislikes heat.
Put simply. Like fishing line: thin, yet holds a lot. Leave it in a hot car and it is ruined.
A more capable instrument than a vario: map, airspace boundaries, track logging, glide calculation to a landing field.
Put simply. Like a car satnav: not just your speed, but “will you make it to the petrol station”.
Your “seat” under the wing: straps, frame, back protection, reserve container.
Put simply. Like a car seat together with its seatbelts, only hanging in the air.
A mandatory part of your equipment. The paragliding standard is EN 966.
Put simply. Like on a motorcycle: there is nothing to argue about.
The straps that pass under your thighs and stop you sliding out of the harness. Unfastened leg loops are the best-known fatal mistake in paragliding.
Put simply. Like the straps on a child’s swing: leave them undone and the child comes out on the first push.
The lines are grouped from front to back: row A is the frontmost, then B, C and sometimes D. A “two-line wing” means only two rows arrive on each riser.
Put simply. Like rows of seats on a bus: A by the driver, then in order.
The exact lengths of all the lines. Lines shrink and stretch unevenly over time, and then the wing stops behaving the way its data sheet says.
Put simply. Like the wheel alignment on a car: the wheels are where they were, but the car pulls to one side.
Thin, strong cords by which you hang from the wing. They are braided from Dyneema, aramid or polyester.
Put simply. Like the strings of a kite, except there are about three hundred of them and each has its place.
Small metal links or soft loops that attach the lines to the risers.
Put simply. Like the little clip on a keyring: a small thing, and everything hangs on it.
The instrument that measures how well the wing fabric still holds air. Old fabric “breathes”, and the wing loses its properties.
Put simply. Like testing an air mattress: does it hold until morning, or was it flat by midnight.
Periodic repacking of the reserve: it is taken out, spread, aired and folded again. Every 6 months for two-seat wings, every 12 for single-seat.
Put simply. Like shaking out a sleeping bag that has been compressed for a year: without it the fabric sticks together.
A separate parachute in the harness container. You deploy it when the wing cannot be saved: it takes you down rather than forward.
Put simply. Like an airbag: you hope never to see it, but it has to be in working order.
The line that connects the reserve to the harness.
Put simply. Like a lead: the parachute is above, but this is the strap that holds you.
You find the handle, pull the container out and throw the reserve away from the rotation. In English the verb is deploy, not throw.
Put simply. Like pulling the pin on a fire extinguisher: a simple movement, but your hand has to know it without thinking.
The pin that keeps the reserve container closed. While it is in place the parachute cannot come out on its own.
Put simply. Like the safety pin on a fire extinguisher: in place, nothing happens by itself.
How many line rows arrive on each riser: 2, 3, 4 or 5. Do not confuse it with the number of risers, which is always two.
Put simply. Like a double socket and a five-way extension lead: one plug, any number of outlets.
Two webbing straps — left and right — by which the wing is clipped to the harness. There are exactly two, however many line rows arrive on them.
Put simply. Like the two straps of a rucksack: two straps, and any number of pockets on them.
A device that sends a message and your coordinates by satellite, where there is no mobile signal. On a route over empty country it is the only way to say “I landed here”.
Put simply. Like a message in a bottle, except it arrives in a minute and to the right address.
The outer protective cover of a line. It adds no strength, but it protects the core from dirt and sunlight.
Put simply. Like the insulation on a cable: it does not carry the current, but the cable does not last long without it.
The bar under your feet. Push it and the front rows are pulled in, the nose drops and the speed rises.
Put simply. Like the throttle: faster, but with less margin before trouble.
A device that sends your position by satellite or network. It helps people find you; it does not stop you falling.
Put simply. Like sharing your location with family, except it works where there is no signal.
Adjustment of the rear risers: let them out and the wing flies faster, take them in and it flies slower. On tandems they are in constant use.
Put simply. Like adjusting a car seat: you set it once for yourself, but you put it back before parking.
The main killer of fabric and lines. A wing ages not from flying but from the sun: left spread out in the sun for nothing, it loses life faster than in the air.
Put simply. Like a book faded on a windowsill: nobody read it, and the pages are already falling apart.
The instrument that beeps when you climb and goes quiet or growls when you sink. It does not sense height at all — it measures pressure and converts it.
Put simply. Like an angler’s fish finder: it cannot see the water, but it tells you everything from the echo.
The range of all-up weight the wing was tested at. Below it the wing is sluggish; above it, sharp and with less margin.
Put simply. Like the load limit of a lift: beyond it, it will not necessarily fall, but the manufacturer’s promises have ended.
How many kilograms fall on each square metre of wing. Higher loading means faster and more stable, but sharper.
Put simply. Like a hard ball against a soft one: the hard one bounces briskly, the soft one dully.
You started the run and stopped because something was not right. An aborted launch is not a failure. The failure is a launch that should have been aborted and was not, because the pilot felt awkward in front of the queue.
Put simply. Like stopping the car because a seatbelt is undone: a second of inconvenience instead of a big problem.
Continuous quiet work with your hands: you feel the wing all the time, predict its next movement and correct it slightly. Not a reaction to what has happened, but work ahead of it.
Put simply. Like carrying a full glass down a corridor: your hand adjusts by itself and you do not even think about it.
The angle at which the wing meets the oncoming flow. It is the only thing the pilot controls directly: speed and sink are consequences. The whole working range is about fifteen degrees.
Put simply. Like your palm out of a car window: tilt it a little and it is pushed up; tilt it hard and the palm “stalls” and loses its grip.
In flight the wing is bent into an arc. Because of that, when it tilts, the lower half starts to lift itself back.
Put simply. Like the rounded hull of a boat: tilt it and it rights itself.
The speed at which you travel furthest from the same height. Glides in calm air are flown at it.
Put simply. Like driving at the economical speed to reach the petrol station.
A way of bringing the wing up in strong wind: it lies on its side and fills gradually from one tip to the other, so it does not snatch at your hands with its whole area at once.
Put simply. Like opening an umbrella in the wind from one edge rather than all at once: then it is not torn away.
The system’s ability to kill an oscillation by itself. A paraglider damps roll well and pitch poorly.
Put simply. Like the shock absorbers on a car: without them you keep bouncing a hundred metres after every pothole.
Everything that slows you down in flight: the wing, the lines, your own body. It is what you pay for with height.
Put simply. Like an arm out of a car window: the more you put out, the harder it is dragged back.
Sideways displacement from the heading you are flying, caused by the wind. On a glide drift eats hundreds of metres a minute, which is why you do not fly close to a lateral airspace boundary.
Put simply. Like swimming across a river: you swim straight and the current takes you downstream.
The “force of the wind in your face”. It grows as the square of speed: double the speed and it is four times greater. That is why brakes bite far harder at high speed.
Put simply. Like moving a hand through water: slowly it is easy, fast it feels like concrete.
The first short flights at low height on a training slope. Lift-off, a few seconds, landing.
Put simply. Like the first metres on a two-wheeler: not far, but already on your own.
The total time you have spent in the air, counted in hours.
Put simply. Like years behind the wheel: not the main measure, but there is no conversation without it.
A run facing forward: the wing is behind your back and you cannot see it.
Put simply. Like pulling a wheeled suitcase behind you — it is there, you feel it, but you do not see it.
How many times heavier than usual you have become. In a steep spiral it presses on the spine and can switch off consciousness.
Put simply. Like a fairground ride that has spun up: your body is pressed into the seat and your vision darkens.
How many metres forward you travel for every metre of height lost. A glide ratio of 9 means nine metres forward per metre down.
Put simply. Like a slide: the shallower it is, the further you get from the same height.
Working the wing on the ground: bringing it up, holding it overhead, turning. The fastest way to learn to feel the wing. In English: ground handling.
Put simply. Like practising with a ball against a wall: dull, and yet that is exactly where ball sense comes from.
Your speed relative to the ground — how fast you are actually making progress along the route. Into wind it is less than your airspeed, downwind more.
Put simply. Like walking on an escalator: the same steps, a very different arrival time.
Wind in your face. It reduces your ground speed and range, but it lengthens your time at the slope and shortens the run.
Put simply. Like walking into the wind: the same steps, slower progress.
Walking up a mountain with the wing in your rucksack and flying down. Written in Latin letters, as it is everywhere.
Put simply. Like a hike with an overnight stop, except you do not walk back down.
The last part of the flight: you build a path that brings you to the field into wind, at the right height and without hurry.
Put simply. Like parking: you look at the whole space in advance, not at the bumper.
A way to come in to land in three straight parts. First you fly along the landing field with the wind behind you. Then you turn across the wind. Then you fly the last part into the wind, straight to the field. You lose most of your height early, in the first part.
Put simply. Like parking a car: you drive past the space, turn, then go straight in. You slow down before the turn, not at the last second.
The force that holds you up. It comes from a pressure difference: above the wing the air moves faster and presses less, below it moves slower and presses more.
Put simply. The wing does not so much rest on the air below as get sucked upwards — the way a vacuum pulls a lid outwards.
Any technique with which you deliberately descend faster than usual: big ears, a spiral, a B-line stall.
Put simply. Like coming down a mountain by hairpins or straight down: different ways, same result.
The speed at which you lose height most slowly. Weak thermals are worked at it.
Put simply. Like walking so as not to tire: not fast, but for a long time.
You hang 6–8 metres of line below the wing, and that makes the system stable: your weight returns you under the wing by itself.
Put simply. Like a weight on a string: swing it and it comes back under the pivot on its own.
You react half a period late and end up in phase with the movement rather than against it. The amplitude grows while it feels as though you are working. The cure is counter-intuitive: take your hands off.
Put simply. Like pushing a swing at the wrong moment: plenty of effort, and it only gets worse.
The movement of the wing forward and back relative to you. This is where most trouble starts.
Put simply. Like a swing: you are below, the wing is above, and it keeps running ahead and lagging behind.
You face the wing, bring it up, see that all is well, and only then turn round and run.
Put simply. Like checking your jacket in a mirror instead of by feel.
Flying along a slope in air that is rising up it. In English: ridge soaring.
Put simply. Like a surfer on a wave near the shore: the wave runs up the slope and you stay in it.
The wing tilting to one side. In thermic air it arrives together with pitch.
Put simply. Like a bicycle in a corner: lean and you travel in an arc.
The wing does not follow the arc of the turn but slides outwards or inwards. A sign that weight and brake are working against each other.
Put simply. Like a car on ice: the wheel is turned and it goes somewhere else.
The graph showing how your sink changes with speed. Four points can be read from it: minimum speed, minimum sink, best glide and maximum speed.
Put simply. Like fuel consumption against speed: there is one speed at which the same tank takes you furthest.
The wing has run forward relative to you. At that moment the angle of attack is at its minimum and the wing can collapse. A surge is damped with a short input on both brakes at the furthest forward point.
Put simply. Like letting a dog off the leash: it bolts forward and you stay put. You catch it at the instant the lead goes tight.
Wind at your back. It increases your ground speed, and your touchdown speed with it — which is why you land into wind, not downwind.
Put simply. Like a sledge running downhill with the wind: faster, and harder to stop.
The run in which you build the speed to lift off. In light wind and at high weight it is noticeably longer.
Put simply. Like a run-up to a long jump: the heavier the rucksack, the longer the runway you need.
Landing back on the launch area, at the top of the slope.
Put simply. Like returning to the ski jump you jumped from — and landing exactly on it.
The wing’s speed with the brakes released and no speed system. It flies like that by itself.
Put simply. Like walking at your own natural pace: neither hurrying nor holding back.
A turn with bank. The steeper the bank, the smaller the radius, but the higher the G-load and the sink.
Put simply. Like a turn on a bicycle: lean harder and you turn tighter, but falling gets easier too.
Steering by shifting your body in the harness. It adds no drag and brings no stall closer, so in rough air you work weight first and brake second.
Put simply. Like on a bicycle: lean and you go that way, with almost no need for the handlebars.
How the rising bubble of warm air itself cools. Dry: 1 °C per 100 metres; once condensation starts, 0.5–0.6 °C, because the vapour gives its heat back.
Put simply. Like air from a cylinder: let it out and it expands and goes cold, although nobody cooled it.
An instrument for measuring wind speed.
Put simply. Like a thermometer, but for wind: it gives a number instead of “feels strong”.
The flat, downwind-stretched top of a storm cloud. It means the storm has reached its mature stage. You do not fly under an anvil or ahead of it.
Put simply. Like a mushroom cap: once it has opened, the mushroom is grown and your time is up.
The weight of the column of air above you. The higher you go, the shorter the column and the lower the pressure. Measured in hectopascals (hPa). Near the ground it falls by about 1 hPa for every 8 metres of climb.
Put simply. Like depth in water: deeper means more pressure. In air it is the other way round — higher means less.
The wind that reverses twice a day: onshore in the day, offshore at night. It comes from the difference in how fast water and land warm up.
Put simply. Like an open window in winter: the air goes towards the colder side, and by evening the other way round.
Finding and holding the strongest part of the lift: you move your circle towards where the vario beeps more briskly.
Put simply. Like finding the warmest spot by a stove: a step left is colder, a step right is warmer.
The height at which a thermal starts making cloud. You do not climb above that line — there is cloud there.
Put simply. Like the ceiling of a room: jump as much as you like, you will not get higher.
Rows of cloud stretched downwind. The lift under them is almost continuous, and routes are flown along them.
Put simply. Like road markings: they show you where to drive, so you are not searching for the way every kilometre.
The height at which a rising bubble has cooled to its dew point and starts making cloud. That is the calculated cloudbase.
Put simply. Like the height at which steam from a kettle becomes visible: below it nothing, above it a little cloud.
A place where two airflows meet and the air has nowhere to go but up. It produces long lines of lift.
Put simply. Like two crowds meeting in a narrow corridor: the only way out is up the stairs.
A cloud with a flat base and a lumpy top — the one that grows above a thermal. For a pilot it is a signpost: there is probably lift beneath it.
Put simply. Like the steam over a pan: the cloud is not a thing in itself but the top of the column you are looking for.
The height the wing “feels” once heat and low pressure are taken into account. On a hot day at a high launch the air is thin and the wing behaves as if higher: a longer run, a higher speed.
Put simply. Like running in the mountains: the same legs and the same kilometre, and breathing is a different matter.
The temperature to which the air has to be cooled for vapour to turn into droplets. It is a temperature, not a height.
Put simply. Like a cold glass in summer: the air at the glass has cooled to its dew point, so the glass sweats.
Small spinning columns of dust over warmed ground. A sign that the surface air is breaking away in rags rather than in smooth bubbles.
Put simply. Like a little whirlwind on a dusty road: not a danger in itself, but a message about the character of the day.
A graph of a vertical slice of the atmosphere: temperature and dew point against height. The top of the thermals and the cloudbase are worked out from it.
Put simply. Like a cut through a layer cake: you see at once where each layer is and where it ends.
A warm, dry wind that has crossed the mountains and left its rain on the other side. You do not fly in a föhn.
Put simply. Like a hairdryer: dry, warm and very strong.
A short-lived increase in the wind. What matters to a pilot is not the strength itself but the difference between the gust and the background: the bigger it is, the rougher the air.
Put simply. Like the gust that slams a door: one second, and the consequences are obvious.
A sharp burst of cold air rushing out ahead of a thunderstorm. It arrives before the cloud itself.
Put simply. Like a door slamming in a draught: the storm is still far away, but it hit you now.
A layer in which the temperature rises with height instead of falling. A bubble reaches it and stops.
Put simply. Like a lid on a pan: the steam boils, but it goes no higher.
How many degrees the temperature changes with height. In the standard atmosphere it is 6.5 °C per kilometre; on any given day it can be anything.
Put simply. Like tea cooling across the cup from the bottom to the rim: fast in places, slow in others.
The side of a slope the wind has already crossed. There the air descends and churns.
Put simply. Like standing behind someone walking into the wind: quieter, but the air there is crumpled.
Smooth, lens- or saucer-shaped clouds that stay in one place. A sign of wave flow and strong wind aloft. Not a day to fly.
Put simply. Like a cloud pinned to the sky: the others drift, this one stands still.
Air that is going up. This is what you climb in. It can be thermal (the ground has warmed) or dynamic (the wind rises up a slope).
Put simply. Like an escalator going up: you stand still and you rise.
A short report of the actual weather at an aerodrome: wind, visibility, cloud, temperature, pressure.
Put simply. Like the instrument readings right now, rather than a forecast for tomorrow.
When the clouds have grown too far and the day has turned stormy.
Put simply. Like dough that rose and climbed out of the bowl: it started beautifully and ended in cleaning up.
Pressure reduced to sea level. Set QNH and your instrument shows height above the sea, the way charts and airspace boundaries are defined.
Put simply. Like setting an alarm to the shared time zone rather than to your own watch.
What percentage of the possible vapour is in the air right now. A tricky quantity: it changes even when no moisture has been added — it is enough for the air to warm up. The dew point tells a pilot more.
Put simply. Like “half a glass”: it matters more how much is actually in it than what fraction of the glass is filled.
The evening hour when the thermals have finished, the air has settled and a soft, even lift appears.
Put simply. Like a cooling stove: the fierce heat has gone, but warmth still comes off it.
A turbulent eddy behind an obstacle — behind a crest, a house, a wood. A significant share of accident-causing collapses is linked to lee-side areas.
Put simply. Like the whirl behind a rock in a river: smooth water in front, churning behind.
Air that is going down. In it you lose height faster than usual. It often sits next to a thermal: where something goes up, something else comes down.
Put simply. Like a down escalator: you walk up it and still go down.
The difference between the air temperature and the dew point. A small spread means fog and low cloud; a large one means a blue sky with no clouds to read.
Put simply. Like the distance to a threshold: the smaller it is, the sooner vapour becomes a droplet.
How willing the air is to let bubbles rise. Unstable means strong thermals and high cumulus; stable means a blue sky and weak, low lift.
Put simply. Like water and oil: in one liquid a bubble shoots up, in the other it barely creeps.
A bubble or column of warm air that rises because it is warmer than its neighbours. This is what you climb in.
Put simply. Like the bubbles in a boiling pan: it heats at the bottom, breaks away and goes up.
The temperature at launch at which the thermals finally “switch on” and reach the height you need.
Put simply. Like the temperature at which water boils: a little less and there is only noise; a little more and the steam comes.
Rough, “crumpled” air: the wing is jerked about and the brakes go heavy and empty in turn. It is born behind obstacles, at the edges of thermals and near the ground on a hot midday.
Put simply. Like driving on gravel instead of tarmac: the same direction, a very different ride.
The wind that blows up a valley during the day because the slopes have warmed. It strengthens on a schedule rather than on a forecast, and after midday it can close your way back.
Put simply. Like a draught in a stairwell: not from the weather, but from a temperature difference between bottom and top.
A sharp change of wind speed or direction between heights. The wing enters such a layer and takes a hit on its angle of attack.
Put simply. Like stepping out from behind a building: calm one moment, blown over the next.
The striped “sock” at the site that shows the wind direction and roughly its strength.
Put simply. Like a weather vane, except you also see the strength: hanging means calm, stretched out means wind.
One half of the wing has tucked. The glider turns towards it. Cured with weight towards the flying half and a gentle brake input.
Put simply. As if one of a bird’s wings folded for a moment: it is turned that way until the wing opens again.
A rotation that does not stop by itself: the wing spins you faster and faster. Often the consequence of a cravat.
Put simply. Like a fairground roundabout with no brake: it will not stop on its own.
A way of descending: you pull the B row, the wing “breaks” and comes down almost vertically. The technique has gone out of fashion and is rarely used on modern wings.
Put simply. Like letting some air out of a mattress so that it settles onto the water faster.
A stabilised full stall: the wing stands above and slightly behind you and you fly backwards. A stable state from which a controlled exit is made.
Put simply. Like walking backwards holding a handrail: unfamiliar, but under control.
A way of descending: you pull the wingtip lines, the edges of the wing fold in, the area shrinks and the sink increases.
Put simply. Like folding in the corners of an umbrella: less area, so you come down faster.
When one abnormal state runs into the next with no pause. On SIV this is forbidden: the next exercise only after a full return to normal flight.
Put simply. Like dominoes: one falls and the rest go with it.
Part of the wing has lost its pressure and tucked under. The wing gets smaller, turns towards the folded half and loses height.
Put simply. Like an umbrella with half of it blown inside out: it still holds, but you can no longer walk straight.
A wingtip has fallen between the lines and jammed there. The collapse does not clear by itself and the glider starts to rotate. It is more dangerous than an ordinary collapse precisely because it will not pass without your action.
Put simply. Like a jacket sleeve turned inside out: it will not right itself, you have to reach in.
The state in which you do not know which way is up. After a hard spin-up the vestibular system keeps lying for several minutes — which is why the most disorienting exercises are not flown back to back.
Put simply. Like getting off a roundabout and trying to walk straight: your head is sure it is straight and your body goes sideways.
The leading edge has tucked across the whole span at once. The wing stops flying for a second and then reopens sharply forwards.
Put simply. Like an umbrella snapping shut completely: a second of nothing, then it flings open.
You pull both brakes symmetrically past the stall point. The canopy goes behind your back, then settles above you. The exit is made in two stages, and you may only release when the wing is ahead of you or above you.
Put simply. Like letting go of a sledge on a slope: while you hold it, it stays; let go at the wrong moment and it is gone without you.
An intermediate shape in a stall: the wingtips fold forward and almost meet in front of you. In its steady form it descends at roughly 6 m/s.
Put simply. Exactly like a horseshoe: an arc with its ends pointing at you.
Nausea from swinging and rotation. Common in a tandem passenger, and in a pilot on SIV too. It passes faster if you look at the horizon rather than down or into the camera.
Put simply. Like sitting in the back of a car with your phone: look down and it comes on faster.
The wing is open and looks normal, but it does not go forward — only down. There is no speed and the brakes are empty.
Put simply. Like a parachute: you descend, but you go nowhere. Hence the name.
On an accelerated wing you steer not with the brakes but with handles on the C or B rows. That changes the angle of attack with almost no deformation of the profile.
Put simply. Like steering with your hips on a bicycle instead of yanking the handlebars.
A course where, deliberately, over water and on the instructor’s command, you put the wing into the states that in ordinary flying arrive without warning, and learn to recover from them. French Simulation d’Incident en Vol; the German name for the same thing is Sicherheitstraining.
Put simply. Like a fire drill: there is no fire, but you already know where the exit is and what your hands should do.
One half of the wing is stalled and travelling backwards while the other flies forwards. The glider rotates about its vertical axis. The cure is the opposite of a spiral’s: release both brakes completely.
Put simply. Like rowing with one oar forward and the other back: the boat spins on the spot.
A steep turn with a lot of bank and a fast descent. The most powerful way to lose height and the most dangerous: the G-load builds and the pilot can lose consciousness.
Put simply. Like the vortex in a sink: the water goes down faster and faster in circles.
The state in which the wing does not come out of a spiral by itself: you release, and it keeps turning.
Put simply. Like a sledge that will not roll out of a dip on its own: you have to drive it out.
The angle of attack has gone past critical, the flow separates from the upper surface and the lift falls away sharply. The wing stops being a wing.
Put simply. Like a palm out of a car window turned too far: a moment ago it carried, now it just shakes.
A stall in which the flow separates across the whole span at once. The whole wing stops flying and goes behind your back.
Put simply. Like letting go of both handles of a bag at once: it drops level rather than to one side.
The lines have twisted and you hang turned round — your hands can no longer reach the brakes properly.
Put simply. Like a twisted swing: until you unwind, pushing off is pointless.
Watching the recording of the flight together with the instructor. A required part of SIV, not a pleasant extra: the video shows what you did not notice.
Put simply. Like watching a recording of your own performance: you remembered one thing, the video shows another.
Landing in water. On SIV you prepare for it in advance: life jacket, back protector switched off, boat nearby. It is never a hundred per cent safe, even in controlled conditions.
Put simply. Like jumping into a pool in your clothes: you are not afraid of water, but swimming in a jacket is hard.
Pendulum turns banked first one way, then the other. Energy builds faster than it seems, so they are flown under control.
Put simply. Like swinging on a swing: each swing a little higher, and you have to stop in time.
Flying away from the familiar slope along a route: you leave the known behind and buy information with height. A separate discipline, not “a long flight at the slope”.
Put simply. Like a hike with an overnight stop against a walk in the park: the same ability to walk, but completely different preparation.
A route that returns to the launch point via three turnpoints. Scored higher than the same distance in a straight line.
Put simply. Like a circular hiking route: you come back to where you started and nobody has to fetch the car.
What you take into the air on a route: water, food, warm layers, first-aid kit, documents, a charger, money for the way back.
Put simply. Like packing a bag knowing you cannot go back for what you forgot.
The leg of a route between two climbs that you fly straight, losing height.
Put simply. Like crossing open ground between two shelters: the point is to work out whether you will make it.
The person who works through the forecast, picks the area, sets the task, talks to you on the radio and organises the pick-up. He can refuse a launch, but he cannot make you take off.
Put simply. Like a mountain guide: he shows the way, but you walk it, and the legs are yours.
How much height you have above what you need to reach a landing field. It is worked out in advance, not at the moment it starts to feel worrying.
Put simply. Like fuel left in the tank: what matters is not “how far I have come” but “will I reach the pump”.
The place where you plan to land. They are found at home on a satellite map, not in the air at 300 metres.
Put simply. Like finding a parking space near an unfamiliar building in advance, instead of circling the block with the indicator on.
Services where pilots upload their tracks and flights are compared under scoring rules — distance, route shape, coefficients.
Put simply. Like a running app with segments: you run your own route and the table does the rest.
Landing somewhere other than intended. A normal part of cross-country flying, if the field was chosen in advance.
Put simply. Like getting off a stop early because of a jam ahead: not an accident, a decision.
The place on a route beyond which you can no longer get back upwind. It is decided before take-off.
Put simply. Like the last junction before a toll road: once past it, only forward.
How you are collected from the route after landing: the car, the driver, the road to the field.
Put simply. Like calling a taxi to a place with no address: what matters is not “where am I” but “where can the car reach”.
The chain of places where the air goes up, joined by glides. It follows the terrain, not the straight line on the map.
Put simply. Like a route across a river on stepping stones: not straight, but by the stones that hold.
What speed to fly between climbs. Into wind and in sinking air, faster; downwind, slower.
Put simply. Like walking into the wind: you have to take a longer stride or you stand still.
What the group intends to do today: area, direction, distance. The guide sets it in two or three versions of different difficulty.
Put simply. Like the plan for a day of hiking: “to the pass”, “to the lake” or “to the hut” — chosen by the weather.
Your instrument’s record of the flight: points, heights, times. The only objective document of what happened.
Put simply. Like dashcam footage: arguing with it is pointless, and it is also what protects you.
The talk before a flight in which you go through what will happen and what the hands and feet should do. A nod does not count as confirmation: you have to be sure the person really understood.
Put simply. Like the safety talk before a fairground ride: dull to listen to, and you may not get on without it.
This is how experienced tandem pilots think of a passenger. He turns towards the camera, pulls his legs up, reaches for his phone — and every movement shifts the centre of gravity of the pair.
Put simply. Like carrying a loose watermelon in the boot: the car behaves differently in every corner.
The person flying with you who can do nothing — and is not required to. He cannot read the air, does not know what a surge means, and at a difficult moment can only get in the way.
Put simply. Like a child in the front seat: he is beside you, but the road is your responsibility.
A bar with carabiners between the risers, carrying both harnesses — the pilot’s and the passenger’s.
Put simply. Like the crossbar of a two-seat swing: it holds both seats and spreads them apart.
Flying two-up: a pilot and a passenger on a two-seat wing. A separate profession with its own exam, not “a flight with a companion”.
Put simply. Like a taxi against your own car: you can drive, but now you answer for a person who can do nothing.
The airspace around an aerodrome with its own rules. If a flying site falls inside one, flying there is only possible by prior coordination.
Put simply. Like a yard with a barrier: you can drive in, but not without asking.
The country’s principal aviation law, adopted by Parliament. It sets the frame: what aviation is, who regulates it, how powers are divided. It says almost nothing about airspace — that is in the regulator’s orders.
Put simply. Like a constitution: the general rules, with the detail in separate laws.
The sky divided into volumes with different rules. A paraglider lives in uncontrolled class G: no controller’s clearance is needed, but nobody is obliged to separate you from oncoming traffic either.
Put simply. Like roads: there are motorways with markings and rules, and there are yards where everything rests on your own attention.
An event that must be reported by law: an occurrence in flight, a failure, a near miss. Incidents have reporting deadlines, and they are short.
Put simply. Like a road accident with no injuries: you drove away, and you still have to file it.
The radio frequency reserved for calling for help. You switch to it when normal communication fails and you need to be heard.
Put simply. Like an emergency phone number: rarely dialled, and you must know it by heart.
A rating of how far a wing returns to normal flight by itself: A is the calmest, D is for experienced pilots. It is a class, not a “category”.
Put simply. Like ski runs: green, blue, red, black. A wing is not “better” — it is stricter.
Flight information region: the volume in which a state is responsible for flight services. Georgia has one — the Tbilisi FIR, designator UGGG.
Put simply. Like a region on a map: inside it, one service answers for communication and help.
The document a passenger reads and signs before the flight.
Put simply. Like consent before a medical procedure: a signature after reading, not instead of it.
The international pilot-level card under the FAI scheme. It shows your stage in a form that schools and sites in other countries understand.
Put simply. Like an international driving permit: one document, understood everywhere.
An urgent notice to pilots: where you may not fly today, what is closed, what has changed. Checked before the flight.
Put simply. Like a notice saying “road closed this weekend”: the rules are the same, but today you cannot go here.
The Georgian category that gives you the right to carry a passenger on a two-seat paraglider. Entry is through the TS sub-category of the single-seat PGS Single category.
Put simply. Like a passenger-carrying driving licence: you can already drive, but carrying people needs its own.
You. The decision to launch, continue, turn back, land or throw the reserve is yours alone, whatever comes over the radio.
Put simply. Like being at the wheel: the whole car can offer advice, but the licence and the responsibility are the driver’s.
The official document, issued in Georgia by the national paragliding federation after its own theory and practical exams. A school certificate for completed theory is not a licence.
Put simply. Like a driving licence: the school prepares you and gives you a certificate, but the licence comes from the authority.
The rules of who gives way to whom in the air. In class G that is your own responsibility: a paraglider carries no transponder and does not show on radar.
Put simply. Like a junction with no traffic lights: there are rules, but watching them is up to you.
The designation of the paragliding area over Gudauri. Its ceiling is 10,500 ft (3,200 m) above sea level.
Put simply. Like a plot number on a map: short and unambiguous, so nobody has to describe it in words.
This is how our modules mark the blocks with the details you usually learn only at the launch site from an experienced instructor.
Put simply. Like the note in a recipe that says “and now grandmother’s secret”: you have read the basics, and mastery starts here.
What a person does or fails to do right now: did not pull the leg loop, did not look up before turning. Visible immediately.
Put simply. Like forgetting to switch off the iron: one person’s mistake in one minute.
This is how the modules mark the analyses of real cases: what happened, where the chain broke and what should have been done.
Put simply. Like analysing a road situation at driving school: not a horror story, but practice in deciding.
Three sentences right after landing: what the wing did that you did not expect, what you did in reply, what you should have done. After twenty of those you start seeing recurring mistakes.
Put simply. Like looking at the score after a game: not to be upset, but to know what to change at training.
At a certified site, the person who clears you to move to the launch position, to prepare and to take off.
Put simply. Like the marshal at a site gate: nothing moves without his “go ahead”.
The reaction in which a person stops acting altogether: the hands do not move, no decision comes. The cure is not courage but practice to the point of automatism.
Put simply. Like forgetting your lines on stage: you know them and cannot say them. Only rehearsal helps.
Everything that happens in the pilot’s head and in the group: haste, fatigue, the pressure of the queue, the wish to fly one more time. Equipment fails rarely; decisions fail regularly.
Put simply. Like football: everyone has the same ball and boots, and the decisions on the pitch decide the result.
A decision taken long ago and often by other people: the reserves lie in a heap with no tags, the schedule allows 15 minutes for preparation. It sits there for months spoiling nothing, until it coincides with an active failure.
Put simply. Like a socket that always sparked: years of nothing, and then it coincided.
The person who helps at the launch area. At a certified site the operator is required to keep two such assistants, each having completed the relevant course.
Put simply. Like a second person when moving a piano: it is not that one person finds it heavy — one person must not do it.
Every successful flight at the edge shifts your internal norm: what felt like the limit a year ago feels like an ordinary day now. The only cure is personal minimums written down in advance.
Put simply. Like being five minutes late: once it is an accident, a year later it is your normal schedule.
Your own limits, written down in advance and in numbers: in what wind you do not fly, until what hour you work, how many flights you do in a row. The main rule: they are not revised on the day of the flight.
Put simply. Like agreeing with yourself in advance not to have a second dessert: at the moment of choice it is too late to argue.
The pilot’s right to say “we are not flying today”. In a healthy school such a decision is not discussed, not mocked and needs no justification.
Put simply. Like a surgeon’s right to call off an operation: unpleasant for everyone, and nobody gets hurt.
Gerald Wilde’s idea: when things get safer, people take on risk somewhere else. You bought a calmer wing and started flying on days you would not have flown before.
Put simply. Like putting on a helmet and riding faster: more protection, and the risk is back where it was.
When the decision “I am not flying” is not discussed, not mocked and needs no justification — from a student or from a pilot with a thousand flights. If such a decision is joked about, the site is unsafe whatever the weather.
Put simply. Like a good hospital: anyone may say “I am not sure”, and it is not shameful.
Knowing where you are, what is around you and what comes next. It is lost in stages: first you stop noticing, then you misunderstand, then you mispredict.
Put simply. Like knowing in a strange city where you are, where you are going and what you have time for: lose one and you lose all three.
James Reason’s model: several layers of defence, each with holes. An accident happens when the holes line up. Which means that closing any one of them stops it.
Put simply. Like several doors along a corridor: for the draught to reach you, all of them must be open at once.
Under load, attention narrows to a single point and you stop seeing everything else.
Put simply. Like hunting for keys that are in plain sight: you are looking at one spot and they are right there.
At a ski resort, a constant hazard on landing and on route: the cables are strung high and are hard to see from the air.
Put simply. Like a rope strung between buildings: you notice it only when you are already close.
The procedure by which a search for you starts: who to call, what to say, which coordinates to give. A mountain rescue operation costs other people’s lives, not only money.
Put simply. Like calling the fire brigade: what matters is not “come quickly” but the exact address and what is burning.
A shortage of water in the body. On a route it creeps up: dry cold air aloft takes moisture with every breath, and drinking in the air is awkward. The quality of your decisions suffers first.
Put simply. Like working all day without a drink: your head slows down before you feel thirsty.
Landing where you did not intend to, because there is no alternative. It differs from an out-landing in that there is almost no choice.
Put simply. Like pulling onto the hard shoulder with a dead engine: not a decision, a circumstance.
Tissue damage from cold. Possible even in summer above 3,000 metres: the temperature falls by about 0.65 °C per 100 metres of climb. Fingers and face go first.
Put simply. Like numb fingers in the cold: they stop feeling before you decide to put gloves on.
A touchdown with a strong vertical impact along the axis of the body. It is exactly this impact that puts the spine second in the injury statistics, after the legs.
Put simply. Like jumping off a table with straight legs: not high, and you feel it all the way up.
Overheating of the body. At a launch in the heat in full equipment this is a real risk: the pilot stands in a jacket and helmet in the sun, waiting his turn.
Put simply. Like standing in a winter coat on the underground: five minutes is bearable, twenty is not.
The body has cooled to the point where the person stops making decisions — and is usually the last to notice. At 4,000 metres this is possible even on a hot day at the bottom.
Put simply. Like frozen fingers: first they stop obeying, and you realise it when you cannot fasten your jacket.
A jacket for flying over water. It offsets the buoyancy of your equipment and keeps you on the surface. There is no single industry standard: FFVL recommends at least 100 newtons, FAI a self-inflating jacket of 275 newtons.
Put simply. Like a swim ring: on its own it decides nothing, but it stops you going under in heavy clothes.
The minimum kit that lives in your flying rucksack and can be reached with one hand.
Put simply. Like the first-aid kit in a car: you carry it for years and open it once — and then what is in it matters.
The main invisible danger on landing. The wire itself cannot be seen from the air — its corridor can: a cleared strip, poles, a straight line of trees along a road.
Put simply. Like fishing line in the grass: you cannot see it, and it is the easiest thing to catch on.
Five points before launch: helmet, harness, carabiners and risers, reserve, lines and brakes. Done with the hands rather than the eyes, and if you are interrupted, you start again from the first point.
Put simply. Like checking before you leave: keys, phone, wallet. Only the price of a forgotten item is different.
The boat on an SIV course. It has to reach a downed pilot quickly. The BHPA requirement is at least two people on board: usually the instructor and a boat driver.
Put simply. Like an ambulance parked by a racetrack: idle until it is needed.
What happens when someone hangs motionless in a harness for a long time — caught in a tree, for instance. Blood pools, and that is dangerous in itself.
Put simply. Like a leg going numb, except it is the whole body, and it is no longer about discomfort.