Surfing the Air

The breeze perfectly snaked up the mountain, Through bushes, over rocks, towards me. I leant back, pulling my wing up, it bloated in full, Then hovered above the trees. I stood there, both hands working the lines, Looking out across the empty. And I casually stepped off the cliff, “Was there enough air?” I thought. Yes, there was plenty. The thermal soared me straight up, into the vast, Below me everything became small. I flew up so high, I was part of the sky, My life begged this wing not to stall. Then, all of a sudden, I popped out of the thermal, My wing crumpled into a small nothing, I plummeted in that momentary second, it opened again, This wing was only bluffing. Of course I was at the mercy of the air, As it roared like the ocean and waves. It took me silently over the cemetery of its victims, An air cemetery full of its graves. For hours I surfed, predicting the swell, Riding breaks and soaring off the crest. And then I cruised back to the Earth, landing on terra firma, Feeling heaps, and way less stressed. Paragliding was my life, for a while, It was my source of unwind, loosen up, and relax. What things relax you, how do you chill and compose, Loosening up to the max?