The instructor suggested a tow to 3,000 feet for a late afternoon joy ride. The tow pilot was happy to oblige; the pros were already coming in and done for the day – diminishing lift conditions. Up we went into the unusually calm air. In my few flights, I’d only experienced one thermal that produced adequate lift. The instructor had noted my luck on that day.

At 3,000 even, I pulled the lever and banked right. As I came around looking for the tow plane, I noted he was far beneath me. “He’s in a hurry to go home”, I thought. I rolled out and took a look at my instruments. Altitude – 4,100. “Uh oh! Airspeed!” I quickly glanced at the airspeed indicator and horizon. Dead level and airspeed is good. My ears confirmed what my eyes told me.

Only then did it dawn on me to look at the variometer. When I released, I never noted the bump. Now I was staring at a variometer that was recording 800 fpm of positive lift. The vario dropped a tad a few seconds later.

“That guy dumped me straight on top of a thermal! Cool!”

I scanned the skies, gave it a split second longer, and then racked the Grob over. I teetered on that really tight and slow minimum sink – more than 800 fpm on the vario. Miraculously, I centered in the thermal perfectly. I think I could have let go she’d just track right around. I promise you, it was an accident. Somewhere around 5,900 feet, I began to think about dropping out of the thermal and seeing if I could find another one. The lift never abated, but I wanted to stay close to the glider port. So I turned back to the port and immediately sank into a column of spilling air.

“Oh yeah, I’d better trim for best L/D.”

I looked down at the glider and noted that a lot of sailplanes were coming back out of their trailers.

Take it. I checked my pattern carefully and ten worked back outside the area just a bit to work the weak lift – maybe 200 fpm – and stay out of the way. Once I ratcheted back up a few hundred feet, I sailed on past the pattern and then hit another strong bump. Somehow I centered back onto this thermal, and pocketed another 600 fpm or so.

By now, I could see everyone making a beeline for my thermal. Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do. Every sailplane on the FAA registry lined up below me. Now we were in a vertical race. I was in the lead, but driving a Yugo in front of a gaggle of Ferrari’s (okay, forgive me; the Grob is a great bird).

Somewhere around 4,800 feet, the pros started to catch me. Time to bow out and go home. I turned out of the thermal and made my way back around to the port. It took me forever to kill the altitude. I was having so much luck, I guess I could’ve pointed the nose vertically (at the ground) and I still wouldn’t have lost enough altitude. I think the instructor mentioned that maneuver was to be discouraged.

I made a perfect pattern down to a perfect landing, and then a perfect stop. One, two, three, four, five, six…the wing finally teetered down. Incredible! What seemed like minutes had actually been an hour.

I thought about staying a while so the pros could thank me when they landed. I thought maybe I’d return the next day to watch them land (okay, I’m exaggerating).

“No need to thank me, guys. I’ll be back next weekend, and I’ll bring a couple of thermals with me.”

The tow plane pilot was grinning at me as I walked past. There seemed to be knowledge in his look.

“I’ll be he’s going to take some of the credit”, I grumbled on the way to the car.