After nearly two hours in the air, I was supposed to head back toward the landing field.
Below me, the winding curves of the Oigawa River stretched endlessly through the mountains.
I became absorbed in photographing the scenery from above.
Before I realized it, I had lost my sense of direction.
My altitude slowly began to drop.
I continued circling above the dam, searching desperately for somewhere to land.
But below me was nothing but tea fields.
Landing there could damage the crops.
As I kept flying in confusion, people on the ground apparently believed they were watching an unmanned paraglider drifting through the sky — perhaps even an accident.
In the end, I made an emergency landing in a farmer’s yard.
I once thought flying meant freedom.
But in reality, flying was a constant negotiation with wind, terrain, altitude, and nature itself.
Now, I am trying to paint those memories in oil.
