My Fethiye Story: Paragliding Experience Over Ölüdeniz (Audio Travelogue)

Soaring high above the turquoise waters of Ölüdeniz, with the majestic Babadağ Mountain behind me and the iconic Blue Lagoon shimmering below, my paragliding adventure in Fethiye was one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life.

I had seen countless photos and videos of people gliding through the skies, but nothing compares to the real thing—the moment your feet leave the ground, the wind lifts you up, and the world suddenly becomes calm and silent. I’ll admit, I was nervous at first, standing on the edge of the mountain with my harness strapped in. But once we launched, all fear faded, replaced by awe, excitement, and a sense of total freedom.

In this blog post, I’ll take you through every step of my paragliding journey: from the early morning drive up the mountain to the peaceful descent over one of Turkey’s most breathtaking coastlines. It truly felt like flying.

My Paragliding Experience Over Ölüdeniz, Fethiye

Listen to my paragliding experience in Fethiye:

1. The View from Below

For seven mornings, I had woken to the same ritual: the clink of breakfast plates from the hotel terrace below, the scent of olive oil and oregano rising with the heat, and the paragliders. Always the paragliders. From my balcony, they looked like scattered petals caught in a slow-motion waltz above Ölüdeniz—neon pink canopies, striped orange sails, and occasionally a daring soul spiraling downward in a controlled freefall that made my stomach lurch even from a distance.

The first time I saw them, I spilled my coffee. The cup rattled against the saucer as my hands betrayed me, reacting before my brain could process the sight. "They're jumping off a mountain," I whispered to no one, as if saying it aloud might make it less impossible. By the third day, I caught myself timing my morning çay to their launches, counting the seconds between each runner's leap and their canopy snapping open like a blooming flower.

The German couple next door had done it yesterday. They'd returned to the hotel with windswept hair and a glow about them, speaking in reverent tones about "the silence up there." Their enthusiasm planted a seed in me—one that grew roots each time I watched another glider bank over the lagoon, their shadow skimming the water like a seabird.

But fear sat heavy in my throat. I'd never even liked rollercoasters.

On the seventh morning, as a particularly bold paraglider executed a series of looping turns that drew gasps from the beach below, I made a decision. My hands shook as I dialed the number on the brochure I'd been clutching for days.

2. The Ascent: Babadağ’s Rough Embrace

The jeep that collected me at dawn might have been a museum piece—its suspension groaned with every pothole, and the torn vinyl seats smelled of sweat and adventure. Our driver, a grizzled man named Cemal with a cigarette permanently affixed to his lower lip, navigated the switchbacks with the casual precision of someone who'd made this trip ten thousand times.

"Hold on tight, princess," he chuckled as we hit a particularly vicious bump. My head nearly grazed the roof as we launched airborne for a terrifying second. The German backpacker Lars, sitting opposite me, whooped with delight, his GoPro strapped to his forehead like a third eye.

As we climbed, the landscape transformed. The resort hotels and beach bars gave way to pine forests where the air smelled like Christmas and crushed herbs. Goats scattered at our approach, their bells clanking in protest. The road—if you could call it that—narrowed to a ribbon of dirt clinging to the mountainside, with occasional heart-stopping glimpses of the sheer drop just beyond our wheels.

"Beautiful, yes?" Cemal gestured to the view unfolding behind us. The entire Turkish Riviera stretched below—the sickle curve of Ölüdeniz's lagoon, the scattered islands like emerald crumbs on a blue tablecloth, the white wakes of early morning boats stitching patterns across the sea. My fingers dug into the seat. It was too much beauty to process while also fearing for my life.

At 1,700 meters, the launch site buzzed with controlled chaos. Pilots barked orders in Turkish, German, and English as they unfurled canopies that snapped in the wind like angry ghosts. A French woman ahead of me vomited discreetly behind a rock. Lars high-fived everyone in sight.

Then Kemal appeared—my pilot. His face was a roadmap of sun lines, his hands steady as he checked my harness. "First rule," he said, cinching a strap painfully tight around my thighs, "when I say run, you run like your life depends on it. Because," he grinned, "it does."

The reality of what I was about to do hit me like a bucket of ice water. My knees turned to jelly. Kemal, sensing my panic, placed a calloused hand on my shoulder. "Look," he pointed to where an elderly Japanese couple were launching, their faces alight with joy. "If they can do it, so can you."

3. The Jump: Between Terror and Ecstasy

The edge of Babadağ was not a clean line, but a crumbling precipice where the earth simply... stopped. My brain short-circuited as Kemal clipped us together. "Ready?" he asked.

"No," I whispered.

"Good answer." His laugh rumbled against my back. "Now RUN!"

What followed were the most surreal five seconds of my life. My legs moved without conscious thought, pounding the rocky ground in a desperate sprint toward certain death. The wind roared in my ears. The ground disappeared.

And then—

Silence.

We weren't falling. We were floating. The harness bit into my thighs as we caught an updraft, rising higher instead of plummeting. My scream died in my throat, replaced by a disbelieving laugh.

"Open your eyes," Kemal murmured. I hadn't realized I'd closed them.

Below us, the world had transformed into a living map. The lagoon's colors shifted from tourmaline to cobalt where the seabed dropped away. Tiny figures on paddleboards left perfect circles in their wake. A fishing boat's net unfurled like a silver fan beneath the surface.

Then Kemal banked hard right, and my stomach tried to exit through my mouth. "Relax!" he shouted over the wind. "You're fighting it!" I realized I'd been death-gripping the straps, my entire body rigid with terror.

Slowly, deliberately, I forced my fingers to unclench. The moment I surrendered, something magical happened—I became part of the flight. The wind wasn't an enemy, but a dance partner. When we hit turbulence, I instinctively leaned into it like a sailor adjusting to waves.

Kemal whooped as we caught a thermal, spiraling upward in widening circles. "Now you're flying!"

Time lost meaning. There was only the sun warming my face, the smell of the sea rising to meet us, and the impossible perspective that made all my problems seem laughably small.

4. The Descent: Thoughts in the Wind

As we began our gradual descent, an unexpected melancholy washed over me. I wasn't ready to return to earthbound existence. Up here, everything made sense in a way it never did below.

The details grew sharper as we neared the lagoon—the individual umbrellas on the beach, the flash of a waiter's tray in the sunlight, the way the water changed from blue to green where the sandbars rose. A speedboat's wake formed perfect parallel lines that vanished as we watched.

"Last turn," Kemal warned before executing a graceful spiral that made my stomach flip. The beach rushed up to meet us, and suddenly my feet were dragging through warm sand. I collapsed to my knees, laughing uncontrollably.

5. Aftermath: Earthbound Again

The sand was warmer than I remembered. I sat there for a long moment, fingers splayed against the beach as if needing to confirm its solidity, my legs still trembling with the phantom memory of flight. Around me, the ordinary sounds of Ölüdeniz rushed back—children squealing in the shallows, the rhythmic scrape of lounge chairs being adjusted, the tinny melody of an ice cream vendor's cart. It all felt strangely distant, like I was observing the world through a thin veil.

"First flight?" A shadow fell across me as the waiter appeared, balancing a tray of frosted beers. His knowing smile crinkled the corners of sun-bleached eyes.

I nodded, still breathless. "Was it that obvious?"

He set down a coaster with practiced ease. "You all have the same look—like someone switched the world to brighter colors." Plucking an empty bottle from a nearby table, he pointed to the paragliders still circling above. "My brother flies. Says it ruins you for normal life."

A couple at the adjacent table leaned in—American accents, matching sunburns. "You just came down from there?" the woman asked, eyes wide. "Was it... terrifying?"

I hesitated. The truth was complicated. "At first," I admitted, accepting the cold Efes the waiter handed me. The condensation dripped onto my knees, shockingly cold against my sun-warmed skin. "But then..." How to describe the moment when fear had transformed into something else entirely? "It's like your body remembers it's supposed to fly."

The man fiddled with his sunglasses. "We're booked for tomorrow. Jill's been panicking all morning."

"Don't listen to her," Jill interjected, swatting his arm. "You're the one who white-knuckled the cable car up here."

The waiter returned with a plate of meze—creamy haydari dusted with paprika, smoky eggplant dip, olives glistening with oil. "Eat," he ordered. "Flying makes everyone hungry."

As I tore off a piece of warm pide, the flavors exploded—garlic, lemon, the earthy tang of good olive oil. The German backpacker Lars appeared, slumping into the chair beside me with a dramatic groan. "My GoPro died halfway through!" He mimed tearing out his hair. "The one time I don't check the battery..."

The Americans peppered us with questions—Did it feel like falling? How long were you airborne? What if you're afraid of heights?

Lars answered with the zeal of a convert: "You don't understand until you're up there. It's not like an airplane—you feel everything. The wind, the thermals..." He demonstrated with his hands, nearly upending his beer.

I let their chatter wash over me, watching the paragliders—my fellow sky-dancers—paint the horizon. One performed a series of daring spirals, drawing gasps from the beach. Another drifted so low I could see the pilot's red helmet glinting in the sun.

The waiter reappeared with another round. "From the gentleman at the bar," he said, nodding toward Kemal, who raised his coffee cup in salute. My pilot looked different earthbound—smaller, somehow, without the wind in his hair.

"You'll go again," the waiter stated as he cleared the plates. Not a question.

I thought of the moment mid-flight when Kemal had let me steer, how the lines had thrummed like guitar strings in my hands. The way the horizon had tilted, obedient to my slightest touch.

"Maybe tomorrow," I said, surprising myself.

The Americans exchanged glances. "Well," the man sighed, "if you're doing it twice..."

As the sun dipped toward the sea, staining the lagoon gold, I realized something fundamental had shifted. The world hadn't changed—the boats still chugged, the tourists still bickered over sunbeds—but I had. Somewhere between the heart-stopping leap and the gentle touchdown, I'd left a piece of my old, earthbound self on that mountaintop.

The waiter was right. It ruins you for normal life.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Enjoy your paragliding flight in Fethiye!

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