Hugh Fisher

That’s a great black and white photo of Lucas; in every craggy facial crinkle a story, dark eyes intense with a fiery burning adventurous spirit , Fu Manchu nic stained, smiling (well almost). He came over the other night for dinner, after the comp, before Revelstoke, whisky bottle in one hand and a dozen stories in the other. So proud of his shark biologist daughter and his grand children and his friend the airline pilot that flies him almost free, almost anywhere. So happy with Lisa Richardson and her husband for whom he had built a house here in Pemby and insists he stay. And he loved his Iceland flying , his Icelandic paraglider job, his tiny Icelandic cabin where all his friends would end up late at night telling endless tales, listening to music. He reckoned his favourite flight ever was when he flew high over Mt Currie but that he had been doing so much soaring in Iceland and SA he had now forgotten how to thermal. We talked of Judd. We drank some whisky.
In the afternoon I had watched when Oni asked Lucas if he could help fold his wing and he had responded with an almost rebellious challenging snort that he had a much simpler way than us and could do it faster and better and so while I folded my wing and packed my harness taking maybe ten minutes he very quickly stuffed his wing and harness and instruments into a back pack sac, maybe in 1 minute, leaving both Oni and I astonished, staring, convinced . I think this was Lucas’s way, looking for ways to do things more simply, never afraid to do it differently than others, not afraid to prove his point, not afraid at all.