Altitude

I awaken with the sun this morning. It makes me laugh. I'm glad that no one is here to see me standing at the window, in nothing but Portuguese flannel pajama bottoms, laughing at the sun like some kind of demented lark. The gentlemen I work with would be shocked beyond words to know that I arose, well before seven, without an alarm clock and with a smile on my face. Hell, I hardly believe it either.

Maybe there is something about this year that will be different. I hope. Now, there are two little words that haven't been in my vocabulary for a long time. Maybe it's just the altitude.

But damn, I had a great time last night. I have no earthly idea what possessed me to tag along with Mr. Larabee and Mr. Wilmington to that hole-in-the-wall jazz club. I can't even abide that musical tradition unless it's classic N'Oleans style or it's kissin' cousin R&B. This was great stuff. The sound was rather eclectic, but wonderfully good as was the cuisine. I believe Mr. Wilmington almost took a header into his microbrew when he tasted that authentic blackened alligator. I haven't tasted such good Cajun cooking since I stayed with the Thibodeaux in LaFourche Parish. How long ago must that be? At least twenty years.

It was just after eight when we got there, and except for a couple necking in the corner, we had the place to ourselves. When Chris Larabee got up and played horn with the band, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Astounding. Simply astounding.

Buck sat there with tears in his eyes and told me Chris had not touched an instrument since he lost his family. Then he looked at me and honestly thanked me for coming. I couldn't believe that these two old friends would consider making room for a third-party, let alone welcome me. I'm still shaking my head over that one. Just the fact that they asked me to go with them, nearly bowled me over. Now were it Mr. Tanner or Mr. Dunne even Mr. Jackson or Mr. Sanchez, I could understand. But why me?

For some reason unknown to man, especially this one, I asked that very thing and do you know what I was told? Because I knew how to have a good time. How in the hell would anybody know that? We did, indeed have a very good time. Got buzzed and wound up singing with that grinning bunch of jazz musicians. I even played some decent Gene dePaul R&B on that ancient Steinway after some persuasion. Admittedly, it was a bet, which of course, I won.

Mercy, look at the time and I'm standing here grinning like a fool. Not that I really have to rush, but I suppose I am — excited. Just like a kid at Christmas or better still a boy on his birthday. I'm going for the gold today.

Ben called me yesterday, he said that the conditions looked right for today and would I want to make the try? The Blanik was ready if I was. Perfect, could not be more perfect I told him and headed right into Mr. Larabee's office to ask for the day off. He didn't even pause, although this is the first day off I have ever asked for since joining the team, over a year ago now. Only one condition, he said. I was a little worried, as he's made some fairly outrageous demands on my person in the past. This time it was just that I make it to his ranch on Sunday. I was relieved and somewhat abashed having stood them up once or twice before. This time I promised, so he knows I will be there.

I can't believe I am so wound up. That feeling stays with me all through my workout, shower, and coffee. Even when I open that ominous parcel from my mother. For once, she got it absolutely perfect. Never has she gotten me a more timely present, in more ways then one.

Dear Mother, I will write on the ivory embossed stationary she gave me last year for Christmas. Thank you for the beautiful sienna brown, Italian leather aviator's jacket. It fits beautifully and is soft as baby skin. I am very pleased with it. It's perfect. Love always, Ezra.

I am even more pleased with the fact that when I write that thank-you, I will mean each and every word.

As I go to leave, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of my front door. There I am, still grinning like a loon. I almost pull on my company face, then I stop. The hell with it. For too many years, I have been schooling my expression. Today, just for today, I am going to be myself, for an entire day. World might just keep on spinning.

Stepping out into the June sunshine, I feel the sun beaming its benevolent warmth through the young green leaves of the small trees that line the walkway in front of the townhouses. The air is still chill; the highs today will probably stay in the 60's but that is fine with me. I can wear my new jacket without people thinking I am odd. Well, they might think that anyway, since I can't shake this goofy grin.

Okay, chores are done: recyclables are put out, mail is ready for pickup and I am on my way. I open the windows and let the wind blow the hell out of my hair. It will stand on end, no doubt, but I'm not out to impress anybody where I am going. As I stream along in that sweet driving machine that Mother imposed upon me, the sky alternates from pure azure to brilliant white. Huge cumulus clouds sail in the mile high atmosphere. They remind me of the bolls of cotton that graced the farmer's fields on those long rural stretches of the back roads in South Carolina.

I slip in a George Winston CD, crank ‘er up and speed along I25 south like I haven't a care in the world. It is true. I  hope to earn that gold today, but win, show or place, as far as I am concerned today is a good day. A very good day and I am happy.

Forty-five minutes later, I pull up into the dusty parking lot of Kelly Air Park. Arlie waves from where he is puttering about with the Piper Pawnee. She sits there all perky and cute, but my attention is drawn past her to where the Blanik L-23 sits like a swan princess waiting to sail into the magic of the morning glory.

Ben strolls out, chewing the stub of an unlit cigar in his teeth, He never lights one up, just  carries the thing around for effect. He frowns a bit at me, but the warmth in his keen brown eyes and the extra squeeze of his grease-stained fingers convey his enthusiasm.

We speak little. No words are really necessary, I am comfortable with these two gentlemen. There is no need to throw them bones of courteous clamor. Finally, all is ready. Arlie and I go over everything once more. Ben soberly shakes my hand again. Nobody says anything about luck, because we all know that this is about skill, about feeling and intuition. This is all about soaring.

Carefully, I hop into the confined cockpit. I adjust the straps of the safety harness one last time where they lie wide and firm against the supple leather of my new jacket like the steady hands of an affectionate guardian. I know the parachute pack is neatly folded and ready in its little knapsack that sits unobtrusively between my shoulder blades. Before closing the canopy, I adjust the rim of Daddy's old Naval pilot's cap and my Emporio Armani aviators. Final instrument check and a thumbs up for Arlie. We are off.

There is a slight groan as the tow rope tightens and I can hear the roaring purr of the engines of the club's Piper Pawnee. We are quickly airborne. The Piper pushes up at about 65 miles per hour. The variometer has begun her happy chirping. With every foot we climb, she sings a tone higher like a songbird drunk on the altitude.

I watch the chronometer and we pass three minutes then four still climbing up into the heavens. Another minute and I feel that tug of the air that says I hit an upward draft. I give the signal and pull the lever. The tether drops from the nose of the Blanik and she is free from her bonds. With a dip of wings, Arlie slips off to the right and I turn left into a sweet thermal lifting up from a newly plowed field.

Okay, lady, let's show them what we got. I loop around, lazy and smooth in an effortless spiral up. I begin at 1231 feet and I seem to reach 3000 ever so quickly. The steady rush of the wind lifts me ever higher gliding in circles that corkscrew up into edge of a cloud.

Drops of unfallen rain skitter across the polished fiberglass surfaces. The sound inside the nimbus is humming with the song of the variometer and the metronomic rhythm of condensed water drumming on the windshield.

As carousel turns lift me higher, my swan princess flies once more into the radiance of clear air. Forty-five hundred feet of glorious air propels me on my quest. Dear God, I am so contented. Patchwork fields and quilted hillsides down below and the shimmer of a thousand needles of light from the beads of water embroidering the glider baste me in splendor.

And still I rise.

The wind gusts, the swoosh matching the rush of blood in my arteries. The variometer continues to sing the ever higher pitch of elevation. Almost there baby, I croon to the Blanik urging her ever upward. I spy a hawk rising in languorous rings and a subtle adjustment of the flaps and rudder carries me right into that swelling thermal. I check again to make sure my flight recorder is on and properly working. The beautiful tracings of the barograph will hold this moment for posterity. And for proof.

We glide, sailing effortlessly as I hit a ridge lift. I do believe I am holding my breath. Ten thousand feet. Oh baby, less then two thousand left to go. I am almost afraid to watch the altimeter. Eleven hundred, ten, nine, eight. Breathlessly adjust, spiraling into a chandelle. Seven, six, five, four. Lazy eight. Dear Lord, we are still climbing. Three, two, one. Yes! Eleven thousand ninety-seven feet above the ground. An amazing 3007 meters to be exact from my low point. The gold is mine!

The whoops from the radio receiver are met with my own. I am babbling ecstatically. I did it! I know that a smile stretches from ear to ear. Ben proclaims in his dry tones, I'm floating the drinks. Take your time, son, bring her home when you are ready, this one's on me.

I can feel the tug of earth, the inexorable draw of gravity and let the Blanik drift, light as a peach blossom, towards the ground. We weave patterns of loops and circles knitting an invisible thread through the waft of air. Leaning into a slow spin I catch a glint of light off a black Dodge pickup. The goofy grin on my face expands into a full-fledged laugh. Damn their eyes! I must have been more buzzed then I thought last night.

Dipping my wings back and forth I catch a  glimpse of a newsboys cap and an enthusiastic wave cut off by a clap on the back of the dark head. The lights on the Dodge blink on and off. I watch closely, they signal: “Done good, pard.” Thank-you, Mr. Tanner.

For another quarter hour, my swan princess and I dance a  waltz to the silent song boundless flight through the bright blue heavens. No angel born in the celestial spheres ever flew with more gratitude. Oh, not just for the FAI Gold Badge that I will affix with pride on my Dad's old hat, but for the hope that I suddenly find as my spirit soars along. Must be the thrill of winning, I tell myself. Must be the freedom I feel. I laugh again thinking of six attentive figures. Not a bad hand in the bunch: there's a sure bet.

As I drop the Blanik precisely on the flat ground back at the airpark, her one wheel rolling cleanly over the clumps of grass that sprout there, I draw her wings level and slip to a stop. Pushing up the canopy, I reach for my cell phone tucked into the inside pocket of my new jacket. Tapping the speed dial button, I wait for the terse greeting. Maybe the boys will join us in that fly-by-night roadhouse Ben and Arlie like. I think maybe my friends should get to know each other. I hope they will come. There's that phrase again. Aw hell, must be the altitude.

~Fortuna dies natalis!

The End