Of genies and flight

    I know what you are thinking. How novel. Let me assure you that a decent part of my 27 years has been spent working out the kinks that your normal fake-flight-free life has not allowed. Lets start by picking a special supernatural type of flight like that of Superman. No wings or rocket packs or anything Disney would approve of. No special clothing or shapes required. I don’t want to be a superhero or fight bad guys. I want to fly to the store at one in the morning and pick up coffee filters in my sweat pants. This kind of mission requires that my flying is not uncomfortable, freaky, difficult to manage, transitory, or just plain silly like Flubber.

    These are the things that I would ask of my Genie. I must be able to position myself anyway that I want in the air without blood rushing to my head or puke rushing to my lawn as I tumble like an old sock in the dryer. I need to be able to orient myself easily and my equilibrium must be corrected so I can concentrate on which store is likely to have the right size filter. I must be able to start and stop at will without worrying about my momentum. I don’t want to land delicately like a helicopter on the roof of a hospital, that is no fun. This is supposed to be fun. Besides, I’ve put on a lot of weight in the past year what with Halloween and all and I don’t want to become a fleshy bowling ball every time I run into something.

    That reminds me. I have to be impervious to smacks, and slams, and cuts, and drops and anything that might hurt or kill me if I fell or tumbled into any number of treacherous hard objects like the street or a tall horse. Electrical wires would also suck. I don’t want any restrictions on how far or how high I can fly so Mr. Genie must grant me the ability to breath at high altitude, at high speeds, in outer space, even underwater (hah! Didn’t think of that one did you?) Also, it’s bound to be pretty damn cold and inhospitable in many of the places I might want to fly so I better have some sort of temperature regulation so I don’t freeze to death or burn up or have my goggles fog up.

    Scratch the goggles too. I need to be able to have open vision in all situations without my eyeballs tearing up or drying out while I flutter around. I need to be able to wear normal clothes and have them survive the journey. No use darting off to the Opera in Sydney if I arrive in wet tattered underwear and dress shoes and my hair brings to mind a Poison video. That’s another thing. My hair needs to remain normal like Superman’s when I fly. The front curl always stayed nice and tight and you could run a ruler down that part. I want the same treatment. See its more complex than you thought. What? I’m a detail obsessed analytical fool you say? I’ve taken all the fun out of making wishes? This my friend is why I will be flying the kids off to Gymboree while you go back to the house to get your goggles, wetsuit and colostomy bag so you can make it to your buddy’s house two towns over. The devil is in the details.

    Ok, now for the finishing touches. All of this has to be automatic and easy to turn on and off at my command. You never know. I may want to feel the wind through my hair on a hot day or see if my penis really will freeze to my leg on the way to Toronto; Freedom of choice. Another thing. If something should happen to me while I’m flying say I get shot or lose track of where I am or fall asleep (don’t ask) there must be an automatic landing feature in my flight package so that I come to rest in some safe place on the ground. In a more pedestrian vein I must also be able to comfortably hold off peeing and crapping while I fly. I don’t want to have to taxi into Taco Bell every time I go for more than 20 minutes and I don’t want to pee into the wind at 30,000 feet.

    Did I mention that my Genie whilst still imminently evil is very patient and detail oriented? He appreciates any attempts to map out a plan and learn from the mistakes of others. I’m with my genie now. We are ready to begin. I’ve given him a comfortable chair and gone over my Santa sized list of conditions with him. My genie is a he because it seems like the female genies are unusually sarcastic and bitchy. The male genie is usually more laid back and forgiving. He still throws back cold beers with the Devil, but deep down he wants me to get it right and enjoy my crazy schemes. So my laid back male genie and I have just finalized my plans and he has given me the golden rod copy of all my liability agreements and confidentiality contracts. Up, up, and away!

    I live in a cozy little studio apartment just a block above Golden Gate Park in San Francisco with my flightless fiancé so I better wait until late at night while she is asleep. The entire day I can barely contain myself I’m so excited. I don’t eat that much because I have plans. I do poop before bedtime to remove the x-factor. I put on a hooded sweatshirt and a wind proof jacket because I’m going to start with all of the options turned off. I double-sock it. Got my watch with Day-Glo hands so I can keep track of time. Wallet? Check. Gloves? Check. I don’t own goggles because I am neither a welder, motorcycle rider, nor I am Horace Grant, so I will have to do without for now. I can leave from our rooftop because it’s nice and wide and higher up than many around us so its got decent cover.  It’s only a few feet until I’m above the building and off to explore the lovely metropolis that is San Francisco. It’s a tic past one in the morning and my fiancé is dead asleep. I have all my gear on and step quietly out the front door.  I open and shut doors quietly when I am sneaking into the kitchen to make nachos at three in the morning so I close and doors if they are coated in nitro glycerin for my flight test.

    I make my way up the stairs to our rooftop and compose myself before I try and lift off. When I was a boy and visiting my Dad I used to watch a neighbor of his play with a remote controlled helicopter. The thought of that delicate little weed whacker flying around town was so exciting I could hardly wait when the man down the street would fire it up. But he never, ever, hit the gas right away and went whizzing off over traffic (like he should have). He was mind numbingly methodical about his preparation. Up two feet, down and a turn on the screw. Up 10 feet, down, and a then twist of the fins on the tail. For a four – year old this foreplay was terrible to endure. I never understood why he couldn’t just go for it. But my dad told me that it was very difficult to fly something like this little toy and everything had to be just right. It was a tough pill to swallow but it made sense to the part of my brain that didn’t want to see a very small helicopter go flying over the street (a tiny ill used portion).

    I close my eyes and inhale a deep cold breath. I take one last look around the darkened sidewalks and streets of this quiet Richmond neighborhood to be sure I am alone. All clear. I tell myself to rise into the air and my body gently but swiftly lifts off the ground and starts to rise at just a few feet from the loose gravel beneath me. It feels wonderful, just like it does in those rare dreams. Like floating, but with purpose. I notice right away how terrific it feels to roll my feet around and churn my legs. Like being in a pool but so much lighter, and quicker. I decide to come back down and it’s just as effortless. Like getting out of bed in the morning.

    Now I’m ready to move up into the air, above the building I think. Yes, I can do that. I concentrate and ascend to just above a streetlight near the edge of the building, just 30 feet up or so off the ground. How amazing it is to hover here. The moon is full and I feel so close to it. I can see over the tops of the surrounding buildings and I can see the mass of grey fog out by the ocean just two or three miles to the west. I can twirl and spin and flip in midair but it is a little disorienting since I haven’t engaged any Superman options yet. The weirdest part is not having anything to hold onto, to lean on, to push off of. It’s just a matter of will and my body follows. Like any motion of my body I guess. Its just so unnatural it’s exaggerated.

    I have decided that unlike the man with the little copter, that this may be a once in a lifetime chance and I better get going while the going is good. I focus and burst straight up into the night sky. Right at the moon. 200 feet up I tell my body, then stop and just wait. Immediately the wind is rushing at my head, at my face. It’s making my eyes tear up like crazy and it’s icy against my cheeks. My arms are at my sides, not like a superhero. The air is rushing down my neck and against my body. My sweatshirt and pants are madly billowing and snapping. I try to keep my eyes open, looking up toward that huge moon, but damn it’s impossible. Then suddenly I’m there.

    I take a second to orient myself. I wipe at my eyes and adjust my clothes. Then I take a deep breath and start to look down. I can just see the city lights off in the distance to the east within the fog. Same for the top of Golden Gate in its gentle orange with the little bulbs just barely glowing to outline it. I can see the dark dense bush of the Presidio and the Park just near me. I can see the Bay Bridge off in the distance. Just a few miles to the east. I can most definitely see my house from up here. I hesitate but I lean forward until I’m at about 30 degrees, almost lying on my stomach, arms hanging below me. The little cars putter by and the streetlights are little twinkling orbs. It worked. 200 feet up for sure. Whew, boy this is high. It’s terribly awkward to have nothing under me. It’s actually pretty scary. I’m breathing really fast and sweating and my heart is racing. I thought about this aspect, but my imagination was a poor substitute for reality. After a few minutes it starts to feel more normal, less intense. I can dart around superman style, or easy chair style, I can do the backstroke, and any stroke I want really.

    I start to test my ability to stop and start. I can go new bottle of ketchup slow or really fast. I decide to use my special flight abilities one by one and each makes the experience more comfortable. My sense of balance and direction return, my eyes don’t water, my ears don’t rush like a freight train anymore. I’m not cold, or hot, or anything. I’m very comfortable actually.

    Now the fun begins. I make my way out to the ocean. I fly low and fairly slow to take it all in. So much fun. Just like I knew it would be, just like in my dreams.  I come to the Pacific (I’ve never seen another ocean actually) just above the park and zoom up into the air high above an old asphalt walkway. Fantastic. I swoop down fast, my arms outstretched and my eyes clear, closer and closer to the water until I’m just a few feet above the cold rolling waves. I think about the great white sharks in this part of the Pacific and decide to rise up above to water and slow down. I head north a few hundred yards and slow to a hover about 50 feet above the water facing the Cliff House Restaurant. I had my college graduation dinner there! That was nice too. So many nights I have stood at the railing and looked out over the ocean wishing I could glide like the seagulls that just ride the ocean winds and hover over the rocks, looking for a quick bite before the waves overtake the jagged rocks that hold dinner. Rail loitering is for walkers.
If there is one thing I must do before this power leaves me (who knows how long it can last) its fly to the Golden Gate Bridge and explore it like it was meant to be explored, like a bird. I’ve walked the bridge many times and it’s a powerful experience. So solid and majestic, yet a little unnerving when you look out over the edge and realize how high up you are. I’ve seen it from all the angles and from sunrise till sunset and everything in between. But I know this is going to be different.

    I decide to come at it from the west, from the ocean. The fog and wind is cold and moist and brisk but I can’t feel it really. I can tell its there but it isn’t a nuisance. The bridge is so long and thin as I fly toward it, never really grasped this breadth my walks. I swim through the cold air slowly and lazily as I approach he southern base by the fort. It’s late and traffic is light. No people to worry about, they close the bridge to foot traffic at sunset. I hover just over the water near the southern base, the icy waves moving past it and parting around the cold orange steel. I reach out my hand and touch it. Has anyone ever actually touched this part of the bridge. When I would walk the bridge there were times when I was the only one on the span on foot. I would always marvel at the fact that at that moment if someone asked who was on the Golden Gate Bridge they would have to say Chris is, he is the only one. What an honor.

      I decide to ascend the base at its side and rise up past the road and up the side of the immense tower. Its proportion is so flawless, gently melting away as it climbs higher and higher. Finally I’m at the summit, hundreds of feet above the choppy cold bay. I straddle the huge wires on the western side like a cold steel elephant, like a James Bond did. It’s breathtaking. I follow the huge wire down its arch and back up to the other tower like some insane roller coaster. I fly past the support cables and swing around them like playground poles. It really is a magnificent structure. I feel close to it. I'd like to see it like an eagle, at speed.

    This calls for Top Gun flyby. I head up into the sky thousands of feet up; up and up until the bridge is not majestic, it’s a little souvenir bridge engulfed in a foggy cloud. I stop and point my head toward the base of the little orange crossing and begin my descent. I pick up speed like a falcon diving for prey. The water starts to come into focus and so does the bridge. Faster and faster I fly arms beside me now like a torpedo. Head up, toes pointed. My dive coach would be proud (if I had one).

    As the bridge gets closer and the water below starts to take shape I start to howl like a wolf, like a jet engine. The towers are still below me just a mile or so off, the city sparkles off to the right. It’s getting closer. Closer, closer, it’s just ahead now a rush of orange steel and cable, the few car lights slowly moving back and forth. The giant towers start to dwarf me from above. I rush under the roadway, under the steel skeleton of support, but ten feet from the steel. The water is a blur below, its close but still more than 80 feet away, no danger. I’ve cleared the bridge instantly and turn on my back to look back at my accomplishment. I might as well be lying on the couch in this position, if I weren’t still whizzing over the water. I make a rash decision to turn off all the special features and fly naked just to enjoy the moment, to really feel the wind and the moisture and the cold. To feel the moment. Whew! What a feeling. My God that was close, what a rush. But in all my joy and self-astonishment I have not slowed down and have been roaring by the ocean a pretty good clip.

    Something nags at my mind, off in the distance. Like forgotten list. What was that one big thing? Like a slap in the face or the heart rather, it hits me! How could I have forgotten? There is no time to think. There is no time for anything really; I must be headed right for it. There is only one thing I can do.

    With all my will I force my being, my body up into the air. It’s a struggle, my momentum is carrying me fast and heavy, the effortlessness of earlier is gone, the instantaneous change of direction is but a cruel memory. I’m hurdling hard and fast toward a painful end. My body pulls and contorts against the speed. I start to climb just a bit; Please let it be enough! I pull and focus and prey with everything I have. A huge blinding light is behind me; I focus above, up to safety. My sweatshirt catches on something big and hard and my body jerks horribly at the tug but it releases me! Sends me tumbling through the air, head over feet, body aching and bruised, my sweatshirt torn to shreds. But I made it! I’m alive! My body starts to slow and straighten itself out, now high in the air. My eyes are a blur, my skin hurts from the cold, and my heart is pounding.

    I come to a slow rest and right myself. I just hover in the cold air for a moment before I can focus on what’s beneath me. What I almost forgot about and what almost killed me. There below me just as solid and thick as it has ever been is the tiny little island of Alcatraz. The base dark and hidden, the shape amorphous and unforgiving. The lighthouse that tore at my sweatshirt spinning that thick beams round and round. How could I have forgotten? In a state of orange bridge euphoria I had neglected the other wonder of San Francisco, so close to the bridge really, so close to the shore. Just a bit too far from shore or the bridge for any inmate, any swimmer without a boat.

    I laugh at my stupidity for relaxing and turning off the features that would have protected me on so many levels. That lighthouse would have squashed me like a bug. I can’t believe it only got my sweatshirt and my jacket! I. That devil genie almost got me after all. I remain there suspended in the air, high above Alcatraz for hours. Just staring at the city, the ocean, alternately cursing the genie and myself. Thanking God for saving me and apologizing for genie association.  Eventually I rise high up into the air and float casually back to my apartment. The suns about to come up and I slip into bed as my Lisa stretches and turns over in bed. She puts her arm around me sleepily and I fall into a deep peaceful sleep exhausted from the night’s adventures.

    I told my wife about that night years later, when she had been my wife for many years. I told her all about my run in with the genie and my first wish of flight. I told her most of the amazing things I did, the places I had been and the things I had seen in that month that I could fly back in San Francisco when we were 27. I told her about standing on top of the Pyramids in Egypt, about the Eiffel tower in Paris. Her favorites were the times I went deep down into the ocean, further than any manmade device had ever gone. Further than the Nautilus even. I showed her the small dark jagged little rock I chipped from the peak of Mt. Everest. Told her about our names etched into the very tip of the Empire State Building in New York. She liked that one.