In a rare moment of retrospect (brought on by the desire to say something worth reading), I pondered the seed that has started germinating toward the sun of adventure. An adventure that, dependent upon my mood, the perspective of others, and the relativity of other human “adventures”, can be classified as crazy, far out, mundane, pointless, scary, fun, meaningful, intrepid, etc. The list goes endlessly on. The bottom line is, I am going out of my way to do something out of the ordinary realm of my lifestyle. Something within a framework of beginning and ending points, expectations and imaginings of what is to take place within those points, but with no real certainty of what will actually occur. I am constructing this with full intention and suffering the anxiety, second guessing, and anticipation. And I am betting that despite the discomfort of swinging out of my perceived comfort zone, the experience will be worth it a thousand times over. Because when I pause to really examine the genesis of this trip, I have come to realize that it is not just about doing something epic and atypical. It’s a culmination, a beginning, and an ending. It’s something so
fraught with symbolism and meaning that when I muster the
courage to examine it against the backdrop of my life, the
poignancy is nearly overwhelming.
But I have digresssed from the original point. Where did
this adventure really begin? And I would have to say it
began with a book I received in the post from my father. A
book with a photograph on its cover of an antique biplane in
a sunset sky. I read that book in one night with a
flashlight under the covers and it captured my imagination like nothing has before or since. I was 15 years old.