What If I Had to Save the Kitesurfer?

The other day in my endless peregrinations in life, a fifty cent word meaning travels, I found myself down at the lake. I had a full tank of gas, so I threw caution to the wind.

Speaking of wind, it was the windiest day the world has ever seen. At least where I was. I'm actually convinced that I was somehow led to the headwaters of wind, the treasury of wind not yet released.

But I wasn't the only one. There was another. A mysterious figure, whom, as far as I knew, was an immortal, possibly the overseer of the treasury, out testing his wares. I crouched behind a bush, although no doubt he saw me on one of his bold flights.

His method of flight, however, was one of worldly origins -- kitesurfing -- so I was able to relax on that account and return to my fully-exposed car. His truck was just up the hill a piece.

There I was, then, completely free to watch this fabulous spectacle, the daring young man on the flying board and kite. I was this close to losing myself in wonder, when -- in my mentality I quickly crashed to earth. I thought, trying to hide the resentment with a false smile: "He's so fit, so athletic, so carefree, at such peace and oneness with his equipment and the elements. And so strong in the arms -- a strength I've never known -- to withstand 45 mph winds driving and pulling him. Awesome! He flies like a bird, probably 40 feet in the air and sees the kite drop toward the water. What masterful coordination not to fall flat on his----- face, while pulling it to bring the kite above himself once again! A young man marvelous in every way! And solitary, with confidence that he can do anything and remain safe. Probably.

"Then here I sit, weak in the arms, a pain in my legs, a touch of despondency, and afraid of my own shadow. Hell," I thought, "When have I ever done anything? I used to go sledding, which was how to broke my arm. I also broke my leg in a teeter-totter incident. It's been all downhill since then. I might yet take up knitting -- these days the old gender standards are relaxed, especially as more and more men like me look for tried and true activities that won't overtax their failing bodies. Plus, the newer plastic knitting needles are invaluable for safety, I hear."

My self-pitying reverie was broken as the kitesurfer flew over my car, then cut an amazing turn and back-flip to return to the lake. The Wright brothers could've used him!

My reverie picked up again about that time. I started worrying, "He's out here by himself. Not another person in the area but me. What if he has trouble and needs rescued? If he's out there 100 feet, with these waves to boot, I wouldn't be able to swim that far. I tried one of those 12 foot endless wave pools and about drowned." I saw enough -- and definitely worried enough -- so I left.

Our Feathered Friends -- All Flights Grounded

Everyone knows I've been feeding our feathered friends outside here in my back yard. So far, I have accrued many good experiences and memories; it seems I'm constantly pumping my fist and shouting, "Yeah!" They come swooping in from everywhere, all the cardinal directions. They stay a while, then they're off. Our feathered friends are a very skittish breed. I have my doubts that they're truly evolved from the dinosaurs, unless dinosaurs were the biggest cowards on four legs!

It's been a lot of fun. I mean, I feel like shouting "Yeah!" right now, because, if truth be told, I've really gotten off on watching them. The dinosaurs somehow got the gift of flight, and they're not afraid to use it. Seriously, they can make a hairpin turn in midair without batting an eye. And the ability to hover -- literally to hover -- in one spot near the feeder is nothing but phenomenal. I can barely stand next to it without getting tipsy and falling over!

I buy feed in 40 pound bags. When I'm carrying it home, necessitating many sit-down breaks on the way, I keep thinking the same awesome truth: What is so extraordinarily hard for me to carry a few miles will be nothing for them, because they're carrying only one grain at a time. They've really taught me an interesting lesson on carrying things. It takes me forever to carry 40 pounds of it, but they rip through it in no time (a month) only carrying the one grain.

Now, though, today, my fun is on a brief hiatus; I hope it's brief. And it's not through anything I did, or attempted to do; it's through the weather, or from the weather. The weather turned off bad. We got literally dumped on with snow. It's everywhere, clinging to the trees, scattered and piled up all over the yard, as far as the eye can see. The branches were drooping ponderously. It reminded me of that magazine Al Bundy used to read, Big-Uns. In fact, the branch that the feeder was hooked to was drooping so far down, thanks to the weight of the snow, that the feeder was literally on the ground! I have since disconnected it till I get it cleaned.

But obviously it hasn't made any difference to our feathered friends, because they have not made an appearance today. I have looked out probably six times and haven't seen hide nor hair of them. They've totally vacated. My first thought, They flew farther south. Then I thought, No, they're just staying cooped up in their nests. Perhaps in their little world all flights have been grounded. All feet on deck, to clean snow out of nests. We ate yesterday, today we work.

It's amazing how similar we are. I had to go out today and clear out the driveway of all this crap. So I know how much work it is. You haven't got time for flying. You haven't even got time for eating. But pretty soon I will get the feeder cleaned out and replenished, because I'm expecting they'll be doubly hungry tomorrow.

I really have this weird feeling, What did our feathered friends do before I started feeding them? How did they ever survive?