(Bitter? No, why do you ask?)
9:08:00 AM    Comments?()  

The early morning fog had frozen and coated the bare branches in crystal, sunlight sparkling in the treetops. It was cold when I went to the car and put my bags in the back seat. Kit and I set off for the airport, driving along an interstate ringed with snow and ice. It was a perfectly normal February. In an hour I would have no need of a winter coat for the next week.

Once in the airport, security passed my electronics-laden backpack with a cursory glance of the x-ray, never caring if I turned on my cell phone, computer or I-pod. But I had to take off my shoes and get the total body scan and patdown in case I was carrying any C-40 on my chubby middle-aged frame. After that, it was a short wait until I stepped inside the plane.

I would sooner chew off my own arm than stand at the cliff's edge and spit over the side. But flying has never bothered me. I love airports, love the excitement of traveling people, love being pushed back in my seat as the plane accelerates down the runway, love watching the ground fall away beneath me. While the actual flight is much like being inside an exceptionally noisy and crowded bus, the departures and landings are what I look forward to.

I like looking out the window, never tire of seeing the landscape from above. Today, however, it seemed as if the entire Midwest was cloud covered. I saw nothing but the cloud tops from Cleveland to Evanston to Shreveport to Houston. By the time we neared Arizona, however, I began to see land. I could see the rays of the sun crashing off lakes and rivers and swimming pools. Aided by the in-flight maps, I could identify the desert, Huge Lake Mead on the Colorado River and see the river wander under the plane as it ran north toward Hoover Dam. The San Bernadino Mountains loomed to my left, seeming impossibly large. In almost no time we passed over Santa Barbara and the California coast. From here on it was nothing but ocean. For a long time.

It's been nothing but ocean for half an hour now and the inflight tracker tells me I still have four hours to go. We are traveling more than 570 miles an hour, nearly one mile every six seconds. At 32,000 feet, we are almost six miles about the Earth, still well within the razor-thin atmosphere that nurtures and protects all of life. It is comfortable inside, if cramped, and hard to imagine that the bright sun outside has only warmed up the air to a crisp minus 70 degree Fahrenheit. This is all pretty mundane stuff, especially for the crew and passengers who have grown bored with the sameness, the unvarying monotony of the trip (and make no mistake - monotony is very desirable when you're six miles above the ocean!). We're halfway to Hawai'i and there's so much more to go.

We've been chasing the sun, but it's a losing battle and the day turns to dusk, then darkness. When we finally approach Oahu, the island appears ringed by light. Even on final approach, we are still high enough to see nearly the whole island. Amber street lights in every neighborhood shine from the north shore, across to the windward side and down to Diamond Head. Honolulu is light up like a party. The lights from the outlying neighborhoods trail partway up the mountain sides before abruptly ending.

Susan was there to meet me and after joyful hugs we drove toward her home. The air was wet and warm, the car tires singing on rainy roads and we drove past hotels and offices, down past pineapple fields and headed toward the western shore town of Ewa Beach. Back in Ohio it was 2 a.m. and I had been up for 20 hours. Here, it was just 9 in the evening.
1:17:41 AM    Comments?()