In memory, there’s nothing so thrilling as the sudden pulling up into an arc — those Gs! — and flying upside down, hanging from straps with the earth 3,000 feet below and the blue Pacific stretching forever.
Something tiny darts through my peripheral vision. I put my book down and go to the back door. A ruby-throated hummingbird is in full aerial dogfight mode.
The enemy: a nuthatch minding his own business on the trunk of the sycamore and a skittish chickadee hunting seed on the patio slates.
The hummer is having none of either. I assume she’s protecting her young in a nearby nest. Out! Out of my territory! I watch with fascination her zips, hovers, banks, and dives. The sound is that of a tiny motor — no, more like a tiny fan on HI. Her attacks, beak first, are aimed at the heads of the interlopers. She doesn’t miss. She’s a missile.
In my younger years when there was nothing I wouldn’t try at least once, I did some aerobatic flying with a friend who was equally as experimental. An R&D engineer who knew his physics, he’d draw the maneuvers on paper. Inside loops, outside loops, lazy 8s. I’d see on his face the thrill of it, and he probably read expectation on mine. “Let’s do it!” I’d say.