Gliding High
“Straight ahead is Kitchener. Guelph’s at 2 o’clock. Can you hear me?” I breathed slowly and deeply to fend off panic. It didn’t do a god damn thing. Every inch of my body shook. Good thing I was sitting down. “Do you want to take the controls?” yelled Steve. I brought my right hand over to rest on the joystick. I couldn’t stop the trembling in my hand, let alone steer the plane. “We’re hitting a thermal,” he said. Nauseated, about to pass out, I clenched my teeth. What if the wind tore us apart? What if my instructor had a seizure or a heart attack? Who would land the plane? Terror squeezed the oxygen from my lungs as I braced for a wild ascent. This was one of the best days of my life. Life had been dull as of late. Being conscious seemed an insensible slog. Life had lost its newness; sobriety had lost its novelty. The voices in my head grew louder. You can have a drink. You can smoke a joint. Where had the edge gone? Where were the highs? My life was a windowless, airless, florescen...