Back in the distance, beyond the little creek, up the steep rocky grade and over the guard rail, a red car slowed, pulled off the highway and parked right behind his jeep. And like a special little air about the day, two lively bodies – college girls perhaps – climbed over the rail and parked themselves on a patch of tall grass, their video cameras out, ready to record his arduous climb, hoping to be perilously entertained. And though he could not see their faces from this distance he knew they were hot, just getting started in their own adventures in life perhaps.
Like a flitting spectacle drawing curiosity another car pulled up, a father, mother and two teenagers – sisters. The girls, their attention peaked, hopped over the rail before their parents could stop them, their curiosities bringing them within full view of the little true-life play that was about to happen before their very eyes. And like a live circus they too plopped themselves down for the show. And out came their little phones, zooming in, recording every step of the way, hoping to catch something cool, something mind-blowing, and perhaps they might promote their own little summer adventure right on youtube. In any case it would be a compelling tale to share of their summer vacation, tearing them away from a dull and boring ride to “whereverville” if only for a little while.
Looking straight up, a good tilt of his neck, he grinned wide, letting the words slip from his mouth - a dominant attitude with a hint of arrogance, and pride for good measure, “Hello cliff. Today, you’re my bitch!” Standing there in the shadow of his next conquest, looking back to his spectators now and again, he could imagine them talking, perhaps wondering just what was going on up in his brain; perhaps fearing for his life since he seemed utterly incapable of such a thing himself. In any other capacity he very well might be donned in a cape and tights fueled with superpowers and terrific one-liners to catch the kids, to have them wearing him for Halloween, keeping them buying his little lunchboxes, backpacks and figurines.
Stretching his limbs, gathering his breath and giving the little crowd a wave, he could not help but to smile, almost hearing their chilling inquiries, ‘What the hell is this guy up to?’ ‘Is he completely nuts?’ ‘You mean he’s seriously going to climb that without any equipment?’And for the moment, the passing vehicles – semi trailers, cars, vans and trucks – seemed to slow and look out in his direction, giving his resolve a boost, tethering his morale to the rock like a harness and safety lines, saying ‘Don’t worry man, I got you!’ Still, the little crowd could not tear themselves away, thinking him an idiot, but rather amused nonetheless, rooting for him.
And though the sheer rock wall before him – the very beast that climbed twenty-storey's straight up, seemed rather smooth from the highway (as though there was no place to find purchase) that certainly was not the case. The fact was that the rock face was filled with a million little places to grip his hands and feet. And if you took into account his vast experience, that he had conquered much more respectable venues ranging from the Petronas Towers in Malaysia to the seventy-seven storey Chrysler Building in New York City – that he had scaled various skyscrapers in Paris, London, Istanbul and China, it became easily understood that he was a professional.
Gathering an unshakable faith in his self, in his endurance – looking straight up, he made his way to the base of the cliff, stretched his neck and tied his laces before digging deep into his little bag of chalk powder. Dusting his hands for grip, he shook his legs one last time and took his first step up beginning with a quick few strokes of his limbs, and before he knew it, twenty-feet had separated him from the ground. His blood was flowing nicely, warming his limbs, and like that he was home in his element, enjoying his treacherous little affair. This is where he was meant to be. This was his fate: this day, the little crowd of onlookers, his heart gleaming in the shadow of a series of steep cliffs that stretched over and down into an even steeper gorge.
Looking back to the highway once again, he saw that two more vehicles had stopped to watch him. Finding purchase, hand over foot, slowly making his way, grip by careful grip he came eye-level with his spectators. Hanging from one hand, with both feet planted securely, he waved and blew them a kiss. And to his heart’s wonder, they clapped and whistled, cheering him on, perhaps adoring him his crazy ways, his daring, his courage and his stupidity – the air of it all crashing wildly in their chests. They blew him kisses back, giving him wings; big white beautiful feathers held together by wax, flighty and fragile, like his soul, his warm-heart and his winning smile.
On and on he climbed, a certain special method in each step, like a step closer to God each time his fingers wrapped themselves around a piece of the rock itself, stopping now and again for self-enjoyment rather than the need to rest. With a single hand he hung on, looking back, loving the day, adoring his little fans who seemed to shrink in size and distance the higher he climbed. And from here the traffic of the world passing by seemed largely insignificant, as though he could not give rise to care for such things as other people, their drama, their little lives and their stories. No. Today, now - this very moment - he was all alone in the world; just him and the wonderful breath of a new and invigorating day. With that he noticed an Eagle flying so high above that it was but a simple speck about a great blue sky, just waiting for him to climb up and say hello.
His penchant for climbing began around three, about the same time grandma had given him the nickname ‘Tarzan’ which his closest friends still called him. He missed Mickey and Bazzer. Mickey was somewhere in Tibet, lost on his own wild adventures, searching for his deeper, more enlightened Zen self. Bazzer was in Brazil, honing his skills, becoming a more proficient Capoeiraista, enjoying the comfort of the steep hillside towns, the mangroves, the lagoons, the lush tangle and the beautiful way the people spoke their Portuguese. It was a nice thought, Brazil...Portuguese, something inviting about it all. And the language itself, the words, swift and strange, the heavy accents, so...soothing. And he smiled and said to himself, “I guess I’ll just have to climb Sao Paulo then.” He was serious. He sighed comfortably, alive in his soul at the thought. “Well there’s another entry for your 'to do' list Ramone.”
And almost without knowing it – as if he were off somewhere else in the world, and not here on the side of a two-hundred foot cliff, his limbs kept moving while his breath came in steady and paced. It was that good habit of soaking the lungs with fresh proper air which brought with it the hot rush of blood coursing through, making him impervious to the chilled shady breeze. His skin found it more of a blessing. And with every heave of his shifting body, with his muscles only beginning their workout, he simply forgot what it was like to be afraid, as though the cliff itself would protect him to the very end. And the little crowd, and the traffic too, became that much more entangled in a real life day dream happening within his mind, his very essence somehow traversing the distance of their hearts, infiltrating their minds, tickling their curiosities. And in a moment so spectacular that words could not outright explain – nothing else mattered.
Looking up – way up...the Eagle still circled high above, as though to ask, ‘Are you mad man! Have you gone and just forgot your marbles at home? Have you ever wondered why you weren’t born with wings in the first place?’ And he smiled, suddenly remembering perhaps the most glorious painting that he had ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. The painting, aptly named ‘Icarus,’ hosted a young man with his new wings spread high, his life glowing utterly as he soared through the air high above Ancient Crete, finally free, a childish giggle sweeping him away up in his mind, expressing glee and pride and vanity.
And just like the painting, The Gods did seem to look down upon him, blessing him right there on the side of the cliff, and like that - the second the sun climbed over the cliff, staring him in the eye, something happened that would change his life forever. It happened like an extraordinary moment in time one ever only hears about in the movies or some twisted tale of fate, and never in a million years did he believe this could happen. And like the first snowfall of the year, the moment was of the purest he would ever know. It was the first time he was able to kiss the Gods, give thanks that they looked upon him well enough to grant him his wish for flight! Cowards! Brutes! And without warning, without pretense or worry, a piece of rock cracked once, twice before letting loose in his hand, freeing him from all things daring.
And like that, the painting came back to him, his mind crashing with a sudden wave of adrenaline, the extreme wash filling every vessel, coursing through every vein and artery, his heart pounding something wild, soaking his blood like suds. And the wind now was filled with a strange cautious breath, like sound advice warning him to be safe far too late to be utilized. The moment he was free of leverage, resistance and purchase – truly flying – the very second he began his plummet, sharp talons choked him off at the lungs stealing away his ability to scream, locking him deep inside his own speedy terror.