D r e a m E c h o

1. The Precipice

This is the final time I'm going to leap from this precipice. My hands remain still as I approach the ledge and close my eyes to contemplate nothingness.

A minute passes as the wind caresses my face and jaw from the slope, a wave of air breaking on the rock. The aroma of Cantua blossoms fills the air around me.

My mind has gone blank as a result of my anguish.

I go through my glide route again: go straight, follow the curve, turn left at the split, and don't fall in the lake. Because of its narrowness—only twelve feet wide on each side—the split is the most perilous hurdle. The right gets much smaller. Three feet in width. Amy and I dubbed the left path the Valley of Hope because if you miss it, you're dead. Since then, I've dubbed the correct way the Canyon of Sorrow.

I open my eyes and inspect my harness and the folds of my red wingsuit for flaws. I go through the motions, but I'm aware that wingsuit gliding is not without risk. That is also true in life. I may be killed in a vehicle accident tomorrow. I try not to be concerned about the future because it is beyond my control. Instead, I am completely immersed in the present moment.

Now, despite the risk, I've returned for one last flight.

According to the empty logging trucks I observed on my trip up the mountain, the forest below is lush and green for the time being, but it won't be for long. As I insert my earplugs, the clamor of faraway, spinning saws diminishes. This forest will soon be deforested, and the numerous creatures that call it home will be banished, caught, or murdered. Still, for the time being, this mountaintop is lush and verdant.

It reminds me of when I went to see Amy while she was studying the scarlet macaw in Peru. She'd occasionally send me a feather she'd found in the jungle while giving field lectures.

I get a little closer to the brink.

"Let's go skydiving for your birthday," I suggest to Amy five years ago as I kick off my muddy boots on her porch after a trek. Her eyes sparkle as she puts her luggage onto a chair next to the bed.

"Yes!" she exclaims, clutching my shoulders from behind.

We strapped ourselves to diving instructors fourteen thousand feet above two days later. As the cargo door opens, vertigo smacks me in the head, and I lose control of my legs, collapsing backward onto my teacher. Amy grins as she and her instructor leap from the plane and spread-eagle into the sky.

My teacher and I both do the same thing. The noise is louder than if television static were being broadcast in a movie theatre. The earplugs assist, but nothing completely blocks everything out. We open our chutes, and the world becomes silent as we slowly float to the landing zone.

"Wow! That was incredible!" After we land, Amy calls to me as I emerge from the folds of my parachute. "Best birthday present I've ever received!" Let's try again."

Amy and I obtain our solo-diving certifications in time for the holidays.

We take it to the next level four Thanksgivings later: wingsuit gliding. Wingsuit certification necessitates two hundred individual skydiving free-falls. It's an investment, but we're committed. We transform into birds, flying over the skies. Limitless. Unrestrained. Free.

The impulse overtakes me on the ledge where Amy and I did our maiden base jump. My blood hums through my veins, and I know the cosmos is telling me it's time for me to leave. It's my turn.

I take a leap.

2. The Hurry

The wind suffocates me. It runs through my forehead, down my neck and shoulders, carrying every ounce of tension with it, down my back, past my hips and legs, cleaning out my nerves, till it empties out my feet. The surge then captures my outspread limbs like a truck and lifts me into the air.

A swarm of scarlet macaws flies down, a splash of crimson against the viridian woodland. For the time being, we share these sky.

I see myself as one of them as I carve through the air. A scarlet macaw may survive in the wild for up to fifty years and in captivity for up to ninety years. That's twice as long as the average glider.

"This is riskier than skydiving," Amy says as we stare over the edge of the cliff before our first wingsuit descent.

"Yeah, I'm a little apprehensive about jumping without a backup parachute," I admit.

“Totally. "Are you sure you're not going to collapse again?" She amuses herself.

"No way," I retort, "I've gone a long way since then." I'd guess that I'm now a better flyer than you."

'We'll see about that,' she adds with a half-cocked brow.

I'm perched atop a thunderous wall of air, my sight fixed on my target. I stopped being afraid of flying a year ago.

Gliders frequently crash while in flight. They underestimate their speed, take risks, and crash because they misinterpret the current or the terrain. At the rate we're flying, we'll hit a tree, a cliff, or a powerline. Those who travel often are said to perish in flight. It's an unavoidable fact.

For a little minute, I close my eyes and immerse myself in the feeling of mist pouring across my face... Two instances... As I speed across the gorge, a sense of emptiness floods over me. I slowly open my eyes.

I tip my body to the side as I enter the curve, feeling the air rush about me, leading me through the valley around the mountain. I am in tune with the planet and the atmosphere.

The scarlet macaw has life partners. Similarly, many gliders prefer to leap with a partner, even if no one can aid if something goes wrong. At the very least, the survivor can tell the family of their loss.

I'm still embarrassed over telling Amy's folks.

But I'm not going to quit leaping. I mean, how could I? It's as entrenched in me as driving. Quitting flying would be equivalent to quitting drinking and eating meat cold turkey. I'm afraid not. This is the only way I know I'm still alive.

This is how Amy and I are connected.

I crave the adrenaline thrill.

3. The Breakup

The air swells into a billowing wall of grey as I round the corner. What caused this cloud of smoke to form? What about the loggers? What about slash and burn? Already? Shit.

I'll be obscured by the smoke. Only seconds to decide whether to glide through and risk a high-speed crash or to deploy my chute and wait out the fumes. How long until—there is no time.

I turn to the right and pull the pilot cord on my parachute.

There is a brief delay when the pilot chute extracts the canopy from my bag. As the rushing wind captures the canopy and I drift into the swirling sable, my speed drops from 100 to ten miles per hour.

Coughing, I attempt to swerve to the side—to land sooner—but the hot smoke pulls me up quickly. I'm having trouble breathing. The smoke burns my gums and stings my nose and mouth.

I'm collapsing. I can hardly see my parachute through the black inferno, which has stained my goggles and cauterized my nose, but I can see the cords flapping, soot buried, smoking. Shit.

My parachute has caught fire!

Coughing causes my body to turn inside out. In my chest, my heart is a battering rod. Panic causes my brain to melt. I'm losing ground quickly. Too quickly. My altimeter sounds like a smoke alarm in my ears. My perspiration is tinged with acrid ash. I'm going to perish. I'm aware of it. I'm going to perish.

I recall the exact minute Amy passed away. It's been a year, and we're nearing the finale. At the divide, she loses control. Instead, she careens to the right. I stand on the opposite side, disbelieving, hoping till hope dies.

I disengaged from my chute and let it float on the dark gusts. A maelstrom swallows me up, sending me plunging and twisting.

I shut my eyes. Nothing matters right now. I don't see a way out of this. I wish I could close my eyes forever. I don't want to see what happens next. I'd like to be secure on the ground. I don't want to be awake. I'd like to be alive!

I straighten my arms and legs and launch myself into a high-speed dive for what I hope is the ocean.

I only need to get out of the heat so I can use my wings, but I'm screwed till then. I might run into a tree. I might be able to hit the split. The second alert on my altimeter goes off, but I hardly hear it. The air is louder than an airliner and a train catastrophe.

What is causing this? What is their motivation for destroying the forest? Why are they murdering me?

"Don't you think these trips are getting a touch out of hand?" Amy asks as she gets dressed and meets me on the balcony the night before her last dive. She is now pursuing a master's degree in environmental studies. "Doesn't it seem a little selfish?"

"What exactly do you mean?" I inquire. "I assumed you enjoyed soaring with the birds."

"I believe so. "I truly do," she adds, poking at a pimple on my shoulder. "It's just that I love birds as well, and these trips aren't exactly environmentally good."

"However, a lot of people travel," I respond, "and it's just one of those things we have to accept, isn't it?"

"Of course, people do, but hardly everyone charters two hundred trips simply to jump out of a plane for pleasure." Her fingers run up the curvature of my collarbone, searching for additional flaws. "I simply feel like I have to do my part." It makes no difference to how I feel about us."

"Oh," I stutter, not wanting to give up gliding any more than a drug addict wants to give up smoking. "Well, we're already here. We might as well appreciate the jump that is still ahead of us. Then we'll be able to quit. Let's just take one more leap."

"Yeah, good," she replies, resting her head on my shoulder, "we can complete our leap right here." But there's more to life than that, you know." She moves my hand to her hip, where it rests near her tummy.

I learn too late that living just for the present moment means ignoring the past and the future.

I blink open my eyes.

The smoke is dissipating. As I watch the split speeding towards me, a shiver runs down my spine. I inch my arms and legs outward until they are completely extended and, gliding again, I swerve to the left with the adrenaline-fueled effort of pushing a car with the parking brake on.

Left!

I'm only a few inches away from the granite cliff face. If I died now, it would be the end of my family line. Extinct.

But I don't perish.

No, not yet.

4. The Scarlet Macaw is number four.

I speed through the tight valley with just enough room. I want to cough, but the incoming air fills my lungs too swiftly.

Then I notice it: a red macaw flying alongside me, staring at me. I realize now, as we flee the smoke and flames, flying coastward, desperately attempting to preserve our life. There is no distinction between the scarlet macaw and myself—or Amy—at this moment because there was never any difference between us. We are all living things. We are all a part of the planet, running through it like blood. Every act of devastation—every acre burnt, every chartered flight—hurts us all.

We're all going to die. Pollution. Waste. Deforestation. We're all going to die. Because we refuse to make deliberate decisions, we have imbalanced the environment and are passively endangering our survival. The scarlet macaw is also dying, for the same reason: human error. Our oversights. My oversights.

I'm sorry, but I have something to say to the lovely, doomed bird. I apologize. Why should you be forced to die? Why should any species perish as a result of humanity? Please forgive me.

It is entirely my responsibility that she died. I should not have pushed her to join me in the jump. It's entirely my fault. My throat tightens and I sob in a sorrowful, squawking manner. Please forgive me, Amy.

I'm sorry, I say to Amy's mother a year ago as we sat in their living room. She doesn't blame me, but she also doesn't forgive me. She walks into the other room, her face expressionless. I wait for her to come back, but she never does. I've taken all she's ever given me, and she has nothing else to give.

The scarlet macaw flies away, blinking its ambiguous yellow eye.

As I reach the conclusion of my jump, I shoot out of the Valley of Hope. As I reach the water, my altimeter gives me one more warning. I've never attempted a water landing. Is it going to hurt if I live? Does it make a difference?

Is it possible to forgive me?

I saw vehicles below: the loggers who set fire to this forest. I despise them, yet I am one of them. Do they pay attention to me? There is no time for reflection.

I'm flying above the beach and losing height. I'm a dozen yards below the beach. How fast am I traveling? I attempt to position myself upward so that I am parallel with the water. Approximately a half-dozen yards. As I descend, I can feel the ocean mist on my face. I brace myself, terrified. 10 feet. Five feet tall. One.

Please allow me to live.

Nil.

5. The Option.

I have no idea what happens after death. I'm not sure if my awareness will remain disembodied, if it will merge with a collective consciousness, or if it will vanish like a fading flame.

I'm curious if the scarlet macaw has a soul. Is that correct?

My stomach skims the water's surface. I feel the drag for a fraction of a millisecond, then bounce up. I take another drop and feel the sliding lurch of the ocean beneath me. Then I'm back in the air.

I skitter like a skipping stone, like an airplane landing, till I connect with the waters. I'm not sure how fast. What, thirty miles per hour? Eighty? I'm a vehicle slamming through a house's plaster walls. Then I'm submerged.

The warm sea cradles me in its belly.

I rush to reach the surface, but it's impossible with the wingsuit on. The river pulls, pushes, and takes me down. My fingers, nerve-shot and trembling, reach for and yank on the zipper. My crimson suit molts.

My last night with Amy was spent huddled together, the pastel turquoise bedspread extending over our heads while a rainstorm raged in the distance.

"The blankets resemble an open sky," she says. We're nude and drenched in sweat.

"Yeah," I say as my fingertips brush over her ear.

"Do you feel it, too?" She inquires. "That instinctive need to save the environment—for the future?" She turns to face me, raising her head. Her breath feels warm on my skin. It has a cinnamon-like sweetness.

"I'm not sure," I concede, "but I know it's the proper thing to do." And I have faith in you."

Her gaze captivated me for a long time. I'm not sure if my response satisfied her. She finally bends in and kisses me.

"You had better. "After all, it's my life's dream," she murmurs, a mortal whisp under the storm.

There is a roar of thunder, and rain falls on the tin roof.

I'm not sure if this will be our final night together. Otherwise, I'd grip her even tighter. I would pay more attention so that I could remember the tone of her voice. I'd use my fingertips to examine her features. I'd inhale her perfume like a man drowning, desperate for oxygen.

It was her calling to aid in the salvation of the earth. In the last year, all I've done is feel sorry for myself and live recklessly. I wish she had lived rather than me.

She, however, did not. Yes, I did.

Now I have to find a way to make my life worthwhile in order to compensate for her death.

I exhale a breath and follow the bubbles upward, reborn in the tropical sea. I burst the surface and gasp, kicking violently and my lungs spasming. I'm still alive?

My arms are useless against the chaotic crests, yet I crawl for shore, striving to keep afloat. The road back is long and empty. My adrenaline is fading, but I push my iron-heavy arms to swim, remembering Amy.

Finally, my feet scrape against a bottom of sand and shattered shells. I crawl onto the ash-strewn coastline, almost nude, breathless, and heaving. As I am reconnected with the ground, all of my terror melts into appreciation. Her love is radiating through me.

I pull myself to a patch of dry sand and remove my flying goggles. Then, collapsing onto my back and feeling the warm sun on my face, I laugh until my lungs spasm into coughing fits, but I continue to laugh because the earth is here for me and I'm alive.

Alive.

Tears well up in my eyes as my laughter transforms into triumphant and relieved shouts. I beat my fists on the sand and launch volleys of sand into the air.

Alive!

My yawps come to a halt, as does my agitated breath.

Amy, I'm still alive.

I collapsed on the sand, tired. My arms and legs are massive mountain ranges stretching out in front of me. My breathing is like the long-striding gusts of wind that batter the sea and caress the coast with misty jets of water.

I promise I'm not going to let go of this thankfulness, this sense of purpose. I'm not going to live rashly. I'm not going to drown myself in grief or jeopardize my life. If I don't pick my fate consciously, it will be decided for me. I'm not going to live that way, especially when I have so little time to live a better life and devote myself to helping this delicate earth. I have to look after it in some way. I need to give more than I take.

The call of the macaw bounces off the valley walls, much as Amy's love does in my heart.

It's past time for me to keep my commitment to stop gliding and find new ways to commemorate Amy. I'll come up with better methods to celebrate life. I'll figure out a way to make her dream a reality.

I'm never going to jump again.