Trying to Float

The big cover line on our September/October issue (at the printer now) is “The Art of Trying: Express Your Highest Self.” So I decided to do both … literally … from 300 feet up in the air.

“The Art of Trying” refers to an article by editor-in-chief Steve Kiesling about his attempt to qualify for the 2008 Olympic rowing team at the age of 49. I don’t want to spoil the story for you, so suffice it to say it’s a rollicking adventure, plus an edge-of-your-seat race (if you’ve read The Black Stallion books, think Alec-and-Black-type suspense), plus a lot of information about the malleability of who we are.

I’ve read the piece many times, and I think it’s had an effect on me because, although I’d never thought about floating in a balloon basket, last week I decided to give it a try. A company called Aeroballoon has partnered with my nemesis, the Central Park Conservancy (see earlier blog about general grumpiness), to offer balloon rides where you remain tethered to the ground from high in the sky. Their promotion line is “Defy Gravity.”

“Why not?” I thought, inspired by Steve’s story. “So what if it scares me and could prove to be one of the stupidest ways I can imagine of getting killed? So what if it costs $25 which might be better invested in a Barcalounger” (see earlier blog on Barcaloungers). “Hey, I’m press, so maybe I can get a free ride if I write about it? I’ll call it ‘The Art of Flying’ … or ‘Dying’… either way, it rhymes for goodness sakes. Ergo, I must take a balloon ride!”

And off I went.

When I arrived at Cherry Hill in Central Park, the balloon was out of action — downed for an hour and a half because of the breeze. When it did resume floating, TV news and radio reporters went up first, and about an hour into that is when the crowd, many of whom had been promised reservations, began to grumble. I didn’t help matters when I identified myself as press also, but since I got told to wait in line with everybody else (I guess only audio reporters rate line-bumping), I got a reprieve from my fellow liner-uppers.

Nevertheless, group grumbling escalated as we learned that it didn’t matter if we had reservations — they were meaningless because of wind conditions. Add to this that from noon on, rides were given on a first-come first-served basis — unbeknownst to the person who was booking afternoon slots. So now reservation-holders and first-comers were mixed together in a grid-locked line that had been sun-cooking for more than two hours.

“I understand. Really I do,” said the sweet young Aeroballoon staffer with the clipboard. “But here’s how it is: you may get a ride, you might not. You can always come back another day.” (The balloon is flying until August 22.) Then, heaving a sigh of frustration, she almost begged, “Please be patient.”

There’s nothing like waiting in a line to bring out personal issues. Fortunately for me, my role as professional magazine reporter made me uncharacteristically affable and curious. Here is what I observed.

The crowd looked like the U.N.:

There was the lovely lawyer from Houston with her two kids. They’d seen the Broadway musical Wicked the night before and thought the balloon “looked just like the Wizard of Oz’s and was a great thing to do on a trip to New York.” But they left — or perhaps melted and evaporated — after another hour in the sun.

The Indian or Pakistani or Indonesian man in front of me seemed tolerant, albeit bleary-eyed, as his friend, a remarkably level-headed American woman, who was not a shrink (I asked), suggested to the sweet Aeroballoon staffer with the clipboard that she stop taking reservations if they were not going to be honored.

Several Arabs in turbans turned the event into a photo op, snapping pictures of the park mounties benignly surveying the slow-boiling crowd.

At some point, a woman with thick Bronx accent loudly suggested that the unbelievably courteous Aeroballoon staff move their ticket table back so we might join them in the shade under the tent and not bake to death. The staffers instantly complied.

Then an elderly Chinese woman planted herself at the front of the line and threw a fit, demanding that her reservation be honored. But eventually she, too, gave in to the staffers’ relentless cordiality and trudged to the back of the line, her wake of fury burning oxygen out of the already fiery air.

A Spanish or Middle-Eastern or Brazilian man with headphones and a Palm Pilot who’d been oblivious to everything finally realized he was blocking the whole line, not to mention, messing up order by not moving as people pushed past him to get into the shade.

A TV reporter, unaware of the mindset of the roiling, broiling crowd, enthusiastically declared, “The ride was great! So if you’re scared, don’t be. You’re going to have a great time. And I should know because they chose the only reporter for this story who’s afraid of heights!” Then, giddy with her triumph over phobia, she took off in her air-conditioned van.

Soon thereafter, the sweet young Aeroballoon staffer with the clipboard came up with an ingenious plan to integrate reserved riders with first-comers … all of which added up to another two to three hours of wait for me. My feet hurt, I was drenched, and suddenly it occurred to me that my enlightenment might not necessarily come from 300 feet up in the air, and since I’d now fulfilled my commitment to try, I could justify going home ... which I did.

“I made an artful try,” I said to my dog, Maya. “After all, it’s the art of trying that counts.” As Maya licked my salty face, I caught my image in the mirror. “Hey, and I got a rather attractive suntan in the process.”

“You did good,” Maya assured me brusquely. “Now can you please get over yourself and take me for a walk? I’ve been waiting all afternoon for you to show up.”

"Showing Up." That was the first title of the first draft of Steve’s article, because as Steve says, the important thing is to show up. Read the article. Let us know what it inspires you to show up for … and if it matters whether you succeed.