Paradise | ONC 2023

[ 6 ] - Soaring, Sanding, & Steely F*ing Dan

FLYING is a nightmare. No roads, no signals. And if you free-fall? Good luck, and say your prayers.

Yet it's liberating for all the same reasons.

I fall and tilt my body forward, gathering speed, before feeling a thermal's warm gust of air up. I tilt my wings back and glide, gaining height, rising from the ground like a plane during takeoff. Speed builds, builds—my hair whips past. I squint, but continue, turning away from the beach and toward the hotel's exits, the branched roads and walkways beneath.

Riel's beside me; I can see him, a mirage in the air, the clouds refracting around his wings.

"Continue forward!" I state, finding the correct road. It looks like it stops abruptly at the sea, the concrete ending and ocean starting—but it's a magical bridge.

Once I go from concrete to ocean, the air warps and shudders and goes hot, then cold, and I'm flying above the Overseas Highway, right at Mile Marker 85.3. Cars drive beneath us, and the narrow highway has stores, restaurants, and homes between the palm trees on either side of us.

"It's ahead and to the right!" I yell, wind whipping past. The sky is clear, a bit cloudy—we're a bit over an hour until sunset.

We don't fly for much longer. I keep tilting my wings down, trying to do so gently, and land right at the gravel path to the restaurant. Harshly. I fall too fast, too suddenly, and slam against the rocks.

Not an ideal landing pad. It scratches my arms and hands, but it could be worse. My body throbs with pain, aches—I need a massage and a hot bath. With focus, my wings and horn retract—and leaves me breathless. I recover, gain my footing.

Riel becomes visible, looking around. His halo and wings fade. He starts walking to the building, and I follow suit. The place is nice—past the parking lot, and towards the sea, is a tiki bar, stage, indoor restaurant, and several wooden swing tables that overlook the ocean. Kids are always running into the water, playing, while the parents drink and eat the night away.

We're seated outside, not too far from the stage. The performer's playing glossy yacht rock, singing some Steely Dan on his electric guitar. Already some human retirees are drunk and giggling at the bar. Happy hour. I scoot in, and Riel sits across. We order drinks—waters—and I glance at the menu.

"What do you recommend?" Riel asks. "I've heard great things about burgers. Many humans crave it."

I raise a brow. "You've never had a burger?"

"No. I don't require sustenance. We are God's tools to protect humanity from evil—and requiring us to eat would only reduce our performance."

"That's sad." I mutter, frowning. A tool. He sounded like one, sure, and he was one, but...to think of himself as one, too? Unfortunate. "You were eating at the café, though..."

"I was. I asked the barista what she recommended to try and...acclimate. It was tasty."

There's a lull in our conversation, and I clear my throat, looking back at the menu. This place is catered to old retirees; expensive, simple. Most of Islamorada's quiet, laid-back, comfortable.

"Burgers are a good option. Cheeseburgers, the best—but if you want my recommendation, seafood's always great here. Conch, shrimp, mahi mahi, hogfish. All generally local. Hogfish is in season."

He nods. The waitress comes; I order a hogfish sandwich with some sides, and he orders a cheeseburger, well-done, and a slice of key lime pie. She stares at Riel for much too long and giggles at his order, even though he's said nothing particularly funny. I stir her from her daze; she rushes off.