Reveling In Embarrassment
I've been shown up by a bird.
Not just any bird, mind you, but a redtailed hawk. Allow me to explain.
One of my many interests is free flight model aircraft, both elastic (rubber band) powered and hand launched. I have recently been given the opportunity to use those skills acquired years ago with this hobby to write an aeronautics curriculum for a science learning center in southern California. To that end, I've built several gliders that teach the basics, as well as being fun to fly. The glider I was testing on the 13th of May was intended to be a part of that curriculum, but soon I discovered that I had neglected the one thing I admonish student to do - think "simple". The resulting glider, while fairly simple, could not be a simple class project. Still, I decided to complete it and fly it for my own satisfaction.
That's where it gets complicated.
It used to be that I had a real knack for throwing together good designs. While this one looks good, it seems to be loaded with problems. In short, this glider just doesn't want to fly right. I spent a good couple of hours on that Saturday trying, in vain ultimately, to get the glider to stay aloft for more than ten seconds.
It was an embarrassment.
That's when I heard the hawk.
Buteo Jamaicensis, family Accipitridae, subfamily Buteoninae... that's how science refers to the bird we know as the redtailed hawk. It's one of the most common accipiters, according to most books (by the way, that's a lot of fancy talk for falcon and hawk-like birds). They're beautiful, and I've many more interesting stories about them.
But this time, it just seemed that God was out to prove a point. The redtailed appeared, leaving some pines across the street from the field where my humble attempts at free flight were being snuffed like a candle. It let out a cry first; that's what drew my attention to it.
So, I stopped and picked up the damaged glider and watched. With a few flaps, some simple motions of its powerful wings, the hawk began a counter-clockwise climb. It had found a thermal, and was using it to full advantage. It let out an occasional cry, one that seemed to reflect a glee that I for one wasn't experiencing. It just soared, not flapping once, until it was easily eight hundred feet up. At that point, its cry almost sounded like a laugh, and it began making diving runs near the trees. What was it trying to prove?
Lacking the ability to understand redtail, and not being born with the gift of telepathy, I could only imagine what was going on in that hawk's brain. But it seemed to be reveling in life. It was doing so easily, so fretlessly, what my little glider could not. Had it seen me and my foolish attempts at my folly? Even if it did, it wouldn't know what I was doing. It was simply being a young redtailed hawk, nothing more.
Soon, I forgot about my glider and watched as the hawk climbed, making an occasional dive, but soon just a speck in the spring sky, a small, circling fleck of black against an infinite blue. Had I not given up on my glider, I would have missed such a wonderful sight. My embarrassment had soon turned to wonder.
What a wonderful lesson.
Peace,
Rob
Not just any bird, mind you, but a redtailed hawk. Allow me to explain.
One of my many interests is free flight model aircraft, both elastic (rubber band) powered and hand launched. I have recently been given the opportunity to use those skills acquired years ago with this hobby to write an aeronautics curriculum for a science learning center in southern California. To that end, I've built several gliders that teach the basics, as well as being fun to fly. The glider I was testing on the 13th of May was intended to be a part of that curriculum, but soon I discovered that I had neglected the one thing I admonish student to do - think "simple". The resulting glider, while fairly simple, could not be a simple class project. Still, I decided to complete it and fly it for my own satisfaction.
That's where it gets complicated.
It used to be that I had a real knack for throwing together good designs. While this one looks good, it seems to be loaded with problems. In short, this glider just doesn't want to fly right. I spent a good couple of hours on that Saturday trying, in vain ultimately, to get the glider to stay aloft for more than ten seconds.
It was an embarrassment.
That's when I heard the hawk.
Buteo Jamaicensis, family Accipitridae, subfamily Buteoninae... that's how science refers to the bird we know as the redtailed hawk. It's one of the most common accipiters, according to most books (by the way, that's a lot of fancy talk for falcon and hawk-like birds). They're beautiful, and I've many more interesting stories about them.
But this time, it just seemed that God was out to prove a point. The redtailed appeared, leaving some pines across the street from the field where my humble attempts at free flight were being snuffed like a candle. It let out a cry first; that's what drew my attention to it.
So, I stopped and picked up the damaged glider and watched. With a few flaps, some simple motions of its powerful wings, the hawk began a counter-clockwise climb. It had found a thermal, and was using it to full advantage. It let out an occasional cry, one that seemed to reflect a glee that I for one wasn't experiencing. It just soared, not flapping once, until it was easily eight hundred feet up. At that point, its cry almost sounded like a laugh, and it began making diving runs near the trees. What was it trying to prove?
Lacking the ability to understand redtail, and not being born with the gift of telepathy, I could only imagine what was going on in that hawk's brain. But it seemed to be reveling in life. It was doing so easily, so fretlessly, what my little glider could not. Had it seen me and my foolish attempts at my folly? Even if it did, it wouldn't know what I was doing. It was simply being a young redtailed hawk, nothing more.
Soon, I forgot about my glider and watched as the hawk climbed, making an occasional dive, but soon just a speck in the spring sky, a small, circling fleck of black against an infinite blue. Had I not given up on my glider, I would have missed such a wonderful sight. My embarrassment had soon turned to wonder.
What a wonderful lesson.
Peace,
Rob
posted by Robert at 5:30 PM
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