Summer Nights on the Saguaro

The power of flight.

This, the ability to soar through the sky, is my ultimate dream.

Whenever asked as a child what superpower I would pick if given the choice, I would always respond, “to fly”.  As kids, my cousin Jaquelyn told me that she wanted a power that would help her fight crime; one that would be useful in destroying the enemy, like super strength or telekinesis or something.  That was a noble choice, which was fitting. Jaq has always been the brave one. She even once convinced me to sneak into the balcony seats of a concert with her. Jaq snuck us in, but I was the one to smooth-talk our way out of trouble when we got caught.  She also has an intuition to serve others. Through our years of high school, when she could have been having fun in her free time, she elected to work instead. These were jobs that she hated. But even though I urged her to quit on multiple occasions, she never flinched. She has forever been determined to serve a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, so she needed to save up the money, and I admire her so much for that.

So while Jaq fantasized about saving the world with her superpowers of bravery and service, all I could think of was flying. It really is a selfish wish; I know it would be near useless in a fight. But I had not even considered practicality. The sensation of rocketing through the air with my hair dancing in the wind is too magical to pass up.

But while I don’t currently have the ability to fly, this summer, I came pretty close.

            The summer of 2015 has been the summer of boating. When my brother-in-law got in a car accident, his family came into a lot of money, and that money translated into a mint condition, high end, seven-seater 2002 Sea Ray 176. I have no idea if that is supposed to sound impressive to experienced boaters, but it sure was impressive to me! On a sweltering Arizona day at the end of May, we decided to take the boat out together for the first time. We backed up our new boat into the waters of the Saguaro Lake, and for the next forty-five minutes of my life … I simply sat there, in the heat, at the edge of the lake, in a boat, that would not start. There must have been something wrong with the engine and my brother-in-law could not figure out how to get it working. So we continued to sit there, and wait.

            But after approximately forty-five minutes bobbing in the water with a furious red-headed brother at the wheel, we heard a loud roar of the engine, and BOOM, the boat began to soar across the water. The shouts of joy and relief by all on the boat were drowned out by the howling wind in my ears. I stood up and walked towards the bow of the boat and sat down right in the front. I felt the sprinkle of lake water on my body, and the roller-coaster like sensation of dashing across the lake. I slowly closed my eyes, leaned forward, and put my arms out beside me. Suddenly, I wasn’t on a boat going 32 miles per hour. I was in the sky, flying at 90 miles an hour: a super hero, with the magical ability of flight. And here, in this moment, began my summer long love affair with the Saguaro.

           The Saguaro meant much more to me than just a lake. It is a representation of my home. The lake is surrounded by brownish-purple mountains, cluttered with green saguaro cacti, the Arizona valley being the only place on earth where this species of cacti grow. While most think a cactus to be rigid and ugly, I find it absolutely beautiful. I love the tall, prickly cacti, standing firm on the jagged cliffs and contrasted by the soft lake water. To me, they symbolize the stubborn charm of Arizona and the people in it. They are a sight you will only see when in the valley of Arizona, and they are a part of me.

A fact about the valley is that no matter what street you are driving on, if you look all the way down at the very horizon, you will see the crooked outline of grand purple mountains. The Saguaro is no different. Beyond the initial observation of cacti, there is an almost constant view of striking purple mountain majesties, and majestic they truly are. As I observe these mountains, both close and far-away, I can’t help but feel transported to a different time. Practically everything we see is new, something of man’s construction, but the mountains are ancient; they are not of man’s hand, but of God’s. When I survey the hills to my right, I see dinosaurs roaming over them, eating the vegetation that grow there (granted, I had recently seen Jurassic World when I had this vision, so I may have been a little dino-crazy; whether or not dinosaurs actually dwelled here, I’m not so sure). I then look over to the mountains on my left and see ancient Indian tribes roaming the land, claiming territory. This spectacle of nature not only excites me, but makes me wish I could travel in time and see these events for myself, and discover whether or not my imagination echoes actual truth.

While most travel to the lake in the morning hours of the day, my family likes to wait until the late afternoon to get there. At this time, not only have the majority of lake-goers left, leaving the water smooth and glassy, but it also happens to be, in my opinion, the most beautiful time of day.  After we have explored the lake, swam in the water a bit, wake boarded, and fished for a while, the Arizona sun begins to set. This, the Arizona sunset, is my favorite sight on the planet, and it is elevated even more when looking at it from the lake. As the sun falls closer to the horizon, the sky turns quickly from a light blue to a purple. On special occasions, the sky even turns to a light sea-foam-type green. Then, the sun hits the horizon, shooting out beautiful pink and golden rays. Within the space of thirty minutes, I have seen a light show, consisting of various shades of blue, green, gold, pink, orange, purple, and finally to blue again, except this time much darker. And as I watch this light show, I like to reflect on the lake water. Like literally I look at the colors being reflected on the water.  During the daytime, the water is mostly blue, mirroring the color of the sky. But as time passes and the waves of the lake dance about, the colors transform. Sometimes the water is brown, reflecting the hills that cast shadows over it. Other times, it is green, like the vegetation growing near it. And when the sun sets, the water fluctuates from a happy pink to an overwhelming golden-orange and eventually to my favorite color, purple.

As I absorb the many beautiful colors, all my worries melt away. I am filled with happiness, and I no longer remember the floating isles of weeds and garbage that have engulfed me when I swim too long in the lake, or the fact that I smell like lake water and that my eyes are dry from the immense wind, or even my inability to stay on a wakeboard for more than five seconds. All these less-than-ideal circumstances are diminished by the joy I feel from witnessing the nature around me. This fleeting moment of color and fascination, and it is short-lived, (one might not even notice it if not paying close attention) is my heaven. This sky is my pearly gates. When I imagine what pure bliss looks like, what the skies will look like when I step into my mansions up above, this is what I see. This, here, is the closest my mind can come to the beauty of eternity.

And then it’s gone. There is no more sun; it has fallen below the horizon and all that is left are its diminishing rays. This is about when we call it quits on our summer nights. We turn the boat around and head back to the shore. It is still light enough outside; the sun’s remaining rays take a while to completely dissolve. We rush to get the boat back on to the trailer and once we are pulled out of the lake, we hop off and wipe everything clean. Finally, we load the car, get in, and head home. I struggle to not fall asleep; the lake can be exhausting. Finally we arrive back home, and I say goodnight to my family.

Before I head to bed myself, I often take my dogs outside one more time before they go to sleep. Even they look exhausted. How can that be? They are dogs. They do nothing but sleep all day anyway! Now that I go outside for the final time, it is completely dark. No more sun, no more rays. But this task in my daily schedule happens to be my second-favorite part of the day. Because as I step out on to my back porch, I look up into the sky, and see yet another spectacular view.

The moon.

There he is, up in the dark sky, reminding me that I have forgotten him. I stare up at him, and the stars surrounding him, and the puffy clouds who often dwell there as well, and I feel one thing: jealousy. I’m jealous because the moon, and the stars, and the clouds, and even the sun and its rays, in all their glorious beauty can all do one thing that I cannot. They can fly.

While they are up in the sky, spinning in circles and roaming about, I, mere human, am limited by this pesky little thing called gravity. I look up at them and I feel that they are smiling at me, inviting me to come fly with them. The fact is though, that I can’t, and that doesn’t feel right. The law of gravity does not feel natural. What feels natural is being on that boat, wind in my hair, arms towards the sky, and a smile on my face. It feels as though if I try hard enough, if I just stretch close enough to that moon, that I will exceed those limitations, and break free of the chains of gravity. Deep inside me, it feels right to be able to fly, as if I am supposed to be up there, in the heavens, and not grounded to this earth.

So while I am here, stuck on this earth, I will take joy in it. I will marvel at the mountains and the cacti and laugh when the boat won’t start. I will fantasize about dinosaurs and Indians and gain a love for the place I live in, even though it may not be my permanent home. I will dive into the water even though I’m afraid of the floating isles of debris. And I will stand in awe at the striking displays above me, all the while knowing that I am not meant to be here. I am not meant to be grounded. I am not meant to be fettered. I am not meant to be confined.

I am meant to fly.