johnmaconline

We made it to the top of the mountain. The launch point.

And then the fun began. What started out as a haphazard pile of aluminum poles, cables, and nylon sheeting, transformed into two fully functional hang-gliders. An engineering marvel, for sure, and a bit of a miracle. 

There was stuff everywhere, but they were meticulous with the assembly procedure. The discarded shrapnel of the build process left a small pile of bags and parts that Dave tossed into the trunk of their car.

The moment came. 

The launch pad is a two-level, wooden platform perched on the edge of a 1500-foot cliff overlooking a flat, green plain dotted with houses and farms extending to the navy blue coastline a couple miles away. Strapped into his giant kite, the glider pilot stands facing the void on the upper platform. The launch helper stands facing him on the lower platform with his back to that void like a rock climber one final move away from sending the route. The upper platform hits him in the chest, giving him just enough length to reach up and grab the glider’s control bar — the lower leg of the glider’s triangular frame. He’s got nothing behind him except a marginal safety strap and the birds. On command, the pilot kicks off into the nothing as the launch helper passes the glider back over his head like a reverse soccer throw while leaning back into the strap (and praying it holds). 

I stand on the upper platform with Dave’s buddy, surveying the beautiful landscape below as he explains this procedure. My hands sweating and my knees wobbling. 

So you’re just gonna jump off the cliff? I guess I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m sure it was something not quite as dramatic. 

“Hey, look down there. To the left of that big field is where we’ll be landing. You can leave the car there on the side of the road. We’ll find it. And you see that big house to the right of the landing zone? That’s where they filmed Magnum P.I”. 

And then he says it.

“You wanna be the launch helper?”

“Um…hmmmm…ummmm…”

I’m both exhilarated and worried.

I hop in the driver’s side as they climb in through the other doors, and Chris gets in our rental car to follow us. I’m a little nervous about these ragged guys I’ve just met. But as we’re winding our way up the dirt mountain road, they bubble with excitement. I can’t help but catch their energy. It’s happening.  

And then, I take a peak at the gas gauge. It’s pegged on “E.” Not near “E,” or bouncing around. Pegged. 

“Hey guys, is the gas gauge broke?”

“Uh, no. We’re probably outta gas.”

Probably?

“So…”

“Don’t worry, man. All we care about right now is getting into the air. Today is f’n perfect. We just need enough gas to get us up the hill.”

“But what about driving it to the landing zone? What if I don’t make it?”

“No worries, just abandon it where it quits. We’ll find it later.”

Abandon it where it quits? We’ll find it later? The landing zone is at least 15 miles away. I can’t wrap my engineer and conservative brain around it. It doesn’t compute.

“Is there a gas station…”

“No man. Seriously, don’t worry. Leave it. All we care about is getting in the air.”

And what am I gonna do at this point? I’m just gonna keep driving, savor the good vibes as best I can, and let the cards fall where they may. 

Next stop — the top of the hill. 

Could we?

We figured about three or four hours to drive counterclockwise around Diamond Head, then Koko Head, then up the east coast to Kaneohe. From Kaneohe, we’d zip right over the mountain on the H3 to make our way to the airport near Pearl Harbor. 

A relaxing little ride allowing us to revisit a few favorite spots and arrive in plenty of time to make the flight. 

But then we ran into Dave, who blew it all up with an intriguing adventure opportunity — the hang-gliding experience I’d been trying to coordinate for months. 

“So what do you say? Can you give us a ride?”

My hang-gliding was, unfortunately, off the table. Dave and his buddy had their gliders but not the tandem. 

But support crew?

We’d drive them up the mountain, help them get launched, and then deposit the car by the landing zone. How long would that take? Unknown.  

We huddled to the side, and I started making excuses. Got a flight to catch. 

“I don’t know…” 

This is my nature. To back off. To shrink. To be conservative. I hate missing flights, but also, what was this crazy scenario? Who are these guys? And drive their car down the mountain and just leave it there?

Chris says to me, “You’ve been looking forward to this for months. Here it is. If we have to miss the flight, we’ll figure it out. Why wouldn’t we say yes?”

And with that, Dave thew me the keys.  

These guys are ragged and shaggy. Maybe altered. Stereotypical 90s slackers. 

I saw the paraphernalia on top of the beat-up old car, and I had to ask. 

“What the hell are you guys doing?”

“Man, we’re just trying to get in the air. We need a ride up there…”

Pointing again.

“… so we can jump off with our gliders and land over there in that flat spot. Today is the perfect flying day. It’ll only take 15 minutes of your time.”

Gliders! Flying!

I wonder if they know Dave.

“Hey, you guys don’t by any chance know a guy named Dave, do you? I was trying to hook up with him to…”

“Yeah, man! That’s me!”

Boom.

“You’re Dave? Dude, I’ve been trying to reach you for like a week! We were supposed to hook up so you could take me for a ride.”

“Oh, sorry, man. The conditions on the Big Island were stupid. I had to get over there for a few days.”

I just kinda blinked at him. I was floored by the fact that I was standing in front of Dave, in the flesh. Given what I had gone through to try to meet with him, this was just nuts. With today’s technology, sure, no big deal, but in the mid-90s? This was a true coincidence (or divine intervention).

He was crazy. This situation was crazy.

And then I had a crazy idea. 

On the morning of our last day on Oahu, my wife and I decided to take a drive around the island to take a last look at some of our favorite parts (and take a quick peek at the lifeguard’s lost-and-found at Sandy Beach).

We’ve parked at the Makapu’u Lookout, hoping to spot a whale in the bay. Walking back to the car, I see two ragged, agitated-looking guys standing by the railing. Not angry-agitated, but clearly worked up about something. They grab each person walking near them, ask a question, and then I see the head shake “no.” 

Now it’s our turn.

“Hey, man! Can you help us? We’re looking for someone to give us a ride and then park our car.”

“Ummm…”

“We’re just trying to get to the top of that mountain right there. We need someone to drive us up, and then take our car to the bottom of the hill over there.”

He points up to the top of the mountain behind us, then to a flat spot at ground level a mile or so up the coastline, and then to the car we’re all standing next to. 

I’m sort of stammering, internally and externally. What the hell is going on here?

As my head bobs around on my neck following his pointing, I finally notice the car. It’s got a bunch of stuff, like long poles strapped to the roof. 

Wait, it can’t be. 

I was obsessed with hang-gliding in the mid-90s. 

This was early internet and pre-ubiquitous mobile phone days — the days of internet forums and message boards. I’d found a dedicated hang-gliding message board and stalked it daily. I had even started a conversation with the local (eastern PA) hang-gliding club leader. 

But I still hadn’t built up the courage to show up at the hill, let alone try it for myself. I was scared. 

When my wife and I booked a trip to Hawaii, though, I thought, “Why not Hawaii? Maybe this is the kick I need.” I found the contact information for a guy on Oahu with a tandem glider. The perfect exposure to a hang-gliding-curious but ultimately scared newbie like myself. 

I sent him a message, told him when I’d be there, and he agreed. He’s one of those perpetually excited dudes. Just give him a call when I get to the island, and we’ll schedule it.

So we got to Hawaii, and I started calling. No answer for two days. On day three, a woman answers. 

“Um, Hi. My name is John. Dave asked me to call about hang-gliding…”

“Oh? Really? I’m sorry, but Dave’s not here.”

“When will he be back?”

“No, I mean he’s gone. He’s over on the Big Island, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

And that was that. On some level, I was relieved. 

But as it turns out, this wasn’t the end of the story. 

I’ve noticed a curious mind-body confusion. 

For me, it’s my thumb. My thumb checks regularly. If it finds it, no big deal. I don’t even think about it. But when it doesn’t, my thumb throws up the red flags that I can’t ignore it. I can’t stop noticing the absence of it. 

I’m talking about my wedding ring. My thumb has been through this before, so it knows the drill. 

I lost my first wedding ring in the sand at the edge of the Pacific ocean. 

Two years into our marriage, my wife and I traveled to Hawaii. My favorite place was a wicked body-surfing beach just past the Halona blowhole on Koko Head — Sandy Beach. This was the only time in my (admittedly limited) body surfing experience where I purposely sought out the small waves. Balancing right along the edge of exhilarating and terrifying. 

After one particularly turbulent ride, I extracted myself from the sand, and my thumb told me immediately. It was gone. I remember constantly thinking about its absence. 

So I got another one quickly, which served me until a few days ago. I lost this second one to rheumatoid arthritis. 

Now my thumb is aggravated again. I can’t not notice its absence. From one perspective, this mind-body confusion makes sense. My ring was a constant physical presence.

I wonder, though, if the real confusion comes from the story I tell myself about the ring. 

If there’s one thing that I excel at — truly top of the heap — it’s being mediocre.

Here are some proverbs that have served me well in my dance to the top of mediocrity.

Never Quit
Take No Risk
Have No Fun
Blame Others
Wait Your Turn
Choose Comfort
Have No Regrets
Follow the Money
Never Be Content
Blame The System
Think Too Far Ahead
See Before You Believe
Worry About Getting Got
Look for the Straight Line
Let Society Define Success
Hope For a Promotion and Raise
Always Be the Smartest in the Room
Always Protect Yourself from Emotional Danger

This is a great system, and I can teach it to you because, as it turns out, I’m also a mediocrity coach. If you’d like to up your mediocre game, hit me up.

I know the exact moment we sealed our destiny. 

And the shame of it was that I had failed to learn the lesson from the Gladys affair. That should have taught me to embrace the opportunities of the future rather than shrinking into the soft pillow of the past. 

The executives at Agere looked at the challenge before them and failed to see the opportunity. All they saw was what had been taken away. They contracted rather than expanded. 

I did exactly the same thing.

The critical moment for our student housing business came when we decided to stay the course and play the hand we already held rather than expand toward possibilities. We had started on the journey of replacing on of our old apartment houses with a brand new, state of the art building. We had the idea, zoning, outline of a design, and the architect on standby. 

And then we backed down. We got cold feet and said no. 

Our reasons were sound. You might recognize them from your past as well. 

I had little experience. 
It would be hard.
What if it doesn’t work?
It was risky.

Therefore, we failed to see where the future was moving — what students wanted, what we should provide, and how we could give it to them. 

Therefore, I played small. I stuck with what I had and what I knew. I hadn’t learned my lesson. 

I had only piled up more regrets.

I’m an engineer.

That’s a description of both my vocation and personality. Knowing that now you know how to motivate me. 

For example, an engineer likes to make stuff. I like to make stuff. In fact, I’ve built my entire career and most hobbies around making stuff. My engineer friends are the same. 

Corporate executive, politician, or church leader — tell me a story that connects what I’m making to how it matters.

Of course, the fact that I’m an engineer is just the story I tell myself. It may be accurate on one plane, but it’s not exhaustive or immutable. But it starts with a story. 

All motivation starts with a story. Our personal stories connect us to our sense of being. Our shared stories connect us to each other and to our place in the world. 

We don’t all tell ourselves the same story, but at our core, each of us is motivated by a story. 

April fools.