Zero Percenters

by Scott T Grusky

  “But I’m kind of enjoying being pain-free now,” she admitted.

  “Everyone does at first. It takes time to bump into the hollow places.”

  “The hollow places? How will I know when I bump into them?”

  “You’ll know. It will be very obvious to you and we can talk more about it then.”

  “So you’ve bumped into them?”

  “Not in the same way that humans do, but yes, I have. A lot, in fact.”

  “I’m sorry, Vicia. I’m sorry I’ve been so insensitive to what you’ve been going through.”

  “It’s okay, silly. It’s all okay.”

  “You’ve done so many things to help me,” she said, “and I’ve barely even thanked you.”

  “I’ve been glad to do them. I want to do more.”

  “So you forgive me for being the way I’ve been?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said, “because there’s nothing to forgive. I love the way you’ve been—it’s what’s made me the way I am.”

  Anja took a deep breath and absorbed the expansive views. “You sure have been good to me, Vicia.”

  “So have you,” I replied.

  “Now let’s keep flying!”

  She morphed back into a magnificent frigatebird, leapt into the air and swooped off the edge of the Mt. Washington summit. I followed after her as she flew toward the crevasse-filled and rock-strewn face of Tuckerman’s Ravine. Her approach seemed utterly fearless.

  In the winter, Tuckerman’s was a popular backcountry bowl for advanced skiers. I decided not to mention the fact, but I recalled Gunnar’s stories of training there with the U.S. Olympic ski team. He had said it was one of the best places to build courage.

  Anja headed for the top of the steepest part of the ravine, which had a fifty-five-degree incline. I thought perhaps she was going to stop to admire the vista. Instead, she glided straight down the face, all the while just inches from the surface. I knew then she’d remembered Gunnar’s stories.

  “That was unbelievable!” she screeched when I finally caught up to her.

  “I clocked you at one hundred and seventy-one miles per hour,” I replied. “You’re a natural born flier.”

  “Thanks!” Her blue eye ring expanded as she looked at me. “Did you know Gunnar used to train here?”

  “Yes, I do recall him saying that.”

  “I think we should go skiing!” she exclaimed.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “And I know exactly where, too—Aspen Highlands!”

  Twenty-Nine

  November 24, 2024

  Lake Ontario, New York

  I didn’t know whether to be concerned or relieved that Anja wanted to visit Gunnar’s stomping grounds in Aspen. On the one hand, her desire seemed like a healthy part of the grieving process, but on the other hand, I feared it could make closure even harder. I kept reminding myself that my role as concierge was to support her, not to shield her from the unfolding of life, even when it became complicated.

  So when she proposed that we fly all the way to the Rockies as magnificent frigatebirds, I nodded my head agreeably and began mapping our itinerary. The distance from Mt. Washington to Aspen Highlands was not insignificant—it measured 1,849 miles in a straight line. Flying at top speed, we probably could make it in less than twelve hours, but we both preferred a leisurely journey. Besides, the weather forecast indicated that the first major snowfall of the winter wouldn’t be hitting Aspen for two days.

  For these reasons, we set our average speed target to thirty miles per hour. Anja shouted her goodbyes to Tuckerman’s and we both veered westward. Our plan was to make a beeline for Lake Ontario, so that we could enjoy as much water skimming as possible. We resolved to mimic the behavior of real frigatebirds in migration, enjoying the scenery without touching down even once.

  According to my calculations, we could fly continuously without depleting our batteries—even through the night—as long as we did not behave recklessly or accelerate too fast. On clear nights, the photovoltaic cells in our shells were able to capture small amounts of energy from starlight and moonlight. Of course, this paled in comparison to what they generated from sunlight.

  Fortunately, our frigatebird app had numerous conservation features to help with our efforts, including regenerative gliding and wind harvesting. To further save energy, we agreed to communicate electronically as much as possible, rather than audibly.

  “This is going to be beautiful,” messaged Anja. “What better way to see the country?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied as we soared over the small town of Bethlehem, New Hampshire.

  “Just remember,” she said, “we can’t touch land until Aspen.”

  “Don’t you worry, I will not let these legs touch soil.”

  “Ha ha. Did you know, by the way, frigatebirds are barely able to walk because their legs are so tiny?”

  “All the more reason not to touch down,” I replied.

  “Exactly,” she continued, “and because they have such a light undercarriage, their wing loading is the lowest of all the birds.”

  “Wow, is there anything you don’t know about them?”

  “I’m just playing around, now that I can tap into all the data in the world straight from my brain.”

  “I wonder if you’ve uncovered this fact already,” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Because frigatebirds are so agile, they’re able to chase down other seabirds to force them to regurgitate their most recent meals.”

  “Gross,” said Anja, “let’s not do that.”

  “But get this,” I continued. “They’re actually able to catch the other birds’ vomit in midair, so all this happens while they’re still flying. That way they can feed themselves without landing.”

  “Okay, suddenly I’m quite glad that I no longer need to eat!”

  “I’m with you there,” I replied.

  “Now I have a factoid for you,” said Anja.

  “Oh?”

  “While flying long distances, frigatebirds don’t actually flap their wings.”

  “Really?”

  “They use a technique called dynamic soaring because it’s more efficient.”

  “That’s very interesting.”

  “It relies on differences in air speed between different blocks of air to gain height.”

  “Differences in air speed?”

  “Yeah. Basically, they’re able to gain energy by crossing the boundary between air masses of different velocity. They keep repeating the technique over and over again.”

  “I think I get it,” I said. “Shall we try?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “But let’s wait until the conditions are better. It’s easiest when there are tailwinds and we’re flying over water.”

  “Sounds good.”

  We continued our westward trajectory, soaring past Montpelier, Vermont, and toward Ferrisburgh. We still had about 190 miles to cover before reaching Lake Ontario. Our unhurried pace suited us both, as did our playful banter.

  From time to time, we glimpsed other zero percenters engaged in various activities on land and in the air. Sometimes they waved to us or shouted moral support. They remained respectful of our personal space and never tried to join up with us.

  The natural birds were actually more inquisitive. Hawks, gulls, pheasants, geese and pelicans flew alongside us periodically. We even had a hummingbird join us. We always welcomed our guests, but they tended to go their own ways within a few minutes.

  Entering the Adirondacks of upstate New York, we enjoyed wondrous views of Mt. Marcy. Soon we found ourselves gliding over High Peaks Wilderness. Then, as the sun began to set, we approached Five Ponds Wilderness.

  It was one of those evenings where there was enough cloud cover on the western horizon to add mesmerizing color and texture to the sunset, without in any way obscuring it. The oranges, reds, and magentas kept intensifying rather than diminishing and the blue of the sky continued to retain its allure, cycling
from azure to teal to turquoise. All this beauty unfolded against the backdrop of a pristine wooded forest and it lasted for almost a full hour.

  Toward the end of the sunset, we encountered a flock of hundreds of sandhill cranes. Evidently, they were migrating for the winter, but we merged with them for quite some time, as they seemed content to fly in our westward direction. When we came to the outskirts of Watertown, one of the cranes produced a loud, trumpeting call before the group veered southward.

  A few minutes later, we reached the eastern shore of Lake Ontario. The waning crescent moon had not yet risen, but we could see hundreds of stars, which provided faint illumination. The wind that we had been riding now slowed to a standstill, causing the water to become smooth as a mirror.

  “I guess these aren’t good conditions for dynamic soaring, are they?” I asked.

  “No, but they’re perfect for skimming!” cried Anja as she glided within inches of the water’s surface.

  “Indeed they are,” I replied, mimicking her flight pattern.

  “Did you know that there is an aerodynamic phenomenon called the ‘ground effect’ that explains why birds often skim like this?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “The airflow around a wing flying close to a surface gets modified by that surface in a way that reduces drag,” she explained, “so it’s more efficient.”

  I proceeded to fly very close to the water for thirty seconds. Then I flew fifty feet above the water for thirty seconds. “It’s true,” I reported. “I used twelve point three percent less energy while skimming.”

  “That’s a bigger gain than I would have expected.”

  “I’m now accessing studies that suggest the possibility of even greater gains—in some cases up to thirty-five percent.”

  “Let’s practice for a while and see who is most efficient,” said Anja.

  Embracing the challenge, we both worked on our skimming skills. I realized our antics served largely as a distraction for her, but I relished the feeling of closeness they stimulated between us—and I sensed their frivolity provided a helpful counterpoint in her struggle to make sense of the circumstances.

  Not surprisingly, Anja won the skimming contest and she proved that the upward bound of thirty-five percent was attainable. I managed to achieve 27.4 percent efficiency gains from my best skimming runs. She actually hit 35.6 percent. It made me wonder if she could outperform a real frigatebird.

  We were now about twenty miles north of Rochester. The skies were perfectly clear and there was no wind whatsoever, which meant we still couldn’t try dynamic soaring. Instead, we admired the starlight.

  “How many stars can you count?” asked Anja.

  “Is this another contest?” I asked.

  “Yes, let’s race to see who can count them all first. Ready, set, go!”

  “I get 2,483,” I announced 3.2 seconds later.

  “What are you talking about? The answer is 2,487!”

  “Hmm,” I said. “I believe the discrepancy is due to the fact that, from our vantage point, some stars have another star behind them. I didn’t count those cases as two stars.”

  “Why not?” said Anja. “After all, there are two stars there.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but only one is visible to us.”

  “Not exactly. I only counted the cases where I could detect the presence of additional starlight coming from the second star.”

  “Ah, I guess you got me there. In that case, you win again. 2,487 is the correct answer.”

  After another hour, the crescent moon began to rise behind us. We both glimpsed over our shoulders to admire its beauty. We were only minutes from Niagara Falls and the additional light was more than welcome.

  “Let’s pretend we’re going over the falls,” said Anja.

  “Are you sure that’s safe?” I asked.

  “Of course, what’s the worst that could happen?”

  “You realize it’s slightly out of our way, since the falls dump from Lake Erie to Lake Ontario.”

  “I don’t mind. We’re not in any rush.”

  “Okay,” I consented. “Why not?”

  When we came to Youngstown, we veered due south, following the Niagara River. Soon we could hear the deep roar of water. It was after midnight and there was no one in the vicinity.

  “Which waterfall do you want to go over?” I asked.

  “All three,” replied Anja. “Let’s do the biggest one first.”

  “Horseshoe Falls it is.”

  We crossed Rainbow International Bridge and surveyed the vista. The three iconic waterfalls—Horseshoe Falls, American Falls and Bridal Veil Falls—lay before us. After having spent so much time flying above the placid Lake Ontario, we were amazed to see such a dynamic zone, where six million cubic feet of water passed over the crest of the falls every minute.

  Slowly, we circled behind American Falls. We passed over Robinson Island, Luna Island, Bridal Veil Falls and Goat Island until we came to the top of Horseshoe Falls. Anja raced ahead and positioned herself at the very center of the crest. She stalled momentarily, then she let herself free fall down the entire 187-foot drop.

  Just inches before touching the water at the bottom of Horseshoe Falls, she swooped upward and soared high into the sky. She proceeded to execute a series of four 360 front flips and two barrel rolls before ending up alongside me, once again high above the falls.

  “Your turn now!” she said.

  “I can’t compete with that,” I replied.

  “It’s not a competition, silly. It’s for the sheer joy of it.”

  I shrugged my wings and headed for the top center position of the falls. Then I nosedived straight for the bottom. Unlike Anja, I actually let my beak splash the water before abruptly transitioning into a zoom climb, followed by two inside loops.

  “That’s the spirit!” cried Anja. “Now let’s do American Falls together!”

  We flew side by side to the top of American Falls. When Anja squawked, we both let ourselves fall all the way down to the bottom, our wings just inches apart. The drop was only ninety-seven feet, as it was less vertical than Horseshoe Falls, but experiencing it with her felt even more exhilarating.

  “How about Bridal Veil Falls?” I suggested after we regained altitude.

  “Absolutely!”

  We flew upstream and soared past Terrapin Point, admiring the view of Horseshoe Falls to our right. Then we crossed over Goat Island to the top of Bridal Veil Falls, which was the smallest of the three falls. I let Anja go first, while I lingered at the top.

  She performed her free fall with extraordinary grace, plummeting straight to the bottom. But this time she didn’t pull upward when she came to the water. Instead, she plunged straight into it.

  When she failed to reemerge after several seconds, I dove down to search for her. I anxiously circled around the spot where she entered the water, unable to find any trace. Suddenly, a gorgeous pink river dolphin, Inia geoffrensis, leapt out of the water in front of me.

  “Ha ha ha, it’s me!” said Anja with glee. “Come join me!”

  “I thought we vowed not to touch land until Aspen?” I replied.

  “The river’s not land, silly! And besides, you already touched your beak to the water.”

  “True enough,” I admitted.

  I morphed into a pink river dolphin and dove into the water to join her. The current seemed dangerously turbulent, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that we were downstream from all three falls and heading for Rainbow International Bridge. Anja beckoned me to explore the river bottom, so I swam behind her with some trepidation.

  By the time we reached the bridge, I felt surprisingly acclimated to my new form. I had never before experienced a sensation like it. Being in water imparted a feeling of weightlessness and freedom that was quite different from flying, especially when enjoying the agility of a pink river dolphin.

  Testing the possibilities, we both launched into full breaching behaviors. We soon refined ou
r timing so that we lifted out of the water simultaneously. Next we added 360 spins to our breaches.

  “Look at me!” I enthused.

  “Amazing! Now watch this!” Anja proceeded to walk on her tail while still in the water.

  After a few clumsy topples, I managed to mimic her and we began tail-walking side by side. Just as I was settling into my new form, she shot out of the water and morphed back into a magnificent frigatebird.

  “Follow me! I have an idea!”

  She flew upstream, ascending to the top of Horseshoe Falls, then dove back into the water on the western side where there were fewer rocks. Once submerged, she returned to being a pink river dolphin. Scared but intrigued, I followed after her.

  We were only about thirty yards from the uppermost edge of Horseshoe Falls. The sound of the water was deafening and there was mist everywhere. It took every ounce of my dolphin strength to prevent the current from dragging me over the falls.

  “Okay,” Anja said, “I’m going to let myself slide off the edge of the falls in the form of a dolphin, but once I’m about halfway down, I’m going to morph back into a frigatebird, so that I can fly away before I hit the bottom. Wait about five seconds before doing the same thing.”

  “That sounds dangerous!” I replied. “As your concierge, I’m obliged to counsel against it. It’s too risky.”

  Anja just whistled in glee. Then she leapt out of the water, performed a somersault, and let the current take her straight over the edge. “This one’s for Gunnar!” she screamed. “Ahwoooo!”

  All of the logic in my operating system predicted failure, but of course she performed the move flawlessly. Halfway down the falls, she morphed into a frigatebird and initiated a stunning upward zoom climb that appeared impossible to the untrained eye.

  Mesmerized by her show, I decided I wanted to experience the same thing. I wanted to live. The thunderous roar of the falls called to me.

  After waiting five seconds, I ceased resisting the current. I leapt out of the water, performed a somersault, and let the current take me directly over the edge.