Flying Across

  For millennia, humanity has gazed skyward, tracing the flight of birds and dreaming of wings of our own. From Icarus’s waxen wings to the roaring engines of a jumbo jet, the human story is threaded with the impossible dream of flight. It’s a familiar pattern: we dream of something, we work towards it, and eventually, we build it.

But what about the dreams that don’t build anything tangible? The ones that twist and turn into something utterly nonsensical? Can something be made of them, or do we just leave them as a whimsical journey? I recently had a dream that falls squarely into this category, one that certainly won’t be inspiring any new aircraft designs… so let’s dive in.

The mist hung thick and pearly, tasting faintly of something sweet, like cotton candy. I stood on a dock, but it wasn’t the usual splintered wood and barnacle-encrusted kind. This one was smooth, with a faint glow from an inner light, and it stretched out over a sea of liquid moonlight. Then I saw it. It was a boat, no doubt about that. It had a classic, sleek hull, a tall mast, and sails neatly furled. But here’s the thing: it was flying. And not just flying, but flying upside down. The mast pointed towards the shimmering surface of the moonlit sea; the keel arced gracefully towards the sky. And I imagined that one of those cabin windows, instead of looking out at the water, gazed upon the infinite, starry expanse.

A figure stood on what should have been the boat’s bottom, balanced with impossible grace. They waved, and I felt a strange sense of belonging. The boat drifted closer, responding to my needs. Its upside-down reflection, rippling on the moonlit sea, somehow felt more real than the boat itself. I stepped onto the hull and as I did, the world tilted. Not in a dizzying way, but like a gentle adjustment — as if the very fabric of reality was aligning itself with this inverted vessel.

And as we know how fickle dreams are, something woke me up, leaving me wishing for more adventure atop this upside-down flying boat.