Jonathan Livingston Seagull 1

Posted: 10 Maret 2008 in inspirasi
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Richard Bach. Jonathan Livingston Seagull

To the real Jonathan Seagull,

who lives within us all.

 

 

 

Part One

 

It was morning, and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a

gentle sea. A mile from shore a fishing boat chummed the water. and the

word for Breakfast Flock flashed through the air, till a crowd of a

thousand seagulls came to dodge and fight for bits of food. It was another

busy day beginning.

But way off alone, out by himself beyond boat and shore, Jonathan

Livingston Seagull was practicing. A hundred feet in the sky he lowered

his webbed feet, lifted his beak, and strained to hold a painful hard

twisting curve through his wings. The curve meant that he would fly

slowly, and now he slowed until the wind was a whisper in his face, until

the ocean stood still beneath him. He narrowed his eyes in fierce

concentration, held his breath, forced one… single… more… inch…

of… curve… Then his featliers ruffled, he stalled and fell.

Seagulls, as you know, never falter, never stall. To stall in the air

is for them disgrace and it is dishonor.

But Jonathan Livingston Seagull, unashamed, stretching his wings

again in that trembling hard curve – slowing, slowing, and stalling once

more – was no ordinary bird.

Most gulls don’t bother to learn more than the simplest facts of

flight – how to get from shore to food and back again. For most gulls, it

is not flying that matters, but eating. For this gull, though, it was not

eating that mattered, but flight. More than anything else. Jonathan

Livingston Seagull loved to fly.

This kind of thinking, he found, is not the way to make one’s self

popular with other birds. Even his parents were dismayed as Jonathan spent

whole days alone, making hundreds of low-level glides, experimenting.

 

 

He didn’t know why, for instance, but when he flew at altitudes less

than half his wingspan above the water, he could stay in the air longer,

with less effort. His glides ended not with the usual feet-down splash

into the sea, but with a long flat wake as he touched the surface with his

feet tightly streamlined against his body. When he began sliding in to

feet-up landings on the beach, then pacing the length of his slide in the

sand, his parents were very much dismayed indeed.

“Why, Jon, why?” his mother asked. “Why is it so hard to be like the

rest of the flock, Jon? Why can’t you leave low flying to the pelicans,

the alhatross? Why don’t you eat? Son, you’re bone and feathers!”

“I don’t mind being bone and feathers mom. I just want to know what I

can do in the air and what I can’t, that’s all. I just want to know.”

“See here Jonathan ” said his father not unkindly. “Winter isn’t far

away. Boats will be few and the surface fish will be swimming deep. If you

must study, then study food, and how to get it. This flying business is

all very well, but you can’t eat a glide, you know. Don’t you forget that

the reason you fly is to eat.”

Jonathan nodded obediently. For the next few days he tried to behave

like the other gulls; he really tried, screeching and fighting with the

flock around the piers and fishing boats, diving on scraps of fish and

bread. But he couldn’t make it work.

It’s all so pointless, he thought, deliberately dropping a hard-won

anchovy to a hungry old gull chasing him. I could be spending all this

time learning to fly. There’s so much to learn!

 

 

It wasn’t long before Jonathan Gull was off by himself again, far out

at sea, hungry, happy, learning.

The subject was speed, and in a week’s practice he learned more about

speed than the fastest gull alive.

From a thousand feet, flapping his wings as hard as he could, he

pushed over into a blazing steep dive toward the waves, and learned why

seagulls don’t make blazing steep pewer-dives. In just six seconds he was

moving seventy miles per hour, the speed at which one’s wing goes unstable

on the upstroke.

Time after time it happened. Careful as he was, working at the very

peak of his ability, he lost control at high speed.

Climb to a thousand feet. Full power straight ahead first, then push

over, flapping, to a vertical dive. Then, every time, his left wing

stalled on an upstroke, he’d roll violently left, stall his right wing

recovering, and flick like fire into a wild tumbling spin to the right.

He couldn’t be careful enough on that upstroke. Ten times he tried,

and all ten times, as he passed through seventy miles per hour, he burst

into a churning mass of feathers, out of control, crashing down into the

water.

The key, he thought at last, dripping wet, must be to hold the wings

still at high speeds – to flap up to fifty and then hold the wings still.

From two thousand feet he tried again, rolling into his dive, beak

straight down, wings full out and stable from the moment he passed fifty

miles per hour. It took tremendous strength, but it worked. In ten seconds

he had blurred through ninety miles per hour. Jonathan had set a world

speed record for seagulls!

But victory was short-lived. The instant he began his pullout, the

instant he changed the angle of his wings, he snapped into that same

terrible uncontrolled disaster, and at ninety miles per hour it hit him

like dynamite. Jonathan Seagull exploded in midair and smashed down into a

brickhard sea.

When he came to, it was well after dark, and he floated in moonlight

on the surface of the ocean. His wings were ragged bars of lead, but the

weight of failure was even heavier on his back. He wished, feebly, that

the weight could be just enough to drug him gently down to the bottom, and

end it all.

As he sank low in the water, a strange hollow voice sounded within

him. There’s no way around it. I am a seagull. I am limited by my nature.

If I were meant to learn so much about flying, I’d have charts for brains.

If I were meant to fly at speed, I’d have a falcon’s short wings, and live

on mice instead of fish. My father was right. I must forget this

foolishness. I must fly home to the Flock and be content as I am, as a

poor limited seagull.

The voice faded, and Jonathan agreed. The place for a seagull at

night is on shore, and from this moment forth, he vowed, he would be a

normal gull. It would make everyone happier.

He pushed wearily away from the dark water and flew toward the land,

grateful for what he had learned about work-saving low-altitude flying.

But no, he thought. I am done with the way I was, I am done with

everything I learned. I am a seagull like every other seagull, and I will

fly like one. So he climbed painfully to a hundred feet and flapped his

wings harder, pressing for shore.

He felt better for his decision to be just another one of the Flock.

There would be no ties now to the force that had driven him to learn,

there would be no more challenge and no more failure. And it was pretty,

just to stop thinking, and fly through the dark, toward the lights above

the beach.

Dark! The hollow voice cracked in alarm. Seagulls never fly in the

dark!

Jonathan was not alert to listen. It’s pretty, he thought. The moon

and the lights twinkling on the water, throwing out little beacon-trails

through the night, and all so peaceful and still…

Get down! Seagulls never fly in the dark! If you were meant to fly in

the dark, you’d have the eyes of an owl! You’d have charts for brains!

You’d have a falcon’s short wings!

There in the night, a hundred feet in the air, Jonathan Livingston

Seagull – blinked. His pain, his resolutions, vanished.

Short wings. A falcon’s short wings!

That’s the answer! What a fool I’ve been! All I need is a tiny little

wing, all I need is to fold most of my wings and fly on just the tips

alone! Short wings!

He climbed two thousand feet above the black sea, and without a

moment for thought of failure and death, he brought his forewings tightly

in to his body, left only the narrow swept daggers of his wingtips

extended into the wind, and fell into a vertical dive.

The wind was a monster roar at his head. Seventy miles per hour,

ninety, a hundred and twenty and faster still. The wing-strain now at a

hundred and forty miles per hour wasn’t nearly as hard as it had been

before at seventy, and with the faintest twist of his wingtips he eased

out of the dive and shot above the waves, a gray cannonball under the

moon.

He closed his eyes to slits against the wind and rejoiced. A hundred

forty miles per hour! And under control! If I dive from five thousand feet

instead of two thousand, I wonder how fast..

His vows of a moment before were forgotten, swept away in that great

swift wind. Yet he felt guiltless, breaking the promises he had made

himself. Such promises are only for the gulls that accept the ordinary.

One who has touched excellence in his learning has no need of that kind of

promise.

By sunup, Jonathan Gull was practicing again. From five thousand feet

the fishing boats were specks in the flat blue water, Breakfast Flock was

a faint cloud of dust motes, circling.

He was alive, trembling ever so slightly with delight, proud that his

fear was under control. Then without ceremony he hugged in his forewings,

extended his short, angled wingtips, and plunged direcfly toward the sea.

By the time he passed four thousand feet he had reached terminal velocity,

the wind was a solid beating wall of sound against which he could move no

faster. He was flying now straight down, at two hundred fourteen miles per

hour. He swallowed, knowing that if his wings unfolded at that speed be’d

be blown into a million tiny shreds of seagull. But the speed was power,

and the speed was joy, and the speed was pure beauty.

He began his pullout at a thousand feet, wingtips thudding and

blurring in that gigantic wind, the boat and the crowd of gulls tilting

and growing meteor-fast, directly in his path.

He couldn’t stop; he didn’t know yet even how to turn at that speed.

Collision would be instant death.

And so he shut his eyes.

It happened that morning, then, just after sunrise, that Ionathan

Livingston Seagull fired directly through the center of Breakfast Flock,

ticking off two hundred twelve miles per hour, eyes closed, in a great

roaring shriek of wind and feathers. The Gull of Fortune smiled upon him

this once, and no one was killed.

By the time he had pulled his beak straight up into the sky he was

still scorching along at a hundred and sixty miles per hour. When he had

slowed to twenty and stretched his wings again at last, the boat was a

crumb on the sea, four thousand feet below.

His thought was triumph. Terminal velocity! A seagull at two hundred

fourteen miles per hour! It was a breakthrough, the greatest single moment

in the history of the Flock, and in that moment a new age opened for

Jonathan Gull. Flying out to his lonely practice area, folding his wings

for a dive from eight thousand feet, he set himself at once to discover

how to turn.

A single wingtip feather, he found, moved a fraction of an inch,

gives a smooth sweeping curve at tremendous speed. Before he learned this,

however, he found that moving more than one feather at that speed will

spin you like a ritIe ball… and Jonathan had flown the first aerobatics

of any seagull on earth.

He spared no time that day for talk with other gulls, but flew on

past sunset. He discovered the loop, the slow roll, the point roll, the

inverted spin, the gull bunt, the pinwheel.

 

 

When Jonathan Seagull joined the Flock on the beach, it was full

night. He was dizzy and terribly tired. Yet in delight he flew a loop to

landing, with a snap roll just before touchdown. When they hear of it, he

thought, of the Breakthrough, they’ll be wild with joy. How much more

there is now to living! Instead of our drab slogging forth and back to the

fishing boats, there’s a reason to life! We can lift ourselves out of

ignorance, we can find ourselves as creatures of excellence and

intelligence and skill. We can be free! We can learn to fly!

The years ahead hummed and glowed with promise.

The gulls were flocked into the Council Gathering when he landed, and

apparently had been so flocked for some time. They were, in fact, waiting.

“Jonathan Livingston Seagull! Stand to Center!” The Elder’s words

sounded in a voice of highest ceremony. Stand to Center meant only great

shame or great honor. Stand to Center for Honor was the way the gulls’

foremost leaders were marked. Of course, he thought, the Breakfast Flock

this morning; they saw the Breakthrough! But I want no honors. I have no

wish to be leader. I want only to share what I’ve found, to show those

horizons out ahead for us all. He stepped forward.

“Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” said the Elder, “Stand to Center for

Shame in the sight of your fellow gulls!”

It felt like being hit with a board. His knees went weak, his

feathers sagged, there was roaring in his ears. Centered for shame?

Impossible! The Breakthrough! They can’t understand! They’re wrong,

they’re wrong!

“… for his reckless irresponsibility ” the solemn voice intoned,

“violating the dignity and tradition of the Gull Family…”

To be centered for shame meant that he would be cast out of gull

society, banished to a solitary life on the Far Cliffs.

“… one day Jonathan Livingston Seagull, you shall learn that

irresponsibility does not pay. Life is the unknown and the unknowable,

except that we are put into this world to eat, to stay alive as long as we

possibly can.”

A seagull never speaks back to the Council Flock, but it was

Jonathan’s voice raised. “Irresponsibility? My brothers!” he cried. “Who

is more responsible than a gull who finds and follows a meaning, a higher

purpose for life? For a thousand years we have scrabbled after fish heads,

but now we have a reason to live – to learn, to discover, to be free! Give

me one chance, let me show you what I’ve found…”

The Flock might as well have been stone.

“The Brotherhood is broken,” the gulls intoned together, and with one

accord they solemnly closed their ears and turned their backs upon him.

Jonathan Seagull spent the rest of his days alone, but he flew way

out beyond the Far Cliffs. His one sorrow was not solituile, it was that

other gulls refused to believe the glory of flight that awaited them; they

refused to open their eyes and see. He learned more each day. He learned

that a streamlined high-speed dive could bring him to find the rare and

tasty fish that schooled ten feet below the surface of the ocean: he no

longer needed fishing boats and stale bread for survival. He learned to

sleep in the air, setting a course at night across the offshore wind,

covering a hundred miles from sunset to sunrise. With the same inner

control, he flew through heavy sea-fogs and climbed above them into

dazzling clear skies… in the very times when every other gull stood on

the ground, knowing nothing but mist and rain. He learned to ride the high

winds far inland, to dine there on delicate insects.

What he had once hoped for the Flock, he now gained for himself

alone; he learned to fly, and was not sorry for the price that he had

paid. Jonathan Seagull discovered that boredom and fear and anger are the

reasons that a gull’s life is so short, and with these gone from his

thought, he lived a long fine life indeed.

They came in the evening, then, and found Jonathan gliding peaceful

and alone through his beloved sky. The two gulls that appeared at his

wings were pure as starlight, and the glow from them was gentle and

friendly in the high night air. But most lovely of all was the skill with

which they flew, their wingtips moving a precise and constant inch from

his own. Without a word, Jonathan put them to his test, a test that no

gull had ever passed. He twisted his wings, slowed to a single mile per

hour above stall. The two radiant birds slowed with him, smoothly, locked

in position. They knew about slow flying.

He folded his wings, rolled and dropped in a dive to a hundred ninety

miles per hour. They dropped with him, streaking down in flawless

formation.

At last he turned that speed straight up into a long vertical

slow-roll. They rolled with him, smiling.

He recovered to level flight and was quiet for a time before he

spoke. “Very well,” he said, “who are you?”

“We’re from your Flock, Jonathan. We are your brothers.” The words

were strong and calm. “We’ve come to take you higher, to take you home.”

“Home I have none. Flock I have none. I am Outcast. And we fly now at

the peak of the Great Mountain Wind. Beyond a few hundred feet, I can lift

this old body no higher.”

“But you can Jonathan. For you have learned. One school is finished,

and the time has come for another to begin.”

As it had shined across him all his life, so understanding lighted

that moment for Jonathan Seagull. They were right. He could fly higher,

and it was time to go home.

He gave one last look across the sky, across that magnificent silver

land where he had learned so much.

“I’m ready ” he said at last.

And Jonathan Livingston Seagull rose with the two starbright gulls to

disappear into a perfect dark sky.

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