Chapter 8 — Parasailing
And thus begins Chapter Eight.
Now, children.
There I stood.
Actually
contemplating.
Pause.
The council looks surprised.
Contemplating?
Yes.
Children.
Real contemplation.
Not the usual Nuo procedure of:
Thing exists.
Thing looks interesting.
Sure.
No.
Thoughts occurred.
Calculations.
Risk assessment.
A deeply unusual administrative event.
And there were two reasons for this.
First
I was sober.
The council checks the archive.
No joints?
None.
Children.
Not a single one involved in this Wandering.
No altered decision making.
No agriculture whispering:
Jump.
Fly.
Pet tiger.
Whatever.
This was fully conscious stupidity.
Important distinction.
Second
this was not official.
Now.
You have seen me outsource self preservation before.
Wonderla?
Ride operator says safe.
Excellent.
Employee straps Nuo into machine designed to convince the human body it has made a terrible mistake.
Nuo?
Relax.
Children.
Why?
Because I trust the business model.
Amusement park has incentive to ensure customers do not exit rides in several pieces.
Very poor for repeat business.
The council nods.
Rishikesh?
Two weeks ago.
Important.
Very recent.
I had paid a substantial portion of my budget
to fling myself from a platform
one hundred and nine metres above the ground.
The council stares.
Bravery?
Children.
Please.
No.
It was outsourcing.
Again.
There were harnesses.
Employees.
A system.
A company.
Procedures.
People whose livelihood presumably depended on tourists bouncing back up instead of becoming local folklore.
I looked at that platform and thought:
Surely they prefer not being shut down today.
The council accepts the logic.
Trust the competent strangers.
Exactly.
Self preservation outsourced.
Efficient.
But this?
Children.
Different.
This was not:
Kovalam Official Parasailing Adventure Services.
This was:
Pimp Number One Says He Has A Boat.
The council goes quiet.
Credentials?
Unknown.
Training?
Unknown.
Equipment quality?
Unknown.
Insurance?
Children.
Please.
All I knew was:
boat looked real.
Parachute looked real.
Life jackets existed.
QR payment successful.
And the man had displayed enough competence to get us this far without anyone dying.
The council gives cautious approval.
Not entirely compromised.
Exactly.
For all I knew,
this man was excellent at parasailing.
Perhaps he had been doing it for twenty years.
Perhaps this was his actual profession
and pimping was the side hustle.
The council pauses.
Career hierarchy unclear.
Very.
But everything about the setup still whispered:
You may die in a very stupid way.
The council nods.
And Story Nuo listened.
For once.
I looked at the equipment.
Sea.
Boat.
Chute.
Shore in the distance.
Hat waiting.
No Hat nearby.
Pimp Number One presumably prepared to launch his paying test subject.
Children.
And my brain began doing something rare.
Mental calculations.
If something fails
what happens?
Water below.
Height?
Unknown.
Speed?
Unknown.
Likelihood of equipment malfunction?
Also unknown.
Could I survive hitting water?
Maybe.
Would surface tension become my final enemy?
Potentially.
Children.
I had no actual expertise.
Let’s make that very clear.
This was not physics.
This was the kind of calculation humans perform when they have insufficient data
but still desperately want permission from themselves.
The council nods.
Pseudo science in service of adventure.
Exactly.
And then
the question.
The one that has powered more Wanderings than perhaps it should.
Not:
Will this be fun?
Not:
Is this safe?
Not even:
Do I want to do this?
Children.
The question was
Would this make a good story?
Silence.
The council sighs.
There he is.
Yes.
Would this make a good story?
If successful?
Obviously.
If mildly unsuccessful?
Potentially even better.
If catastrophically unsuccessful?
Well.
The council raises a hand.
No story if dead.
Correct.
That was the limiting factor.
So I reasoned
very questionably
that if something went wrong
and I hit the water in a survivable enough way,
future Nuo could tell this story somewhere else.
Children.
Was this based on reliable evidence?
No.
Was I trained in water impact survival?
No.
Was any of this calculation scientifically defensible?
Probably not.
But did it satisfy Story Nuo’s internal legal department?
Yes.
The council bangs a tiny gavel.
Approved.
And so
I went first.
Hat’s crash test dummy.
Tour Guide Nuo.
Risk Assessment Intern.
Father sponsored airborne idiot.
Children.
Career growth.
The pimp began preparing me.
Now.
I do not know how official parasailing works.
Still don’t.
Perhaps there are specialized suits.
Harness systems.
Protective gear.
Specific procedures.
Children.
Do not use this chapter as instruction.
This is merely what happened to me.
Pimp Version?
Simple.
I remained exactly as dressed.
Hoodie.
Track pants.
Peak aerodynamic engineering.
The council stares.
No swimsuit?
No.
No special suit?
No.
No sleek adventure gear?
Children.
I looked like a man who had left home to buy groceries
and accidentally wandered into aviation.
The man attached me to the parasailing gear.
Checked things.
Then checked again.
That
I appreciated.
The council nods.
Competence points.
Yes.
Children.
Every small sign of professionalism mattered enormously when the person handling your safety had introduced himself earlier through prostitution sales.
He tugged.
Checked.
Adjusted.
Whatever exact sequence occurred remains visual rather than technical in memory.
Then
“Hold on tight and enjoy.”
Pause.
The council looks at Nuo.
Reassuring?
Moderately.
Before I could restart the contemplation
boat moved.
Children.
This was probably wise.
Thinking time ended.
Engine.
Acceleration.
Water pulling behind us.
Chute catching air.
At first
tension.
A pull.
Then
up.
Pause.
Children.
Up.
The boat shrank beneath me.
Water widened.
The horizon changed.
And the world
opened.
The council goes silent.
I ascended.
Not violently.
Not like bungee.
Bungee jumping is surrender.
You step off
and gravity immediately reminds you it has jurisdiction.
Your stomach moves somewhere else.
Your body falls faster than your thoughts can organize.
This?
Different.
Parasailing felt
gentler.
Lift.
Not fall.
Not weightlessness exactly.
Not flight exactly either.
Children.
Something between.
The sea beneath.
Kovalam beyond.
Air around me.
And for those minutes
divine.
Not God divine.
Let’s be precise.
No cosmic revelation.
No voice from the heavens.
No sudden merging with the universe.
Angel divine.
The council looks up.
Wings?
That feeling.
Children.
Like I had been handed wings temporarily.
Not enough to control where I went.
Not enough to fly on my own.
But enough to experience the world from above
while the body understood:
You are not standing on anything.
Kovalam stretched beneath and ahead.
The coastline.
Buildings.
Sea.
Beach.
Boat becoming small.
People probably microscopic.
And me
hanging between ocean and sky
in a hoodie and track pants
because a pimp said he had a boat.
The council laughs softly.
What a sentence.
Exactly.
Children.
This was glorious.
No fear dominating.
No:
Please end.
No:
Get me down.
Also no desperate:
Please never end.
The experience did not need extension.
It did not need escape.
It simply
was.
Time stopped being relevant.
I had no idea whether I had been up for two minutes
or ten.
No countdown.
No checking.
No awareness of:
How much longer?
Just
fucking hell.
This is awesome.
The council smiles.
Story Nuo language.
Yes.
And normally?
Archivist.
Present day Nuo would record everything.
Phone out.
Video.
Photo.
Panorama.
Proof.
Children.
Not possible.
My phone remained in the boat.
Before launch,
Pimp Number One had shown us a box.
Electronics inside.
Phone there.
Safe.
At least that was the system.
So for once
no camera.
No screen between me and the view.
No instinct to preserve it digitally because I physically could not.
Children.
Only eyes.
Memory.
Which is perhaps why it feels so clean now.
Yesterday.
Fresh.
The image still vivid.
Sea below.
Sky around.
Kovalam from above.
And nothing in my hands.
The bracelet?
Probably jingling less aggressively suspended in air.
The council refuses to estimate aerial bracelet acoustics.
Fair.
Then
return.
Again,
I do not know the official procedure.
I know the Pimp Version.
The boat altered speed.
The line began bringing me closer.
Slowly.
Controlled.
Children.
And this
this was the moment my opinion of Pimp Number One shifted substantially.
Because remember my baseline expectation.
Potential death.
Questionable operation.
Maybe rope tied to optimism.
But no.
The descent felt deliberate.
The boat slowed.
I came lower.
Closer.
Closer.
The distance between:
man in sky
and
man on boat
gradually disappeared.
The council updates competence rating.
Higher.
Much higher.
Children.
Credit where due.
This man knew what he was doing.
At least in this moment.
Whatever his other employment,
whatever his marketing methods,
whatever maze of alleys he considered sensible navigation
parasailing?
Competent.
I expected nonsense.
Received actual service.
The council nods.
A rare and welcome reversal.
And eventually
boat.
Back.
Feet meeting something solid again.
Harness still holding.
No catastrophic splash.
No impact.
No emergency.
No becoming a cautionary headline:
LOCAL IDIOT TRUSTS PIMP WITH PARACHUTE.
Children.
Survival.
Successful.
More than survival.
Worth it.
Completely.
I steadied.
Perhaps laughed.
Probably had that stupid grin that appears when adrenaline and joy have formed a coalition.
Then
Hat.
The council waits.
Safety report.
Yes.
I turned toward her.
The woman who had appointed me sacrificial test subject.
The woman of culture.
The strategic mind.
Hat looked at me.
And I delivered my findings.
“Yep.
Seems safe.
Your turn.”
Silence.
The council erupts.
PEER REVIEW COMPLETE.
Exactly.
Children.
Highly rigorous safety certification.
Sample size:
one Nuo.
Outcome:
alive.
Therefore
safe.
The council objects scientifically.
Obviously.
But socially?
Enough.
Hat had wanted a crash test dummy.
Crash test dummy returned intact.
Mission complete.
And honestly
I could not blame her.
If I had watched me rise into the air,
remain attached,
return calmly,
and smile?
Yes.
Confidence increased.
The operation had passed the Nuo Test.
A standard no legitimate regulatory body recognizes.
The council stamps:
NUO APPROVED.
Please don’t.
Fine.
But there was something else.
Children.
The activity had changed shape for me.
I had agreed because it would make a good story.
That was the decision point.
Story potential.
But once I was up there?
Story vanished.
No narration.
No future archive.
No:
This will be excellent later.
Just
experience.
That is rare.
The council grows quiet.
You know me.
Archivist brain.
Writer brain.
Everything occasionally becomes:
How will I remember this?
How will I phrase this?
What does this mean?
But in the air?
None.
Only
fuck.
This is awesome.
Children.
Maybe that is the highest compliment I can give a moment.
It silenced the storyteller.
Temporarily.
The man whose brain turns life into chapters
forgot there would be a chapter.
Because he was too busy being inside it.
The council nods.
And when I landed
the storyteller returned immediately.
Of course.
“Yep.
Seems safe.
Your turn.”
Perfect.
So there I stood.
Back on the speedboat.
Alive.
Very alive.
Kovalam behind us.
Hat now possessing empirical evidence.
No Hat waiting.
Pimp Number One’s competence upgraded from:
questionable
to:
surprisingly impressive.
Children.
The crash test had succeeded.
Would this make a good story?
Yes.
But more importantly
it had been a good moment.
And those are not always the same thing.
Thus concludes Chapter Eight.
The Actual Contemplation.
The Sobriety.
The Difference Between Official Operators And Pimp Based Adventure Tourism.
The Reminder Of Rishikesh.
The 109 Metre Outsourcing Of Self Preservation.
The Questionable Risk Calculations.
The Question That Fuels Far Too Many Wanderings:
“Would This Make A Good Story?”
The Decision:
Yes.
The Hoodie.
The Track Pants.
The Pimp Version Of Parasailing Preparation.
The Final Check.
“Hold On Tight And Enjoy.”
The Boat.
The Wind.
The Lift.
The Ascent.
The Sea Below.
Kovalam From Above.
The Angel Feeling.
The Temporary Wings.
The Complete Disappearance Of Time.
The Phone Safely Back In The Boat.
The Experience Without A Camera.
The Controlled Return.
The Unexpected Competence Of Pimp Number One.
And
The Safety Report.
Children.
Hat had sent me first
to see whether the pimp’s parasailing operation would kill us.
I went up.
I flew.
I came back down.
I looked at her.
“Yep.
Seems safe.
Your turn.”
The council reviews the unpaid internship.
Risk assessment complete.
Employee survived.
And somehow
I had paid ₹1500 for the privilege.
