Butthegliderbroughtmeupsmartly。Ihadtofindouthowthesethingswentdowntheair，andtheonlywaytofindoutistogodownwithone。AndforatimeIwouldn’tfaceit。
Thereissomethingimpersonalaboutabook，Isuppose。AtanyrateIfindmyselfabletowritedownherejusttheconfessionI’veneverbeenabletomaketoanyonefacetoface，thefrightfultroubleitwastometobringmyselftodowhatI
supposeeveryothercolouredboyintheWestIndiescoulddowithoutturningahair，andthatistoflingmyselfoffformyfirstsoardownthewind。Thefirsttrialwasboundtobetheworst；itwasanexperimentImadewithlife，andthechanceofdeathorinjurywas，Isupposed，aboutequaltothechanceofsuccess。Ibelievedthatwithadawn-likelucidity。IhadbegunwithagliderthatIimaginedwasonthelinesoftheWrightbrothers’aeroplane，butIcouldnotbesure。Itmightturnover。Imightupsetit。Itmightburrowitsnoseattheendandsmashitselfandme。Theconditionsoftheflightnecessitatedalertattention；itwasn’tathingtobedonebyjumpingoffandshuttingone’seyesorgettingangryordrunktodoit。Onehadtouseone’sweighttobalance。AndwhenatlastIdidititwashorrible——fortenseconds。Fortensecondsorso，asIsweptdowntheairflattenedonmyinfernalframeworkandwiththewindinmyeyes，therushofthegroundbeneathmefilledmewithsickandhelplessterror；Ifeltasthoughsomeviolentoscillatorycurrentwasthrobbinginbrainandbackbone，andIgroanedaloud。Isetmyteethandgroaned。Itwasagroanwrungoutofmeinspiteofmyself。Mysensationsofterrorswoopedtoaclimax。Andthen，youknow，theyended！
Suddenlymyterrorwasoveranddonewith。Iwassoaringthroughtheairrightwayup，steadily，andnomischancehadhappened。I
feltintenselyaliveandmynerveswerestrunglikeabow。I