The Call of the Sky
From a young age, I was captivated by the boundless sky. I would spend hours watching the eagles soar effortlessly, their wings stretched wide, gliding over the landscape with an ease that seemed almost otherworldly. Their freedom, their ability to rise above the world below, stirred something deep within me—a longing, a quiet jealousy of their privilege to see everything from a perspective denied to those of us bound to the earth. They were the masters of the air, and I, a mere boy standing below, wished for nothing more than to join them.
In my childhood, my world was shaped by two contrasting landscapes: the ancient coastal city where I lived with my mother and the rugged mountain village where I spent my summers with my grandmother. In the city, I gazed at the horizon where the sea met the sky, dreaming of the lands beyond, places I could only imagine. In the village, I wandered the hills, watching the birds ride the invisible currents of the wind, wondering what it would feel like to be among them. Both places nurtured a restless curiosity in me—a hunger for exploration, a need to see the world from above.
As a child, I had a recurring dream. Almost every week, I found myself at an airport, passport in hand, ticket ready, about to embark on a journey to a distant land across the ocean. But something always went wrong. Sometimes I lost my passport, sometimes the plane left without me, sometimes I was held back by forces I couldn’t explain. Every time, I awoke with a sense of frustration, a feeling that I was meant to take flight but was always denied the chance. It was as though the sky was calling me, yet some unseen hand kept me grounded. The dream haunted me, fueling my determination to break free from the limits of the world I knew.
My fascination with photography only deepened my longing for flight. I found solace in capturing the world through my lens, in observing people from a distance, in studying their expressions, their emotions, the way they moved through life. There was a sense of detachment in photography, an ability to be both present and removed at the same time. I loved how a camera allowed me to step back, to see the bigger picture. And yet, even as I framed my shots, I yearned for an even greater vantage point. I wanted to see everything from above, to witness the world spread out beneath me like a living map.
Adventure had always been in my blood. I had grown up navigating the unpredictable tides of the sea, learning the patience of farmers in the fields, and absorbing the resilience of my mother, who had rebuilt our lives after war had uprooted us. I had seen how life could change in an instant, how nothing was certain, and how those who embraced the unknown thrived. I wanted to be one of those people. I wanted to rise above, to escape gravity’s pull, to carve my own path through the sky.
The day I took my first flight lesson, I knew I had found my calling. The moment the wheels lifted off the ground, something inside me shifted. The world below shrank, the horizon stretched endlessly before me, and for the first time, I felt the same freedom I had envied in the eagles. The silence of the sky wrapped around me like a comforting embrace, broken only by the steady hum of the engine and the occasional burst of radio chatter. Flying through the clouds, watching the landscape unfold beneath me, I felt an indescribable peace. This was where I belonged.
Every time I took to the air, I felt like I was rewriting the ending of my childhood dreams. No longer was I stuck at the airport, watching flights take off without me. Now, I was in the cockpit, in control, making my own way beyond the horizon. Flying was more than just a skill—it was a realization of everything I had ever longed for. It was the perfect blend of adventure, solitude, and perspective. It gave me the ability to see the world from above, to witness the grand design of life in a way that few ever could.
Looking back, I understand now that my path to the sky was shaped by every experience I had—by the fishermen who taught me patience, by the farmers who taught me resilience, by my mother who taught me to dream, and by the eagles who first showed me what it meant to be free. The sky was always calling me; I just had to find my way there.