--"When I started randomly smelling dead bodies I knew something was wrong. Sitting in that helicopter, resting on a transfer case that contained half the remains of an Air Force EOD guy; the other half was in the other helo. Why didn’t they put his halves together? I had picked him up earlier that day at around 2 in the morning. We were flying into the zone to pick up the "cat A" that was associated with his halving and “the big gun is ready” kept playing over icom chatter. Why weren’t the pilots acknowledging this? I stared out the helicopter into the dark night, illuminated by the fuzzy neon green glow of the nvgs. When? When was the big gun going to go off and end my existence? What will my kids think? Will Crystal be able to cope? Why am I here? Why are we here? What went wrong? Why in this day and age- an age of communication and global unitization- was this happening? We land, pick up his bros, fly away. I think I know that dude, where, when, how? Later I’ll come to remember that he was supposed to accompany us on another mission to shoot down a disobedient drone. Seems that our video game warfare and desensitization of murder has slipped away, so let’s go shoot it down! Oh what fun everyone reacts. Sitting back in the helo, resting on his transfer case the smell overpowers me; that fresh, irony flesh smell of a recently killed body. That lifeless scent of death. Do they reuse these containers? What is going on? Is he in there? Clawing his way out, "I’m not dead yet!". My head starts spinning, I’m nauseas- the smell of death is overtaking all of my senses. I crack the door and stick my head out of the helo. 120kts of cool afghan air doesn’t touch it. I vomit out of the helo, or dry heave really. I haven’t eaten since the day before. We came into work at 1 that morning, got scrambled, went and picked up this guy, his bros, and some others. I came back, wrote my pcr. The food had been eaten. We got tasked to take his remains, in two separate metal boxes back to Kandahar. We finally land and I run out of the helo. Everyone wants to do the dignified transfer and act like he died for something worthwhile. I just want to breath and not smell death. Finally, we packed up and flew back to Bastion. I slept the whole flight back.--
This is an excerpt from a journal I started after returning from a deployment to Afghanistan. Having been a "rescuer" in 2 war zones, I have seen the absolute darkest side of humanity. These experiences haunt me every single day. The only true solace I find is when I'm kiting. The complete zen of pumping up, pinching off the struts, walking my lines out, and bringing life into my kite calm my mind and bring me inner peace.
When I'm kiting, I feel in control of my thoughts. I leave the world's problems on the beach and boost away from the horrors I've seen. I'm never as free as I am 30' in the air, or powered up on the face of a wave.
On days that I have an epic session, I lie in bed at night and close my eyes, recreating the feeling of unhooking and getting ripped off the water. My dreams are usually uneventful, not the graphic recreations of atrocities that plague our society that I've come to know.
Kiting is my outlet. It's spiritual for me; the perfect meditation. It allows me to channel my energy in a positive and peaceful way, making me a better person for my family, friends, and fellow humans. I wish every person on Earth could experience a good kite session. Who knows, maybe we'd all get along a little better
So what does kiting mean to you?
(This news story was produced sometime during the 5 month period that that excerpt covers. I think it does a good job at portraying compassion in the most compassionless of places. Oh, and respect the 'stache )