Page 27 of The Big Race

Sail Away

W e raced through the Paris airport, nearly broadsiding a covey of Arab women in floor-length coverings. It was a lot like being on the race—you could only see what was right in front of you.

“ Excusez-moi! ” I called out, darting between travelers. “ Pardon! S’il vous pla?t !”

“What are you saying?” Ray demanded, struggling to keep up despite his longer legs. For once, my knowledge trumped his athleticism.

“Just follow me!”

I spotted a sign for Terminal 2F and grabbed Ray’s hand, pulling him toward the escalator. “Where are we going?” He was getting that edge in his voice, the one that usually preceded a fight.

“Nice. Gate F36.” I stopped at an information board, scanning quickly. “ Merde . Twenty minutes until departure.”

A uniformed agent stood at her counter. “ Parlez-vous anglais ?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied with a tight smile.

“We need the fastest way to Terminal 2F.”

She rattled off directions in heavily accented English. I caught most of it—down one level, through security, take the shuttle.

“What’s she saying?” Ray demanded.

“Trust me,” I said, and took off running again.

Behind us, I heard Desiree and Cherisse shouting as they spotted us. If we missed this flight, we’d be stuck here for hours. The next one was two hours later.

At security, Ray started unloading his pockets, methodically placing everything in the bins.

“Hurry!” I urged.

“Don’t rush me,” he snapped. “I know what I’m doing.”

Just like at home—he had to do everything his way, in his time. But this wasn’t home. This was The Big Race, and suddenly all our problems felt magnified under the fluorescent airport lights.

The security agent waved me through. I grabbed my backpack and looked back at Ray, still fumbling with his shoes.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll catch up.”

“You don’t know where you’re going!”

“Then wait for me! Jesus, Jeffrey, stop trying to control everything!”

Brandon and Tyler were at the security entrance now. If we missed this flight because Ray was too stubborn to hurry...

But I waited. What else could I do? We were partners in this race, just like we were supposed to be partners in life.

We managed to be the last team to make it onto the flight. Before we took off, Ray borrowed a cell phone from the woman next to him and checked the weather. “Holy wow,” he said. “Thunderstorms in Madrid. The airport closed for an hour, and every flight out of there is running behind.”

He handed the phone back to the woman. “We might have a chance after all.”

We landed in Nice in the middle of the afternoon, with the other two teams. We had no idea how long the first six teams were delayed on the flight from Madrid.

Ray and I thought we would have an advantage, because I spoke French, and it did get us through the airport first and into a taxi headed for the Promenade des Anglais, the boardwalk that runs along the pebbled beach. It was a gorgeous day, the sky a bright blue, palm trees waving in a light breeze.

We were looking for a place called Nice Voile. I knew that voile meant sail. “I think we might be going parasailing,” I said in the taxi. Looking out as we approached the center of town along the road from the airport, I saw a huge red parachute soaring over the ocean and pointed the driver there.

“If it’s a driver switch, I’ll do it,” Ray said. “I know how much you hate heights.”

“I want to do it,” I said, surprising myself.

Partly, I know, I just wanted to do it because Ray wanted to, and I was still mad at him.

But I thought it would be good for me to break myself of that fear forever, and I couldn’t think of a more beautiful way to do it than sailing over the Mediterranean.

Ray started to argue, but I looked at him. It was as if he understood without my saying anything else. I guess twenty-five years together will do that to you.

We were the first at the parasail place, and sure enough, it was a driver switch—where only one person could do the task.

“ C’est moi ,” I said to the tanned young Frenchman manning the operation, pointing to myself.

Before I could think myself out of it, I let myself get strapped into the apparatus, and once again I had a camera attached to my head.

The speedboat took off with a roar that I felt in my chest, and suddenly the wind caught the parasail.

For a terrifying moment, I was suspended between the boat and the sky, my feet dangling over the churning wake.

Then the sail filled completely, and I rose into the air like some kind of improbable bird.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, was my first coherent thought as I looked down at the rapidly shrinking boat.

Ray was a tiny figure on the deck, one hand shading his eyes as he craned his neck to watch me.

Cody was beside him, camera aimed at the sky.

The Mediterranean stretched endlessly in all directions, its surface a brilliant blue that hurt to look at directly.

My heart hammered against my ribs for the first few seconds. Heights had always been my nemesis—that primal fear of falling, of having nothing solid beneath my feet. But as the parasail found its rhythm, swaying gently in the offshore breeze, something shifted inside me.

I’m flying, I realized with wonder. I’m actually flying.

The fear didn’t disappear entirely, but it transformed into something else, an exhilaration mixed with a profound sense of freedom I hadn’t felt in years.

Maybe decades. When was the last time I’d done something purely for the joy of it, without calculating risks or analyzing outcomes?

This was even better than the bungee jump because I was moving forward rather than down.

Below me, the C?te d’Azur unfolded like a postcard.

The famous hotels of Nice gleamed white against the shoreline, their windows catching the afternoon sun.

Palm trees lined the Promenade des Anglais, and I could make out tiny figures of people walking, jogging, cycling—all of them bound to the earth while I soared above it all.

This is what Ray feels, I thought suddenly. This is what he’s been chasing all these years.

For the first time, I understood his need for physical challenges, his restless pursuit of new experiences. It wasn’t just about proving his masculinity or fighting age—it was about this feeling, this sense of being fully alive, fully present in your own body and the moment.

I thought about all the times I’d rolled my eyes at his training schedules, his expensive gear, his weekend races.

I’d seen them as selfish indulgences, ways of avoiding the mundane responsibilities of our shared life.

But floating here, suspended between sea and sky, I realized they were something else entirely—Ray’s way of touching something transcendent, of remembering that he was more than just a husband and father and provider.

The wind shifted, and I swayed to the left, my body instinctively adjusting to maintain balance.

Below me, the speedboat looked like a toy, cutting a white wake through the blue water.

Ray was still watching, one hand gripping the rail.

Even from this height, I could read the tension in his posture.

He’s afraid, I realized. Not of the height or the equipment or the possibility of mechanical failure—Ray trusted machines and physics and his own physical capabilities. He was afraid of losing me. The way he said he felt at the bungee jump.

The boat began to slow, and I felt the parasail start to descend. The water rushed up to meet me faster than I’d expected, and I had a moment of panic before my feet touched the surface. The Mediterranean was surprisingly warm, and I was laughing as the crew hauled me back toward the boat.

Ray was there at the gunwale, reaching down to grab my hands as I was pulled from the water. His grip was firm, almost desperate, and when I looked up into his face, I saw something I hadn’t seen in months—absolute, unguarded relief.

“Welcome back to earth,” he said, but his voice was thick with emotion.

As the crew helped me out of the harness, Ray wrapped me in a towel that felt like an embrace. “You did it,” he said, his arms coming around me. “You actually did it.”

“I can’t believe I just did that,” I gasped, adrenaline still coursing through my system. “That was... that was incredible.”

“You looked amazing up there,” Ray said, his hands rubbing my shoulders through the towel. “Like you were born for it.”

But there was something else in his voice, and while his smile was genuine, his eyes held shadows I was only beginning to recognize.

“Ray?” I prompted. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. That was perfect. You were perfect.”

“Tell me,” I said softly.

Ray glanced around at the crew members who were busy preparing for the next customer, then looked back at me.

“When you were up there, I realized that you were enjoying the experience, and that I had to stop protecting you from doing things that challenge you. We’re both the same that way.

You usually get your kicks from books and computer code, but there’s no reason why you can’t fly now and then. ”

Other tourists chatted and laughed around us, but we existed in our own bubble of heightened awareness.

The boat was heading back toward shore now, the medieval walls of the Old City growing larger as we approached the harbor. Soon we’d be back on solid ground, racing toward the next challenge, caught up again in the competition and strategy of the game.

As we climbed off the boat and collected our next clue, I felt different somehow.

Lighter, despite the weight of everything we still had to work through.

The parasail had carried me high above the Mediterranean for twenty minutes, but the conversation afterward had lifted something even more important—the possibility that Ray and I might learn to fly together again.