His First Flight — Liam O’Flaherty

The young seagull sat alone on his ledge, perched above the vast expanse of sea. His two brothers and sister had already taken to the air the previous day, but he had not been able to summon the courage to follow them. Each time he had edged forward to the brink and tried to lift his wings, a wave of terror had overtaken him. The drop below looked impossibly deep — it felt like miles. He was certain his wings could never hold him, so he had retreated to the hollow beneath the ledge where he slept at night. Even watching his siblings — whose wings were far shorter than his own — run to the edge and leap into the air had not given him courage. Irony

His parents had circled around the ledge, calling to him sharply, upbraiding him, threatening to leave him on the ledge to starve unless he flew. But nothing had moved him. That had been twenty-four hours ago. Since then, nobody had come near him. The whole previous day, he had watched his family out on the opposite cliff — teaching his brothers and sister how to skim the waves, how to dive for fish. He even saw his older brother catch his first herring and devour it proudly on a rock while his parents circled overhead, cackling with delight. Personification The rest of the morning, the family had mocked him from the plateau across the chasm.

Now the sun blazed overhead, making his ledge unbearably hot. He had not eaten since the night before. He crept to the brink, stood on one leg with the other tucked under his wing, and closed his eyes — pretending to sleep. Still no one paid him any attention. He watched his brothers and sister dozing on the plateau, heads sunk into their neck feathers. His father was preening his white back. Only his mother watched him from a raised hump on the plateau, her breast thrust forward. She tore repeatedly at a piece of fish at her feet, scraping her beak sideways on the rock. Imagery The sight of the food drove the young seagull half-mad with longing.

"Ga, ga, ga!" he cried, begging her to bring him some. "Gaw-col-ah!" she screamed back derisively. But he kept calling out plaintively — and then, with a cry of joy, he saw her lift a piece of fish in her beak and fly towards him. He leaned out eagerly, tapping the rock with his feet, trying to get as near as he could. But when she was exactly opposite him, she halted — wings motionless, the piece of fish almost within his reach. He waited in surprise. Then, maddened by hunger, he dived at the fish. With a loud cry, he fell outward and downward into open space. Symbolism A monstrous terror seized him — and then, the next moment, he felt his wings spread wide. The wind rushed under them. He was no longer falling. He was soaring.

He was no longer afraid. A slight dizziness, nothing more. He flapped once, and he soared upward. His mother swept past him, screaming with joy. His father and brothers and sister wheeled about him — curveting, banking, diving. He had forgotten completely that he had ever been afraid. He was flying. He was near the sea now, flying straight out over it, and the green expanse below him glittered with tiny ridges. He turned his beak sideways and cawed in amusement. Imagery

His parents and siblings had landed on the floating green surface ahead. They beckoned to him, calling shrilly. He dropped his legs to land on the green sea — and his legs sank into it. He screamed with shock and tried to rise, but he was exhausted and weak with hunger, and he could not. His feet sank further, then his belly touched it — and he floated. He was floating on the sea. Around him his family screamed with pride, offering him scraps of fish. He had made his first flight. Symbolism

The moon was rising in the east, behind the narrator, and stars glittered in a clear sky overhead. Not a single cloud anywhere. He was flying his old Dakota aeroplane over France, heading back to England. He was lost in pleasant thoughts — daydreaming of his family and a proper English breakfast. The radio crackled as he called Paris Control: the instruction came back immediately — turn twelve degrees west. He checked his map and compass, switched to his last fuel tank, and adjusted course. 'I'll be in time for breakfast,' he thought. Imagery

Paris was about 150 kilometres behind him when he saw them — storm clouds. Massive, black, towering. Simile They looked like enormous black mountains blocking the whole sky ahead. He could neither fly over them nor fly around them — he lacked the fuel. He knew the sensible choice was to turn back to Paris. But he wanted home. He wanted that breakfast. 'I'll take the risk,' he decided — and flew the old Dakota straight into the heart of the storm.

Inside the clouds, everything turned instantly black. The aeroplane lurched and twisted. He glanced at his compass — and could not believe what he saw. The compass was spinning around and around, completely dead. The other instruments had gone silent too. The radio gave nothing but static. He had no compass, no radio, and he could not see anything outside. He was entirely lost in the middle of the storm. Imagery

Then, through the black clouds right beside him, he spotted another aeroplane. It carried no lights on its wings, yet he could see it — and he could make out the pilot's face, turned towards him. A mysterious wave. "Follow me," that wave seemed to say. Relief washed over the narrator. Someone knew he was lost. Someone was trying to help him. Symbolism Like an obedient child, he fell in behind the strange black aeroplane and followed it through the darkness.

Half an hour passed. The mysterious plane held steady ahead. Now there was barely enough fuel left for five to ten minutes of flight. Fear crept back in. But then the dark plane began to descend — and he followed it down through the storm. Suddenly he broke out of the clouds and saw, directly ahead, two long lines of lights stretching into the darkness. A runway. An airport. He was safe. He turned to look for his mysterious companion — but the sky was completely empty. The black aeroplane had vanished. Irony

After landing, he walked to the control centre and asked a woman there where he was — and who the other pilot was. He wanted to say thank you. She looked at him strangely, then laughed. There had been no other plane, she said. His was the only aircraft showing on her radar that stormy night. He walked back to the old Dakota and stood there alone in the dark, turning the question over in his mind: Who was the pilot in the strange black aeroplane? Symbolism