The Penguin Who Wanted to Fly

Percy had read every book in the penguin colony's library. Well, it wasn't really a library — it was a pile of waterlogged pages that washed up on the shore of their Antarctic island. But Percy had read every single one, and the pages he loved most were the ones about birds.

Birds who flew.

"Did you know," Percy announced at breakfast one Tuesday, "that the albatross can fly for years without landing? YEARS!"

His mother passed him a fish. "That's nice, dear. Eat your herring."

"I don't want herring. I want to fly."

Every penguin at the breakfast rock went quiet. Then they all started talking at once.

"Penguins don't fly," said his Uncle Bartleby.

"Our wings are too small," said his cousin Fiona.

"You'll hurt yourself," said his grandmother, pulling him closer with her flipper.

But Percy just smiled. "I've done the research," he said.

And he had. Percy had studied every soggy page about flight. He knew about lift and drag. He knew about wing angles and air currents. He knew that warm air rises and that the cliff on the eastern side of the island had the best updraft on windy afternoons.

He had a plan. He had seventeen plans, actually, organized by wind speed.

The next morning, Percy waddled to the top of a small hill. He had constructed wings — big, beautiful wings made from dried seaweed stretched over frames of driftwood sticks. He strapped them to his flippers and stood at the edge.

The whole colony gathered below, murmuring nervously.

"Percy, PLEASE!" his mother called up.

"Don't worry!" Percy called back. "This is Plan Number One! Designed for light winds, which is exactly what we have!"

He took a deep breath. He flapped. He ran. He leaped.

He fell.

Not far — it was a small hill — and he tumbled into a snowbank with a soft POMF.

Percy popped his head out of the snow, seaweed wings crumpled around him.

"Fascinating," he said, and pulled a tiny pencil from behind his ear to scribble notes on his flipper. "Too much drag on the left side. I'll adjust."

Plan Number Two involved a longer runway and lighter wings made from feathers he'd politely asked the skua gulls to donate. They were not polite about it, but they did eventually drop some feathers while chasing him.

He tried it from a bigger hill.

He got a little more air this time — just enough to feel the wind actually push under his wings for one glorious half-second — before spinning sideways and crash-landing in a pile of pebbles.

"FASCINATING!" Percy shouted, even louder this time.

His best friend, a penguin named Dot, slid down beside him. "Percy, are you okay?"

"Dot! Did you see? I was UP. I was in the AIR. For at least... a moment!"

"You were in the air for the amount of time it takes to blink," said Dot.

"Yes! But last time it was LESS than a blink! That's PROGRESS!"

Dot looked at him. She worried about Percy, but not in the way the other penguins worried. The other penguins worried he was silly. Dot worried he might be disappointed.

"What if it doesn't work?" Dot asked quietly. "What if penguins really, truly can't fly? Even with research?"

Percy thought about this. He thought about it seriously, which Dot appreciated.

"Then I'll know," he said. "But I don't know yet."

Plans Three through Eleven happened over the following weeks. Percy tried kite-like designs and glider shapes. He studied how the seabirds tilted in the wind. He built a contraption with a spinning propeller made from clamshells that flew apart immediately. That was Plan Seven. They don't talk about Plan Seven.

Each time, Percy crashed. Each time, he took notes.

The colony stopped watching after a while. "That's just Percy," they'd say, shaking their heads when they heard a distant POMF or CRASH or CLATTER.

But Dot watched every single time. And Dot started to notice something.

"Percy," Dot said one afternoon, "Plan Nine — the one with the big curved wings — you actually glided. For three whole seconds."

"Three and a HALF seconds," Percy corrected, grinning.

"What was different?"

Percy's eyes lit up. He loved when Dot asked questions. He showed her his notes — scribbled on his flippers, on flat rocks, on the ice itself. He explained about the curve of the wing, how it made the air move faster over the top, how that created lift.

"So you need a really big curve?" Dot asked.

"Bigger than I can build with sticks," Percy admitted. "I'd need something... something already curved. Something strong and light and—" He trailed off, staring at the ocean.

Dot followed his gaze.

"Percy. No."

"THE ICE SHELF!" Percy shouted.

Plan Fourteen was the big one. At the eastern cliff — the one with the best updraft — a section of ice had cracked into a shape that looked almost exactly like a giant wing. Percy spent four days carving and smoothing it, with Dot helping despite her constant commentary of "this is bananas" and "penguins are bananas" and "I am also bananas for helping."

The day finally came. The wind was perfect. Percy stood at the edge of the eastern cliff with his ice glider, looking out at the vast blue sky.

The whole colony came again. Word had spread. Even Uncle Bartleby was there, trying to look disapproving but leaning forward with curiosity.

"Plan Fourteen!" Percy announced. "Designed for strong easterly winds with the natural updraft of the cliff face! Curved wing surface for maximum lift!"

"JUST BE CAREFUL!" his mother yelled.

Percy nodded. He gripped the ice glider. He ran.

He jumped.

And he flew.

Not like an albatross. Not for years, not for hours, not even for minutes. But Percy the penguin soared off that cliff and the wind caught his ice wing and he rose — actually ROSE — lifting higher for one brilliant, impossible, sparkling moment. The whole colony gasped below him. The ocean glittered. The sky was enormous and open and his.

For twelve seconds, Percy flew.

Then the ice wing began to crack. Percy felt it shudder. He angled down — just like his research said — and swooped in a long, beautiful curve toward the snowfield below. The wing shattered as he landed, and he tumbled and rolled and slid to a stop on his belly, covered in snow and ice chips.

Silence.

Then Dot started cheering. Then his mother. Then Fiona and Uncle Bartleby and every single penguin in the colony, all of them honking and flapping and sliding on their bellies in celebration.

Percy lay on his back in the snow, looking up at the sky, breathing hard, smiling so wide his beak hurt.

Dot skidded up next to him. "Twelve seconds," she said.

"Twelve seconds," Percy whispered.

"What's Plan Fifteen?"

Percy laughed. He pulled the tiny pencil from behind his ear.

"I have some ideas," he said.

That night, the colony gathered for dinner, and for the first time, nobody told Percy he was silly. His grandmother brought him extra herring. Uncle Bartleby asked — a little shyly — how the curved wing thing worked.

And Percy explained it all, waving his flippers, drawing diagrams in the snow, his eyes bright.

He hadn't flown like an albatross. He hadn't flown like an eagle or a sparrow or a hummingbird. He had flown like a penguin — which is to say, he had studied and built and crashed and tried again and crashed and tried again, and for twelve magnificent seconds, he had touched the sky.

And tomorrow, he'd try for thirteen.