“Want to fly with me?” Whaka asked. “Okay,” I said. He laid on the ground, arms and legs high in the air, and placed his bare feet below my hip bones, his hands clasping mine. Slowly he lifted me up into the air. We were at the Palace of Fine Arts lobby waiting for a Marc Cohn concert, and a crowd gathered to watch, as if we were Cirque de Soleil performers. I began to panic. Whaka looked straight into my eyes. “Trust,” he said, bringing me into the moment. I released his hands and began to fly.