“From two thousand feet he tried again, rolling into his dive, beak straight down, wings full out and stable from the moment he passed fifty miles per hour. It took tremendous strength, but it worked. In ten seconds he had blurred through ninety miles per hour. Jonathan had set a world speed record for seagulls!
But victory was short-lived. The instant he began his pullout, the instant he changed the angle of his wings, he snapped into that same terrible uncontrolled diaster, and at ninety miles per hour it hit him like dynamite. Jonathan seagull exploded in midair and smashed down into a brick-hard sea.
When he came to, it was well after dark, and he floated in moonlight on surface of the ocean. His wings were ragged bars of lead, but weight of failure was even more heavier on his back. He wished, feebly, that the weight could be just enough to drag him gently down to the bottom, and end it all.
As he sank low in the water, a strange hollow voice sounded within him. There’s no way around it. I am a seagull. I am limited in nature. If I were meant to learn so much about flying, I’d have charts for brains. If I were meant to fly at speed, I’d have a falcon’s short wings, and live on mice instead of fish. My Father was right. I must forget this foolishness. I must fly home to the flock and be content as I am, as a poor limited seagull.” -Jonathan Livingston Seasgull A story, Richard Bach.