"And now, I'm going to count from one to five," John McAfee says, his baritone dharma-salesman voice resonating through the small theater filled with meditating pilots. "And when I get to five, go ahead and open your eyes. Ready?"
I've always considered myself an überskeptic, immune to the whole range of hypnotic experience. But I'll be damned if John McAfee doesn't have me believing one morning in early January that I can fly like a bird.
The day after my arrival at McAfee's Sky Gypsies compound in the sparse and spectacular border country of southwestern New Mexico, I'm on the back of an open-cockpit, winged tricycle, swooping through the air above the Peloncillo Mountains. Up front, in the birdbrain position, McAfee pulls the control bar toward his right hip and sends us diving into Skeleton Canyon.
"This is what Icarus dreamed of," McAfee yells, as we pirouette around a granite spire, then level off five feet above the floor of the Animas Valley, skimming over ocotillos and longhorn cattle at 65 miles an hour. McAfee stomps the throttle and aims for the crown of a small butte, then flicks the bar forward to spirit us over the top.
As we turn eastward in a broad, climbing arc, I glance over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of nine other airborne craft. They fly behind us in fast-and-loose formation, silhouetted against a backdrop of looming mountains. McAfee leads the squadron across a parched plain toward a sprawling, dry lakebed, and eases us down until the rear tires make tentative contact with the playa. Then, confident that the surface is solid, he cuts the throttle and plants the trike firmly on the ground. One by one, the others drop out of the sky and come to rest in a semicircle.