Claire would not look over the edge. I had no problem with it, which is surprising, since I’m not a terribly brave person.

When I was 14, I was playing tennis with my dad at the Scripps Ranch Swim & Racket Club when a hot air balloon flew over our court. Seemed low, a little lost. We paused and watched the thing fly over until, eventually, the basket smashed into the side of a two-story tract home. The balloon collapsed over the roof like a giant house condom. I’m not sure if the people lived. We figured the residents of the house had that information covered, so we resumed our match.

I thought about this and whether or not my dad and I were terrible humans when me, Claire, her brother, and his fiancé went hot air ballooning a couple weeks back.

I couldn’t remember how big the basket was, though I remember it looked pretty large smooshed against that house. As a kid growing up surfing in Del Mar, we’d see a whole armada of the balloons every sunset. Looked like DayGlo lures in the sky, fishing for god. I’d heard the baskets were big, but from the ground below, it was hard to tell if they were like apartments, or just plus-sized picnic baskets. Could you walk around in them, pace through the flop sweats at 3,500 feet if need be?

Turns out not. Our basket is about 9 feet by 6 feet (this is a guess, but I’d imagine a decent one). It’s separated into three compartments like a TV dinner tray, two long ones for passengers where the frozen turkey and mashed potatoes would go (we have four people on our side, there are five on the other, separated by a middle riser) and one small pilot’s section where the frozen brownie should be. The basket is padded with a sort of felt or suede, like a pool table or a fancy jacket from the 80s. It feels soft and nice, and prevents us from seeing tiny holes in the wicker below our feet as we rise—which prevents nervous breakdowns by giving off the illusion we’re standing on something solid. Our pilot has three keg-sized cans of propane in his compartment (enough, he assures me), no different than a Weber Grill, just a lot more ambitious.

If one of us needed to panic—and a few of our group did—they could lower themselves and squat in the corner by our legs. It’s close-quarters, but since there’s nothing but clouds and air and serenity and wide-openness around you, it doesn’t feel claustrophobic. If you get the big fear, which Claire did, it’s from the opposite of being cramped. It’s a terror of expanse, of how much fallable space is between you the earth you came from. It’s from the hard truth that you’re hanging by ropes, and gravity is a thing.

Before flight, the crew drives us in a van to an open field near Rancho Santa Fe. They park and release a small white helium balloon. They all stand there and monitor how this balloon flies. It tells them how temperamental the pilot is today. The wind is the real pilot of a hot air balloon. “I can’t steer,” explains our human co-pilot. “All I can do is go up and down and find different winds to ride.” Our test balloon makes an immediate beeline east, riding a strong gust away from the ocean. If we took off here, looks like we may get stuck in the trees. The day had threatened to storm earlier, and many balloon operators had canceled their rides. Our balloon operator either thought the other guys were overreacting, or they needed the money, so our flight was happening as planned. A separate group standing in the field decides to abort this take-off spot, and we do the same.

At our next location—one of the few undeveloped plots of land in this part of San Diego, just lots of weeds behind a school—the crew unfurls the balloon (made of nylon, and coated with a non-flammable material, our pilot explains). They’re running a little late and moving fast, like a pit crew. I feel pretty strongly this shouldn’t be rushed, but my apprehension regarding death doesn’t take into account that they’re professionals and this is probably normal.

They pull out a few giant fans that run on generators. A man stands at the opening, dilating it with his arms, like a cervix during birth. The fans inflate the balloon. When inflated enough, we all climb in. There are no stairs and there’s no dignity to this. We all look like 30- and 40-somethings trying to climb a fence for the first time in a couple decades, just flopping ourselves over the edge like sacks of root vegetables. The basket begins to tilt at a 45 degree angle, which alarms a few passengers. The pilot pulls on a handle that shoots a 20-foot flame up into the balloon, the ropes are released, and we start to rise. They said there would be champagne in the basket, but it’s been forgotten and the pilot is either fresh out of Xanax or unwilling to share.

The flamethrower that lifts you. If you die in a balloon, it seems this is how it happens.

We Googled “hot air balloon deaths.” It turns out there aren’t many, which is nice. The ones we find involve burning alive, which isn’t.

There is no bathroom aboard a hot air balloon. If nature calls, you will have to forward that call to voicemail.

The basket never tips or feels unstable during our ride. It hangs there solid as ground. And since the balloon is riding the wind currents, going in the same direction, you don’t feel much wind. You’ve never been so naked among such weather—above the cloud line, in thin air where the planes go—and yet you don’t feel the weather except a slight chill of altitude.

Claire avoids the edge of the balloon. A few people do. I hang over it, look down at the tiny schools and miniature housing developments a mile below. We’ve all seen this mile-up view from a plane window, but it’s very different when you’re leaning over the edge of a wicker basket in the open air. There is no metal door sealed shut to prevent you from jumping. That dark impulse I have screams “jump.” I don’t listen to it. After all, they’ve promised us Champagne and cheese if and when we land.

(final notes, including one aborted landing attempt and my FaceTime call to a friend that broke many human decency laws… in the next piece).