Growing up in Hong Kong, the kites I flew were not the long-tailed, decorated dragon kites seen on California beaches. Our kites were built to fight and "kill"
high-flying opponents.
Many summer evenings I would catch the double-decker No. 9 bus traveling down Argyle Street to Yaumati and head to a random high-rise rooftop. Kites of all sizes and colors littered the azure South China sky. It was hot and humid, but when a mild breeze offset the oppressive heat, it was ideal kite-flying weather.
I looked forward to fighting strangers boastfully waving their kites from nearby rooftops. My dai ma lai was one of the biggest and best Chinese fighting kites, constructed of thick tissue paper painted with colorful symbols and images and attached to a bamboo frame. It could be steered in any direction simply by pointing the head and rolling the string onto a big spool with bamboo rods projecting from both ends. Fighting kites never had tails; that would limit maneuverability.
The true weaponry was the string, made fight-ready with a fine coating of glue and powdered glass. Moved quickly across a surface, it could cut like a razor.
This night, I saw a kite several hundred yards to my left and another 50 yards in front of me. I held the string in my right hand and with a quick tug, my kite leapt into the sky, twirling round and round as I fed it string. When the distance looked right, I made my move. I waited until the kite's head pointed to the left and then started to roll in the string. As it tightened, the kite veered to the left in slow motion, like a bird of prey stalking its dinner. When it looked to be directly above my intended "victim," I let the wind pull the string once more and the kite started spinning like a top. Once it was pointed toward my opponent, I rolled in the string and my kite dove like a swooping hawk until my string was positioned right on top of my opponent's. When our strings touched, I again let the wind pull my string, as did my opponent. Round and round the kites twirled with both razor-edged strings running out at high speed, trying to cut the other's lifeline.
Suddenly my enemy's kite stopped twirling; it drifted away below the jagged rooftops as lifeless as an autumn leaf. My kite soared triumphantly. As I reeled it in, I had to watch for the "faked kill" strategy—when a supposedly "dead" opponent suddenly lets his string run free, cutting through the unsuspecting victor's.
This night I had seven kills and two losses, not a bad evening of sport. Some evenings I killed a dozen kites, while other pilots retreated when they saw my dai ma lai swooping and cutting through the air.
But one day, victory was bitter. Standing across the street from my home, my kite aloft, I noticed a few non-Chinese launching a huge, clumsy kite with a long tail of colorful bows from a nearby rooftop. They had probably brought the kite from the United States and had no idea what they were up against. After several tries, they managed to catch the wind and set their ungainly contraption aloft. My friends and I watched the pitiful object hang and bob in the sky.
Suddenly I couldn't help myself—I had to capture the foreign flier! The newcomers never knew what hit them, for moments later their kite was aimlessly floating over rooftops while they held a tangled mass of slack string. Sky warrior had struck!
Immediately, I felt pangs of guilt; the boys never had a chance to defend their kite. I had given in to my mean side and felt ashamed. I won easily that day, but my personal barometer told me I had lost something in the process.
Anthony G. Tebbutt, MBA '74, wrote A Rising Son in the Land of Nine Dragons, a memoir from which this essay is adapted.
