散文《帶著傷痕飛翔》｜Flying with Scars

作者：泰華

2026-7-20

《帶著傷痕飛翔》

——一架無人機的前世今生

一、天空的邀請

疫情那幾年，我買了人生第一架無人機。

第一次把它送上天空時，我竟有一種久違的興奮。掌心大小的一架飛機，帶著我的眼睛飛過樹梢、河流、街道和湖泊，把原本只能仰望的天空，變成了可以親近的世界。後來，我還替遙控器裝上了訊號增強器。它飛得越來越遠，一公里、兩公里……直到肉眼已經看不見，只剩手機螢幕裡一片遼闊的天地。我常常望著畫面出神，原來，我每天生活的城市，從天空俯瞰，竟是另一番模樣。

那時我一直以為，只要還有電，它就一定能飛回來。直到有一天，風改變了一切。

二、風帶走了它

那是在渥太華附近的一座山上。湖面上的風，比地面大得多。電池還有一半電量，我並不擔心。可是，當我開始返航時，它卻沒有朝我飛來，而是一點一點被強風吹向遠方，飛向湖對面山坡的樹林。我不停推動搖桿，它卻像一片樹葉，在風裡掙扎，最後消失在樹林裡。

那天下午，我拿著 GPS 定位，一個人走進樹林。天色漸漸暗了，山坡陡峭，林木茂密，我一邊尋找，一邊默默祈禱，希望它不要掛在高高的樹梢。幸運的是，它掉在地上，只折斷了一隻機臂。因為買了意外保障，我把它寄回了原廠。幾天後，一架全新的無人機寄到了家。它不是第一架，卻延續了第一架沒有飛完的天空。

三、第二次生命

後來，我搬到了溫哥華，住在海邊。

有一天，房東準備出租房子，我便操控著無人機，替她拍攝房屋和海灣。畫面裡，藍色的大海、岸邊的房屋、遠方的群山，一切都那麼安靜。房東看得很高興，我也很高興。

幾天後，我又帶著它來到海邊。只是這一次，新鮮感已經淡了。我一邊飛，一邊聽著手機裡的節目。人的注意力，終究不能分成兩半。當我重新抬起頭時，它已經偏離了方向。我急忙修正，可是一切都晚了，它摔在海邊的岩石上。電池飛了出去，電池蓋鬆脫，機身裂開，雲台也受了傷。

朋友聽說後，勸我：「別修了，買新的吧。」我知道，他說的是實話。可是，同樣的型號並不便宜；更高一級，又超出了自己的需要。於是，它被我收進櫃子。這一放，就是一年多。

四、一張工作台

直到今年，我又把它拿了出來。既然捨不得丟，不如自己修修試試。

真正拆開它，我才知道，一架小小的無人機，裡面竟藏著如此精密的世界。一顆滑牙的螺絲，就讓我折騰了半天，最後只能用小鑽頭把螺絲帽慢慢磨掉。打開機身的那一刻，電路板、排線、雲台、減震系統，全都展現在眼前。

我拿起手機，拍下幾張照片。桌上散落著牙籤、雙組份膠、螺絲起子和一顆顆細小的螺絲。那一瞬間，我忽然想起前些日子參觀波音飛機總裝廠。巨大的廠房裡，人並不多，每個人只是默默完成自己手上的一道工序。低頭看看自己的工作台，我忽然笑了。今天，我也像一名飛機裝配工。雖然，我修的只是掌心大小的一架飛機。

五、差一點放棄

真正困難的，不是拆，而是修。

雲台攝影支架整個斷裂了，還有一個懸掛減震支架也斷了。雙組份膠不能多，也不能少，多了，活動關節會被黏死；少了，又固定不了。我反覆對位，反覆等待，反覆失敗。幾天的功夫，才黏合好了雲台和減震支架。終於到了安裝環節，減震系統那些肉眼難辨的膠墊，需用牙籤一點一點挑進去，一對位便是一個多小時。

那天晚上，我真的累了。我甚至拿起它，準備把它撕碎，丟進垃圾桶。可是，我停住了。不知道為什麼，我又把它輕輕放回桌上。第二天，我重新坐回那張工作台。現在回想起來，我最慶幸的，不是後來修好了，而是那天晚上，我忍住了。

六、重返藍天

所有零件重新裝好。第一次開機，沒有反應，原來只是電池沒有充滿。重新充飽電，再次按下電源，熟悉的提示音響起，螺旋槳開始旋轉，它慢慢離開地面。我一直望著它，直到它穩穩懸停在半空。

後來，我一次又一次測試。起飛、降落、前後、左右、上下飛行，都恢復正常；返航功能也恢復了。它重新飛上一百二十公尺高空，飛出一百五十多公尺之外。海岸、海灣、房屋，又一次回到我的螢幕。

只是，雲台依然留下一點遺憾。它可以拍攝，卻不能再像從前那樣靈活轉動。我又拆了一次，查了很多資料，最後，我停了下來。不是因為放棄，而是因為明白，有時候，接受不完美，也是一種完成。

七、帶著傷痕飛翔

如今，它依然帶著裂痕。機身底部留著摔落的印記，雲台還有一點小小的缺憾，可是，它依然飛得很穩。

站在海邊，看著它飛向藍天，我忽然覺得，它飛過的，不只是海灣。它飛過了疫情裡寂靜的日子，飛過了渥太華湖面上呼嘯的大風，飛過了溫哥華海邊冰冷的岩石，飛過了一年多的沈睡，也飛過了那個差一點被我親手丟棄的夜晚。

忽然明白，真正值得珍惜的，不是毫無傷痕，而是在經歷破碎之後，依然願意重新起飛。人，又何嘗不是如此？歲月會在每一個人身上留下裂痕，有些傷，在身體；有些傷，在心裡。我們再也回不到剛出發時的模樣，可是，只要心裡那雙翅膀還在，只要沒有放棄再次飛翔的勇氣，就依然能飛向屬於自己的遠方。

海風輕輕吹著。那架帶著傷痕的無人機，越飛越遠。我沒有再追逐它，因為我知道，它已經回來了。而我，也在這次修復中，找回了自己心裡那片久違的天空。

English Version 英文版（Gemini 翻译）

Flying with Scars

——The Past and Present Lives of a Drone

By Tai Hua

I. The Sky’s Invitation

During those years of the pandemic, I bought my first-ever drone.

The first time I sent it up into the sky, I felt a long-lost excitement. This drone, no larger than the palm of my hand, carried my gaze over treetops, rivers, streets, and lakes, transforming the sky that I could once only gaze up at into a world within reach. Later, I even installed a signal booster on the remote control. It flew farther and farther—one kilometer, two kilometers… until it was completely out of sight to the naked eye, leaving only a vast, boundless world on my phone screen. I would often stare blankly at the display, realizing that the city I lived in every day looked entirely different when viewed from above.

Back then, I always believed that as long as it had battery power, it would definitely fly back. Until the day the wind changed everything.

II. Taken by the Wind

It happened on a mountain near Ottawa. The wind over the lake was much stronger than down on the ground. The battery still had half its charge left, so I wasn’t worried. But when I began to initiate the return-to-home sequence, it didn’t fly toward me. Instead, bit by bit, it was swept away by the strong winds toward the distant woods on the opposite shore of the lake. I pushed the control sticks frantically, but it drifted like a leaf struggling in the gale, finally vanishing into the forest.

That afternoon, holding the GPS coordinates, I walked into the woods alone. The light was fading fast; the mountain slope was steep and the trees dense. As I searched, I silently prayed that it wouldn’t end up dangling high in a treetop. Fortunately, it had fallen to the ground, with only a single rotor arm snapped. Because I had purchased an accidental damage protection plan, I mailed it back to the manufacturer. A few days later, a brand-new drone arrived at my doorstep. It wasn’t the first one, but it continued the patch of sky the first one had left unfinished.

III. A Second Life

Later, I moved to Vancouver and lived by the sea.

One day, as my landlord was preparing to rent out the property, I operated the drone to film the house and the bay for her. On the screen, the blue ocean, the houses along the shore, and the distant mountains were all so serene. The landlord was thrilled, and so was I.

A few days later, I brought it to the seaside again. Only this time, the novelty had worn off. As I flew it, I listened to a program on my phone. Human attention, after all, cannot be split in two. When I finally looked up again, it had drifted off course. I hurriedly tried to correct it, but it was already too late. It crashed against the coastal rocks. The battery flew out, the battery cover popped off, the body cracked, and the gimbal was injured.

When my friend heard about it, he advised, “Don’t bother fixing it, just buy a new one.” I knew he was speaking the truth. Yet, the same model wasn’t cheap, and stepping up to a higher tier exceeded my actual needs. So, it was tucked away into a cabinet. It sat there, gathering dust for over a year.

IV. A Workbench

Until this year, when I took it out again. Since I couldn’t bear to throw it away, I decided to try fixing it myself.

Only when I truly took it apart did I realize what an intricate world was hidden inside such a tiny drone. A single stripped screw gave me a headache for half a day, and I finally had to use a miniature drill bit to slowly grind away the screw head. The moment the casing popped open, the circuit boards, ribbon cables, gimbal, and damping system were all laid bare before my eyes.

I picked up my phone and snapped a few photos. Scattered across the table were toothpicks, two-part epoxy, a screwdriver, and tiny, individual screws. At that exact moment, I suddenly remembered visiting a Boeing final assembly plant a while back. In the massive facility, there weren’t many people, and each person quietly completed their assigned step on the production line. Looking down at my own workbench, I suddenly smiled. Today, I too felt like an aircraft assembly worker—even though the machine I was repairing was only the size of a palm.

V. On the Verge of Giving Up

The true difficulty wasn’t the disassembly, but the repair.

The camera gimbal bracket was completely fractured, and one of the suspended shock-absorbing brackets was broken as well. Two-part epoxy could be neither too much nor too little; too much would glue the moving joints solid, while too little would fail to secure them. I went through endless cycles of repositioning, waiting, and failing. After days of effort, I finally managed to bond the gimbal and the shock-absorbing bracket. Then came the installation phase: the tiny rubber dampening pads, almost invisible to the naked eye, had to be nudged into place with a toothpick one by one. A single alignment process took over an hour.

That night, I was truly exhausted. I even picked it up, intending to tear it apart and throw it into the trash can. But I stopped. For some reason, I gently placed it back down on the table. The next day, I sat back down at that workbench. Looking back now, what I am most grateful for is not that I eventually fixed it, but that I held back on that night.

VI. Returning to the Blue Sky

All the parts were reassembled. When I first turned it on, there was no response—it turned out the battery simply wasn’t fully charged. After recharging it to full and pressing the power button once more, the familiar chime rang out, the propellers began to spin, and it slowly lifted off the ground. I kept my eyes fixed on it until it hovered steadily in mid-air.

Afterward, I tested it over and over again. Takeoff, landing, forward, backward, left, right, and vertical movements had all returned to normal; the return-to-home function was fully restored as well. It rose back up to an altitude of one hundred and twenty meters, flying out over a hundred and fifty meters away. The coastline, the bay, and the houses appeared on my screen once again.

Yet, the gimbal still retained a minor flaw. It could still film, but it could no longer rotate as flexibly as it once did. I took it apart one more time, researched extensively, and finally, I stopped. Not because I was giving up, but because I understood that sometimes, accepting imperfection is also a form of completion.

VII. Flying with Scars

Today, it still carries its cracks. The bottom of the casing bears the marks of its fall, and the gimbal retains a tiny imperfection, yet it still flies steadily.

Standing by the sea, watching it fly toward the blue sky, I suddenly felt that what it had flown across was far more than just a bay. It had flown through the silent days of the pandemic, through the howling gales over the Ottawa lake, through the icy rocks of the Vancouver shore, through more than a year of deep slumber, and through that night when I had almost thrown it away with my own hands.

In that instant, I understood: what is truly precious is not a life without scars, but the willingness to take flight once more after experiencing breakage. And are humans not the same? Time leaves cracks on every single person; some wounds reside in the body, while others hide in the heart. We can never return to the way we were when we first set out, but as long as the wings within our hearts remain, and as long as we haven’t lost the courage to fly again, we can still soar toward our own distant horizons.

The sea breeze blows gently. That scarred drone flies farther and farther away. I did not chase after it, because I knew it had already come home. And I, through this act of repair, had reclaimed that long-lost sky within my own heart.