Earlier in the day, the wind showed some life, then it died. It''s too light now and coming from the wrong direction, George Reeves says, pointing to a limp windsock that swivels gently from a pole on the hang glider shed at Marina State Beach.

Reeves, 41, of Salinas, flies every day, but maybe not today. Instead he''s got his hang glider off the roof of his Nissan pickup for some maintenance.

On any afternoon, go to the dead end of Reservation Road and you''ll find Reeves with his wings strapped to his back. On the ground he looks like a figure in some da Vinci sketch, a helmeted terrestrial with his own flying contraption who''s stymied by gravity. But in the air he swoops around like a flying dinosaur prowling the dunes for a snack.

Reeves is one of those people who''s found heaven on earth, and so that''s where he lives. He lives in the sky.

"It was my mother''s idea. I was 14," he says. "We were in North Carolina and my mother and sister tried it and they said I should try it, too. I was trying to learn how to surf and couldn''t. No balance. I went to Kitty Hawk Heights and I was hooked."

After three days of lessons in America''s cradle of aviation, he went home to coastal Connecticut and began salting away his paper route money. By age 15 he''d bought his own hang glider and was soon cruising above the hills near his home.

That was 26 years ago and today, with little wind to be had, he''s just another earthling. Reeves is compact. He''s got a beard and a long, tightly bound ponytail. He wears aviator Ray-Bans, jeans, hiking boots and a T-shirt from a hang glider manufacturer. Since 1974 he''s flown a total of 3,000 hours on nearly 8,000 flights. It''s equivalent to being off the ground all day, every day, for four months. He has a night job filing medical records to keep his days free for flying.

Weather sometimes grounds him. Girlfriends have tried. Four have failed.

"They''ve said, ''It''s either me or hang-gliding.'' I said, ''OK, I''m going flying.''"

The glider pilots of the Central Coast-Reeves is the captain of their club, the Central Coast Condors-have a unique perch in the national squadron. From May to September they can fly just about every day because when it gets steamy in King City, the hang gliding on the coast is stellar. Cold air from the sea rushes through a gap in the terrain at Marina to replace the hot air rising from the lettuce fields. Where the air rushes inland at the coast, the glider pilots can rocket over the sea.

The best flying is when there''s a shear, or a collision of northern and southern winds. The friction pushes the warm air up and if a glider pilot can catch it, he or she can soar up to 2,000 feet.

"It gets quiet and very, very warm. All the air is vertical," Reeves says. "You''re just going up and up. It''s almost magical."

The government allows glider pilots a ceiling of 18,000 feet, depending on the location. Reeves might have been higher once. "It''s cold," he attests.

Up in the air he''s just another bird. Mating hawks can get nasty but otherwise they glide up on the leading edge of his wing and just look over at him, eyeball to eyeball. He''s seen a killer whale chase a seal; watched seals that followed him from below; seen dolphins hunting fish like a pack of wolves.

He also sees, fairly often, humans copulating in dune nooks. They don''t hear him coming. One couple didn''t detect him on the first pass and when he swooped back around, they were on their backs smoking cigarettes. He yelled down to them, "That''s so cliché!"

Soon what was a crummy day for flying shows a glimmer of hope. It''s not hot anymore. A wind has cooled the air. The water has more texture.

Knowing now for sure he could make a few passes at the beach, he heads back to his truck to get his harness and his helmet. The shell is covered with stickers. Over the forehead it says "Relax. Just Fly."

At Marina State Beach there''s a wooden ramp on top of the dunes for hang glider launches. A now-winged Reeves climbs up on it and points the nose of his glider toward Santa Cruz. As easily as stepping off a curb he steps off the ramp, only a few feet above some surfcasting fishermen. The wind gets under his wings and quickly he''s flying away down the dunes with the right tip just inches from the sand. He disappears around a corner but in seconds he''s barreling back down the other way, as everyone else on the beach ducks down and stares slack-jawed at the flying man owning the sky just overhead.