Instantly airborne: the personal flysuit

California falls into the ocean. what do you do? what do you do? Quick, got to be quick--you're already dead, see that? Dead. Because why? Because you didn't work the plan, because you didn't have a plan. Don't feel bad. Nobody else has one either. Fortunately nobody talks about the San Andreas Fault anymore, so it's not an issue, until it happens. But what if you could take an ultralite aircraft and make it wearable, like clothing, only you wear it all the time. Oh, they'll laugh at you, at first, but when you press a button on your belt and you suddenly have a wingspan of 22 feet, they'll back off, but they'll probably still laugh at you, because, face it, people are cruel. But will they laugh on that day when the earth turns to sea, will they laugh as they watch you rise above the moiling catastrophe, sailing east to the shores of New Denver, disappearing to a dot? At this point, who cares if they're laughing at you? They're dead. Damn it. You could have saved millions of people by designing, building and training the first generation of personal flyers in snap-a-wing flysuits with wingspans so enormous they can rise on a sneeze, a slight push of the knees: step off a curb, you're off. Then when the left coast finally tumbles down, Californians, like crows, will rise to become one gigantic black cloud, swarming with people screaming at each other to get out of their way. And, if the wind's right, this terrible cloud will make its way east. East, to new lands, to settle, repopulate, fool around, live a little. And then, when they're suddenly invaded by the Rockie Islands, then they'll be glad I came up with this. They'll say, "Honey? Where's the Snap-a-Wing?"