unbolt the light wicker passenger seats and store them in the hangar. In their place bright yellow-painted crates took up every available inch in the fuselage. Filled with squirming sea-green lobsters, Key West’s best of the best, they soon would be on their way to Miami where ten restaurants eagerly waited.
Stooped over in the cramped space, Lobster Mike and I manhandled last of the crates forward to where Rosie impatiently waited.
Mike said, ‘Thought I was gonna’ be stuck with all these critters and no place to sell them.’
Rosie said, ‘Hurry up, you two, this ain’t a tea social.’
Abby called out from the cockpit, ‘Daddy, can I do pre-flight?’ Her headphones practically swallowed up her entire head.
Rosie said, ‘You are NOT going to let that girl fly right seat.’
‘Why not? She knows the controls.’
‘She’s ten years old, that’s why.’
‘I was ten when I wanted to fly.’
Her face grew serious. ‘That was then, this is now.’
I lowered my voice. ‘Look, mom, we’re starting over, okay? And the two of us need to talk. This will be a good time.’
‘In a plane at two thousand feet?’
‘Absolutely. If she gets mad, where’s she going to go?’
My mother tensed her lips, locked in thought, and then quickly nodded her assent. I’ll give Rosie credit: when comes time to change airports, she’ll kick rudder so fast it’ll make your head spin. Pop was completely the opposite. Sure, he’d change course eventually, but he’d keep considering and re-considering the alternatives long after the change had been made. I suppose that’s why he made such a good railroad engineer. He needed to keep his eye on the track ahead, and the track behind as well.
Not me.
As a pilot, all I ever cared about was the next airport, and the one after that. Where I just took off from was instant history. Let other people sort out what was left behind. Not this time, though. Today I had to go back, pick up the pieces with Abby and try to make sense of what was left of our family.
We lifted off Runway two-six, just after four o’clock in the afternoon. Full gas tanks, engines purring, landing gear working, ceiling and visibility unlimited, Abby in the right seat and Lobster Mike’s cash-in-advance paid cargo in the hold. Life was good.
If everything worked according to plan, we’d make Miami in two hours, unload the lobsters dockside, re-fuel and be back in Key West in time for supper. But rarely does anything happen that way with me. And especially not when I’m operating a machine with tens of thousands of parts, any one of which could and often would go wrong. But so far, so good as we leveled off at two thousand feet.
I pulled out the locking clip on the control wheel and swung it over to
Abby. ‘You have the aircraft.’
‘I have the aircraft, sir.’
I could barely hide my smile at her serious face when she nodded, crisply repeated the ritual-like response, opened her small hands and gripped the large wooded control wheel. But she held it with a light touch. Fingertips. Sign of a good pilot.
‘Rudder pedals okay?’ I said.
‘Affirmative.’ She tapped the wooden blocks I’d strapped onto the pedals so her short legs could reach them.
‘Maintain a heading of zero-six-zero degrees, altitude of two thousand.
Keep an eye out for other aircraft, and holler if you need me.’
‘Roger, zero-six-zero degrees, two thousand feet, and watch out for bogies.’
I laughed, ‘Where’d you pick that up?’ She shrugged. ‘I forget.’
‘C’mon, which radio show?’
Another shrug. ‘Terry and the Pirates. They’re shooting down bogies all the time.’
‘Haven’t heard them for a while.’
‘It’s such great show. When I grow up I want to be an air pirate just like them and shoot down Nazis. They’re so mean.’
‘That’s for sure.’
Our nation’s forty-eight states were on their own. Some of them defiantly flew their state flags over the
Stooped over in the cramped space, Lobster Mike and I manhandled last of the crates forward to where Rosie impatiently waited.
Mike said, ‘Thought I was gonna’ be stuck with all these critters and no place to sell them.’
Rosie said, ‘Hurry up, you two, this ain’t a tea social.’
Abby called out from the cockpit, ‘Daddy, can I do pre-flight?’ Her headphones practically swallowed up her entire head.
Rosie said, ‘You are NOT going to let that girl fly right seat.’
‘Why not? She knows the controls.’
‘She’s ten years old, that’s why.’
‘I was ten when I wanted to fly.’
Her face grew serious. ‘That was then, this is now.’
I lowered my voice. ‘Look, mom, we’re starting over, okay? And the two of us need to talk. This will be a good time.’
‘In a plane at two thousand feet?’
‘Absolutely. If she gets mad, where’s she going to go?’
My mother tensed her lips, locked in thought, and then quickly nodded her assent. I’ll give Rosie credit: when comes time to change airports, she’ll kick rudder so fast it’ll make your head spin. Pop was completely the opposite. Sure, he’d change course eventually, but he’d keep considering and re-considering the alternatives long after the change had been made. I suppose that’s why he made such a good railroad engineer. He needed to keep his eye on the track ahead, and the track behind as well.
Not me.
As a pilot, all I ever cared about was the next airport, and the one after that. Where I just took off from was instant history. Let other people sort out what was left behind. Not this time, though. Today I had to go back, pick up the pieces with Abby and try to make sense of what was left of our family.
We lifted off Runway two-six, just after four o’clock in the afternoon. Full gas tanks, engines purring, landing gear working, ceiling and visibility unlimited, Abby in the right seat and Lobster Mike’s cash-in-advance paid cargo in the hold. Life was good.
If everything worked according to plan, we’d make Miami in two hours, unload the lobsters dockside, re-fuel and be back in Key West in time for supper. But rarely does anything happen that way with me. And especially not when I’m operating a machine with tens of thousands of parts, any one of which could and often would go wrong. But so far, so good as we leveled off at two thousand feet.
I pulled out the locking clip on the control wheel and swung it over to
Abby. ‘You have the aircraft.’
‘I have the aircraft, sir.’
I could barely hide my smile at her serious face when she nodded, crisply repeated the ritual-like response, opened her small hands and gripped the large wooded control wheel. But she held it with a light touch. Fingertips. Sign of a good pilot.
‘Rudder pedals okay?’ I said.
‘Affirmative.’ She tapped the wooden blocks I’d strapped onto the pedals so her short legs could reach them.
‘Maintain a heading of zero-six-zero degrees, altitude of two thousand.
Keep an eye out for other aircraft, and holler if you need me.’
‘Roger, zero-six-zero degrees, two thousand feet, and watch out for bogies.’
I laughed, ‘Where’d you pick that up?’ She shrugged. ‘I forget.’
‘C’mon, which radio show?’
Another shrug. ‘Terry and the Pirates. They’re shooting down bogies all the time.’
‘Haven’t heard them for a while.’
‘It’s such great show. When I grow up I want to be an air pirate just like them and shoot down Nazis. They’re so mean.’
‘That’s for sure.’
Our nation’s forty-eight states were on their own. Some of them defiantly flew their state flags over the
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