runway and quickly settled into the pavement. He loaded up the brakes and hauled back on the control stick to assist in aerodynamic breaking, slowing the tiny plane quickly.
Jack let out a sigh of relief. The landing had been somewhat stressful and now that he was down, he could relax for a moment. He noted that the winds along his route had been stronger than expected and decided to check the weather once more after he refueled.
After paying for fuel, he made his way to the pilot’s lounge to check the weather. The computer in the lounge was old and slow, taking some time to pull up the data for his next leg of the trip.
“Hmm, not good… those clouds are getting denser and the winds are picking up,” he said to himself.
Jack looked at his watch: ten a.m.
“Hmm, definitely not good. That’ll put me in Turks and Caicos around four…just in time for a thunderstorm,” he theorized. “Well, I guess I could always stay overnight in Crooked Island if things get bad. It might set me back a day, but it sure beats crashing.”
Deciding not to waste any more time and risk potential delays, he headed out to his plane and readied for departure.
Jack's next destination was Spring Point Airport on Crooked Island, about three hundred miles east of Bahamas Islands. Sitting patiently on the runway, he received his clearance to depart. Like so many times before, he once again advanced the throttle and taxied to the runway. Lining up on the long single strip of pavement, he moved the throttle to maximum power.
He climbed to his assigned altitude and leveled off. Settling into his long flight, it became routine and uneventful and three hours seem to disappear before he realized.
With thirty minutes left to the flight , he watched Crooked Island grow larger and more distinct in his windscreen. Checking his gas gauges, the read nearly empty. With nearly forty miles to go, it was going to be close.
As the minutes ticked by, Jack began to wonder if he was going to need to make a water landing. His fuel gauges were now reading zero. He looked off his wingtip and was now following the coastline of Crooked Island. There seemed to be nice sandy beaches and inviting turquoise colored water, but none of that interested him at the moment. He kept his eyes focused on the far side of the island, hoping to catch an early glimpse of the airport.
Like a weight lifted from his shoulders, he spotted his destination airport, Spring Point, a couple of miles out in front of him. With virtually no air traffic being broadcast over the airport’s radio frequency, he dispensed with the protocol of flying a standard rectangular landing pattern and decided to fly straight in as he descended. There simply was no time to waste.
With airspeed and altitude bleeding off quickly, he scanned the area for other traffic as he fought the bouts of moderate turbulence that continued to rock the plane. Half a mile from the end of the runway, he wiped his hands on his shorts, but the act was futile. With his shorts drenched in sweat, he only picked up more moisture on his hands. In resignation, he re-gripped the stick and concentrated on the landing.
Moments later , breathing a great sigh of relief, he crossed from grass to tarmac, touching down on the single runway that stretched out nearly four thousand feet in front of him. He made it.
“Man, that was just too close,” he whispered under his breath.
----- ----- ----- -----
Except for a lone person manning the fuel truck, the airport was eerily deserted. This far out from civilization, the only sound he heard was the sound of the wind whistling through his ears. He felt at peace with the silence and solitude and wanted to stay longer, but with one hundred five miles left to travel and late-day clouds threatening on the horizon, he knew any time wasted would be foolish. Minutes later, he paid for his fuel and was off again—his final destination: Providenciales International Airport on Turks Islands.
Jack
Jack let out a sigh of relief. The landing had been somewhat stressful and now that he was down, he could relax for a moment. He noted that the winds along his route had been stronger than expected and decided to check the weather once more after he refueled.
After paying for fuel, he made his way to the pilot’s lounge to check the weather. The computer in the lounge was old and slow, taking some time to pull up the data for his next leg of the trip.
“Hmm, not good… those clouds are getting denser and the winds are picking up,” he said to himself.
Jack looked at his watch: ten a.m.
“Hmm, definitely not good. That’ll put me in Turks and Caicos around four…just in time for a thunderstorm,” he theorized. “Well, I guess I could always stay overnight in Crooked Island if things get bad. It might set me back a day, but it sure beats crashing.”
Deciding not to waste any more time and risk potential delays, he headed out to his plane and readied for departure.
Jack's next destination was Spring Point Airport on Crooked Island, about three hundred miles east of Bahamas Islands. Sitting patiently on the runway, he received his clearance to depart. Like so many times before, he once again advanced the throttle and taxied to the runway. Lining up on the long single strip of pavement, he moved the throttle to maximum power.
He climbed to his assigned altitude and leveled off. Settling into his long flight, it became routine and uneventful and three hours seem to disappear before he realized.
With thirty minutes left to the flight , he watched Crooked Island grow larger and more distinct in his windscreen. Checking his gas gauges, the read nearly empty. With nearly forty miles to go, it was going to be close.
As the minutes ticked by, Jack began to wonder if he was going to need to make a water landing. His fuel gauges were now reading zero. He looked off his wingtip and was now following the coastline of Crooked Island. There seemed to be nice sandy beaches and inviting turquoise colored water, but none of that interested him at the moment. He kept his eyes focused on the far side of the island, hoping to catch an early glimpse of the airport.
Like a weight lifted from his shoulders, he spotted his destination airport, Spring Point, a couple of miles out in front of him. With virtually no air traffic being broadcast over the airport’s radio frequency, he dispensed with the protocol of flying a standard rectangular landing pattern and decided to fly straight in as he descended. There simply was no time to waste.
With airspeed and altitude bleeding off quickly, he scanned the area for other traffic as he fought the bouts of moderate turbulence that continued to rock the plane. Half a mile from the end of the runway, he wiped his hands on his shorts, but the act was futile. With his shorts drenched in sweat, he only picked up more moisture on his hands. In resignation, he re-gripped the stick and concentrated on the landing.
Moments later , breathing a great sigh of relief, he crossed from grass to tarmac, touching down on the single runway that stretched out nearly four thousand feet in front of him. He made it.
“Man, that was just too close,” he whispered under his breath.
----- ----- ----- -----
Except for a lone person manning the fuel truck, the airport was eerily deserted. This far out from civilization, the only sound he heard was the sound of the wind whistling through his ears. He felt at peace with the silence and solitude and wanted to stay longer, but with one hundred five miles left to travel and late-day clouds threatening on the horizon, he knew any time wasted would be foolish. Minutes later, he paid for his fuel and was off again—his final destination: Providenciales International Airport on Turks Islands.
Jack
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