Chapter 21: Strange Days Indeed

San Luis Obispo, California

August 24, 2004

The Corolla didn’t sound thrilled about the early start, but it chugged its way up Broad Street with dutiful persistence. Juanita Ramirez sat in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, trying not to show how tightly she was holding herself still. The kids were in the back—Emilia humming some nonsense song and Carlos gripping his backpack like it might try to escape. Jose, quiet as usual when nervous, kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes fixed on the thinning morning traffic.

She wasn’t sure what made her more jittery: the flight itself or the fact that she had no idea what to expect from this trip. Both, probably. But there was no turning back now.

She’d only flown twice before—once to Guadalajara, once back. Big planes. Rows and rows of strangers. Snacks in crinkly bags. Nothing like what they were about to do. A private plane. Owned and piloted by a rock star. Who also happened to be, for some reason, very kind to her family.

“Is it going to be loud?” Carlos asked suddenly.

“Probably,” Jose murmured.

“I brought gum,” Emilia offered.

Juanita smiled, but her stomach fluttered. They’d seen the plane overhead plenty of times—its twin engines making a high-pitched buzzing noise that always seemed too loud for something so small. But now they were going inside that noise. With the Kingsleys. Headed to Oregon, of all places.

She reminded herself: this was a gift. An opportunity. And more than that—it was a chance to say yes to something different. Life had a way of narrowing over time. You said no to one thing, then another, and before long, all you had left were routines. Safe, familiar, and small.

But the Kingsleys weren’t small. They were strange, wild, chaotic—and generous. She liked them. Liked the way they took care of each other. Liked the way they treated her kids like real people, not just kids. She especially liked Laura—cool and sharp in that musician’s way, always with a clever word or a soft smile. And she liked Celia too, with her warm voice and effortless calm.

She didn’t quite know what Celia’s role in the Kingsley dynamic was, currently. She was Jake’s ex-wife—everyone had read about their marriage and divorce in the paper. But she was still living with Jake and Laura, and the three of them seemed unusually close—closer than an ex-wife should be with a man and his new partner. Both women treated the two children as their own, exerting equal parental authority that was obeyed and respected by Cap and Caydee like it was simply the way things were. There was something deeper there. Something unspoken.

She didn’t pry. Wasn’t her business. All she knew was that this family, odd as they were, had made space for her own.

And that meant something.

They turned into the parking lot of San Luis Obispo Regional Airport, following signs for the General Aviation terminal. Juanita looked out the window and spotted them right away—Jake’s group standing beside a sleek, gleaming plane with twin propellers that faced backwards and a bold, sweeping tail.

Jake was in jeans and a gray T-shirt that said Lighthouse Brewing Company, with a little lighthouse printed on the chest. He was crouched near one of the wheels, pointing at something on the strut while Caydee stood next to him with a clipboard in hand. She looked so serious—like a little pilot-in-training—watching carefully as Jake checked the tire.

Laura and Celia were nearby, chatting quietly while Cap toddled around between them. Laura kept him within a small boundary area with one arm while sipping from a travel mug with the other. She wore sunglasses and carried herself with effortless calm—the picture of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

Juanita stepped out of the car, and Laura was the first to wave.

“Morning!”

“Good morning,” Juanita called back, smoothing her blouse. She’d dressed nice—not Sunday-nice, but better than weekend errands. She didn’t want to look out of place.

Jake stood up and brushed off his hands. “Perfect timing. Fuel truck’s just finishing up.”

The big red-and-white tanker was pulled alongside the plane, a ramper on a ladder feeding the hose into the wing while another checked the meter. The scent of jet fuel wafted faintly in the air—acrid, but somehow exciting.

“You’re all set?” Jose asked, glancing nervously at the plane.

“Just about,” Jake said. “We’re doing our preflight now—Caydee’s my copilot most days, but this flight’s different.”

Caydee looked up from her clipboard. “Mom is going in the right seat today.”

“She’s a qualified pilot,” Jake added, nodding toward Laura. “Actually knows how to land the plane, in case I pass out or suddenly forget how to fly.”

Laura rolled her eyes. “Ignore him. I’ve flown the Avanti dozens of times. I’ll be in the right seat and on comms.”

Juanita nodded slowly. That helped. A little.

Celia smiled at her. “It’s a good plane. Jake keeps it in perfect shape. And the flight’s short—less than two hours.”

Carlos had wandered closer to the nose, taking interest in the two strange little wings that stuck out to the side there.

“Don’t touch anything,” Jose warned in his papa voice.

Jake chuckled. “You’re good. We’ll load up once the fuel’s done and I file our flight plan. Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

Caydee came over and tugged at Juanita’s hand. “Want to see the propellers up close? They look like knives.”

Juanita smiled and let herself be pulled. Nervous or not, this was an adventure. And she was ready for it.

The fuel hose gave a muted hiss as the ramper disconnected it from the wing port and retracted the ladder with practiced ease. Jake straightened from his crouch near the gear strut, dusted his hands on his jeans, and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

“What’s the damage today?” he asked.

The ramper—a tall, wiry black man in cheap sunglasses and a reflective vest—grinned as he pulled off his gloves. “Eight hundred pounds, Jet A, homey. Comes to two seventy-three even.”

Jake handed over a black Visa card. “That’s not bad.”

“Could be worse,” the man said, swiping the card on a handheld reader. “Back when that war shit started over there in Iraq? Fuckin’ prices went through the roof.”

“Tell me about it,” Jake grumbled. Whether he was upset about the prices or the war, Juanita couldn’t tell. She was still marveling that he had just spent two hundred seventy-three dollars on fuel for a single trip. That was pretty close to the Ramirez family food budget for an entire pay period.

“Where you flyin’ to?” the ramper asked.

“Oregon.”

He nodded, returning the card and receipt. “Good air this morning. Should be smooth.”

Jake tucked the receipt into his back pocket. “Appreciate it.”

They clasped hands in a complicated, well-practiced handshake that ended in a mutual snap and finger roll. Juanita blinked at the speed of it—half-greeting, half-choreography.

“Keep it high and pressurized, my brother,” the ramper said.

Jake grinned. “That’s how I roll.”

With that, he turned toward Laura. “Let’s go file. C, you’re on loadmaster duty.”

Celia gave a mock salute. “Sí, el capitán.”

Jake and Laura walked off toward the terminal building, and Celia turned toward the rest of them with a smile. “Okay—let’s get everyone loaded up.”

The cabin door was already open, the airstair lowered to the tarmac. Celia led the way, carrying Cap in one arm and his car seat in the other with a practiced mom-balance of weight and awareness. “Juanita and Jose, you’re in the first row behind the cockpit. Left and right side—take your pick.”

Juanita climbed the narrow stairs behind her husband, stepping cautiously into the cabin. The interior was sleek and understated—cream leather seats, polished trim, a small galley area with a compact bar, and a single aisle that ran straight back to a closed door in the very rear of the cabin. Each seat had a window. No middle rows. No aisle seats. Just one per side.

She sat down behind the right seat, across from Jose. The leather was soft and cool under her hand, but the cabin itself was stuffy. The air felt stale, the kind of warm that made her skin feel tight.

Celia buckled Cap’s car seat into the rear-facing seat behind them, clicking into a recessed latch like it belonged there. She then told her mijo to climb in. He obediently did so and she buckled him in.

“Caydee, Carlos—you’re in the row behind me. Emilia, you’ve got the side seat by the bar.”

The kids followed the instructions without needing much guidance. Caydee took the left side and Carlos the right, chatting about how high the plane would go. Emilia settled into her sideways seat with a wide-eyed look at the stocked bar.

Juanita wiped her palms on her thighs. “Is it supposed to be this warm?”

“It is, yeah,” Celia said, checking Cap’s straps. “The Avanti doesn’t have an APU—no auxiliary power unit—so we don’t have lights or AC until the engines are on. It’ll cool down fast once Rev fires up.”

Juanita nodded, trying not to squirm. Her blouse was already sticking a little at the lower back. She looked around—no lights, no hum, just sunlight filtering through the tinted windows and a faint creak of settling metal.

Celia leaned down and tapped Cap’s nose gently. ”¿Listo, mi chiquito?”

Cap blinked up at her and said, “Da-da?”

“He’ll be here in just a minute,” Celia said, smiling.

“Lala?”

“She’ll be here too. We’re going to fly high in the sky.”

“High in the sky!” Caydee said happily. It was obvious that she loved doing it.

Everyone was seated. Everyone was buckled.

Juanita folded her hands again, just like she had in the car. They were on the plane now. No turning back. And for the first time, she wasn’t just watching the Kingsleys live their strange, whirlwind life.

She was part of it. At least for the day.

Jake and Laura returned and got into the plane. The cabin door closed with a firm hiss and clunk. Jake sealed it with practiced motion, then ducked into the cockpit behind Laura, sliding into the left seat as she settled into the right. The cockpit was open—just a simple bulkhead, no divider—so Juanita had a clear view of the panels, screens, and switches ahead. She could hear everything, too.

“All right, peeps,” Jake said, twisting in his seat just enough to be heard. “We’re going sterile cockpit from engine start through ten thousand feet. That means no nonessential chatter until we’re up and level, okay?”

Caydee responded instantly. “Copy that, Captain.”

Celia gave a small thumbs-up from her seat.

He then told them how to open the hatch in case of emergency. He told them about the life jackets, where they might be found, and how to use them. He then told them that, although they would be flying over the ocean for part of the trip, there was no conceivable scenario in which he would attempt to land in the ocean. He asked if everyone understood.

Juanita leaned forward slightly. “We’re flying how high? Ten thousand feet?”

Jake glanced back. “Oh, we’ll be going quite a bit higher than that. Flight plan’s filed for flight level three-two-zero.”

Juanita blinked. “Three-two-zero?”

Jake smiled. “Thirty-two thousand feet,” he said. “Above the weather, right where it’s nice and smooth and fuel efficient and fast.”

She nodded slowly and sat back again. So high. She hadn’t expected that. Her mind tried to picture what thirty-two thousand feet even looked like. She couldn’t. It was just ... far.

No one else had any questions. Jake turned to Laura again and said, “Passenger briefing complete.”

“Passenger briefing complete,” she said. “Ready for engine start.”

Jake flipped a switch and the cockpit came to life with soft lights and low hums. “Battery on,” he said, more to Laura than to anyone else. The screens lit up in cascading order, some glowing green, others blue and white. A low beep sounded as the main display initialized.

Laura reached across and tapped a square computer screen. “Checklist loaded.”

“Let’s run it,” Jake said.

They went through the startup sequence together, calm and professional. Their voices were quiet but clear—item by item, confirmation by confirmation. The words barely meant anything to Juanita: bus tie, ignition armed, fuel pumps on, oxygen checked, avionics ... something. But the tone meant everything. They knew what they were doing. They were a team.

Jake reached up and flicked a pair of guarded toggles. Outside, the left engine gave a slow, rising whine—not loud or angry, but smooth and low-pitched, like some hidden machine stretching awake. A moment later, the right engine joined it. The vibrations through the cabin were gentle, almost soothing. The lights came on in the cabin and cool air began to blow from the ventilation system.

Juanita looked out her window and saw one of the propellers turning—first slowly, then with purpose. The blades blurred into motion. And still, the cabin wasn’t loud. In fact, it was quieter than their Corolla. Even when Jake ran the engines up to check them.

Jake watched the engine gauges for a moment, then moved his hands over the central control panel, typing on a keypad beside the screen. Juanita couldn’t follow what he was entering, but Laura kept an eye on the numbers and read off something about GPS and waypoints.

“Route’s programmed,” Jake said. “Taxi checklist.”

They moved right into it. Flaps, brakes, fuel flow, rudder trim. Each item got a simple back-and-forth.

And then the aircraft began to move.

It wasn’t dramatic. No jolt or lurch. Just a slow, graceful roll as they turned off the apron and onto the taxiway. Juanita felt her stomach tense, even though the movement was barely more than a crawl.

The aircraft rolled forward, a gentle crawl that slowly gathered intent. Juanita watched the yellow taxi line slide beneath the window as they trundled past a row of hangars and a single distant windsock, twitching in the breeze. They made a slow turn toward the threshold of the runway and stopped just shy of a thick white hold line. Outside, the runway stretched wide and endless, sun-bleached and faintly shimmering with heat.

A silver commuter jet descended ahead of them, low and graceful. It touched down with a puff of tire smoke and a soft screech that Juanita somehow felt in her teeth.

In the cockpit, Laura pressed her headset tighter and spoke into her mic. “November eight-five-three-five Mike, cleared for takeoff, Runway Two-Niner, northbound departure. IFR to OTH.”