Chapter 18

Dan 1.0’s turn:

It’s an old joke and the punchline goes ‘You can’t get there from here.’ We see that. We want to move four adults and a toddler from Alabama to Oslo – yeah, the ‘Norway’ Oslo – and there are no direct flights from Atlanta. There’s a stop in New Jersey.

So Saturday morning, Stoney and I are in the cabin of the Pilatus, early flight to Atlanta, piloted by Cindy and Johanna because “I get nervous about Atlanta. Too big. Too much traffic.”

“Just take your time, Jo,” Cindy says. “You’ve done it with me before.”

“Yeah, but...”

“I’m right here beside you...”

We spot the Pilatus on the ramp at Signature in Atlanta, get a shuttle to the main terminal.

After we get through the TSA check-in. That’s a charade, a joke, a travesty, and then my vocabulary runs out of nice words. Hundreds of people milling around waiting for some Gamma-minus to do the standard grope.

I promise, if I’m ever driven to terrorism, that I WILL not put a bomb in my shoe. Nope, I’ll walk right up in the middle of four hundred people waiting to get through ‘security’ and detonate a bomb in the middle of them. I could rack up hundreds.

I want a T-shirt I saw on one of THOSE websites – you know the ones where if you visit, your name goes on a Federal watch list? This one has the stick figures, one standing with his arms over his head – a passenger, and the other is kneeling – a TSA ‘agent’, performing the old ‘bomb in the crotch’ check. The caption says “It’s not GAY if it’s TSA”.

Cindy’s telling me to calm down. Johanna’s bouncing little Stoney on her hip. We finally pass that obstacle, then it’s onward to wait on the flight.

First-class tickets.

“You DON’T want to cut corners here,” Johanna tells us. “Long flight. Coach is miserable.”

Also, we gain access to the lounge area reserved for premium passengers. I actually don’t mind mingling with the hoi polloi because really, I count myself as one.

I’m sure that some of our fellow passengers are horrified at the thought of a trans-Atlantic flight with a toddler. I can understand. I’ve endured flights with the proverbial ‘screaming baby’ and would translate that to this, but they don’t know my semi-nephew. Two years old (almost three! – no, he hasn’t popped that on us, yet.) and very well-behaved. Yes, he’s got doting parents. And grandparents. And a community with his ‘cousins’. And he’s a good baby. Helps that he’s derived a guaranteed overload of ‘cute’ from his Norsk-Celtic-whatever else ancestry. Blue eyes and red hair like his mom. And talks.

Stoney Senior draws a few covert stares. Stoney’s got a scar, THAT scar, earned in combat. It shows. He still carries himself well, too, the obvious effort in NOT succumbing to a sedate lifestyle. That’s a problem we ALL face. So far, none have succumbed. Hell, truth be known, after Jason got HIS degree, he LOST weight.

Somebody commented at a gathering. He pointed to Susan across the room. “That blonde gal over there? You look up ‘incentive’ in the dictionary, her picture’s there to define the word.”

They call for us to board. I could get used to travelling by commercial flight if I flew first-class. It’s nice. Cindy wiggles into her seat. Her previous trips on commercial airlines have been in coach.

“Nice seat. Not quite as nice as the pilot’s seat on Lotte, though...”

“Soon, baby,” I soothed. “Five million dollars. Brand new...”

“Norway,” Cindy said. “I’m excited. My first time out of the country...”

“Yeah,” I said. “Uncle Sam paid for my first time.” That was two lifetimes ago, a young lieutenant of combat engineers on his way to his first assignment.

“I know, baby,” she replied. “Adventure. This one’s different.”

Landed in New Jersey. Then off again, this time when the wheels touch, we’ll be in Norway.

I’m glad I have Jo and Stoney with us. They’ve been here several times, know some of the ropes. Both of them speak a bit of the language, and I found that if you smile and TRY to speak the local language, people who speak English will jump in and help you.

I learned that in Germany. Works even in the GI towns.

And meeting the senior member of the Solheim family. You can tell he’s it because little Stoney runs up to him babbling “Unca Jan.”

If a kid did that to me, I’d give him MY company, too.

Stoney and I got earnest handshakes. Johanna and Cindy got hugs and kisses on the cheek.

The old guy reminds me of Judge Charlie in a lot of ways. He’s spry, and if his body’s given in to eight decades of life, his mind is only sharpened.

And in the living area of his home, he looks at Cindy and says, “You! My Johanna tells me about you and your flying. You will want to meet with Bjorn, am I correct?”

“Yes sir. When it is the proper time. Family is more important than flying...”

He smiled. “Johanna, she is like you. And yes, dear Cindy, family is first. That is why I sent you that airplane, so that my family will have proper wings. I have tried to give Stoney a proper boat here in Norway...”

“You always have us a boat, sir. My son loves the water...”

“That is how I know he is my heir,” Uncle Jan said. “The first time I saw him on that boat, an infant in his mother’s arms, his eyes ... It was as if he was seeing his home.”

So the guy’s a mystic about his family. I can think of much worse things.

The accommodations? This is Uncle Jan’s ‘formal’ home, and we find ourselves in a guest room that is quaint in that it is purely Norsk in layout, right up to the enclosed beds. It’s meticulously neat and clean and smells of rich wood and I’m spoiled.

Cindy’s spoiled the next day. We meet Bjorn, whom I’ve talked with on the phone and shared emails, but he does something totally inappropriate.

“Cindy, you’ve never BEEN in a helicopter?”

“Dan has. I haven’t. He’s worked on projects offshore. I haven’t.”

And then he stabs me in the heart.

“Would you LIKE to ride in a helicopter?”

You know that he phrased that question wrong. She straightened him right out.

“I’d like a chance to FLY a helicopter.”

And I’m thinking, ‘No, Cindy, we do NOT have a case for a helicopter. They’re noisy, slow, and expensive.’

But ol’ Bjorn, who just fell off my ‘nice guy’ stack, says, “I think we have one that is coming off maintenance. Let me make a phone call.”

His conversation was in Norsk. I understood nothing. He did, however, nod, and sound encouraging. He hung up the phone.

“It can be done. You understand that many of our small helicopters lack dual controls. That was my concern. The cost for the larger machines is very high. I am reluctant to use one for a demonstration...”

“I understand about money,” I said.

“However,” he smiled, “we do have one we use for check rides for our pilots, and it happens to be available.”

There we go.

I’m familiar with the Bell 206s that are just about a standard ride for much work in the Gulf of Mexico. They’re being phased out by the more capable (and more expensive) Bell 407. I’m looking at a 407. We’re talking a bit over three million dollars, it weighs less full than our Pilatus (Yeah, okay ... I succumb to the inevitable – it’s OUR Pilatus) does empty. It’s less than half as fast and has twenty percent of the range, and it’s a helicopter.

It’s a thousand parts wrapped in close formation around an oil leak, spinning on a pivot, waiting on metal fatigue.

And I’m there with Cindy and Bjorn and he’s talking ‘er through the preflight.

I belted myself into the cabin. Bjorn had the right seat, Cindy the left, making Bjorn the pilot. Helicopters are backwards in that regard.

I listened on the headset as he talked her through startup, then, “I will handle takeoff. It is quite different than fixed wing.”

I’m thinking ‘no joke’.

He gave her almost an hour of the envelope, letting her try her hand at hover, sideways flight, those things that helicopters can do, right down to following him through a couple of landings.

When we shut the noisy thing down she was smiling.

“I can’t build a business case for us to buy one,” I said preemptively.

Bjorn grinned. “I have several thousand hours flying these. It is a job. If I fly to relax, it is to be an airplane.”

“I totally understand that, Bjorn,” Cindy said. “But thank you so much for the experience.”

We all got into Bjorn’s car for the trip back to Uncle Jan’s.

“Bjorn, I just feel more serene with wings. That rotor’s just beating the universe into submission.”

“Many pilots have said such things of rotorcraft,” he laughed. “I fly both, and I understand. Have you tried soaring – sailplanes?”

“No, but I have often thought of stopping in Marfa, Texas on trips between Alabama and Los Alamos. I work at Los Alamos on occasion...”

“I have dabbled with sailplanes,” Bjorn said. “If you speak of serenity with wings...”

“I can vouch for that,” I said. “I have a few flights from many years ago.”

“We need to make that trip,” she stated.

Okay, then it’s mostly decided, at least the grand idea. Baby’s got a desire. I’m wise enough to try to meet it. So then it’s a matter of her view of details.

“Uh, I’m sure there are places easier to reach than Marfa, Texas.”

Giggle. “I’m sure there are.”

Bjorn was laughing. “I see how you find yourself in these places, Dan.”

“It’s been like this almost since we met.”

“You CAN say ‘no’, baby,” she said.

I caught Bjorn’s smirk.

“Yes, I think he says ‘no’ very much,” he stated.