Chapter 19

Cindy’s turn:

First, we didn’t try haggis. Not that I wouldn’t, you know. I married a Cajun. Researching his ancestry, a few generations ago ‘Richards’ was ‘Richard’, pronounced ‘Ree-SHARD’. Accompanying my husband to his Cajun homeland had me sucking the heads of boiled crawfish, popping the lids off boiled crabs, eying Cajun boudin ... Looks like a condom stuffed with something. The ‘something’ is a delicious rice dressing with liver and pork and green onions and the ‘condom’ is a natural hog ‘casing’, which is a nice way of saying somebody turned a hog intestine inside out and scrubbed it ... Haggis wouldn’t be that much of a step.

But one does not fly to this end of Scotland as a tourist destination.

We caught a cab to a hotel for the night, did dinner at a local restaurant, went back to the hotel, added another country where I’ve made love to Dan. The next morning, breakfast, packed up the bags, headed back to the airport.

We gave Bjorn a happy goodbye and an invitation for him and his wife to visit us in Alabama. He headed off for the first leg of his commercial flight back to Norway after the three of us did a very thorough pre-flight of the new Pilatus.

In the plane. In MY seat. Dan’s in the right seat. It’s still set where I left it. Comfy. Luxurious, even. A HUGE step up from the ‘padded cushion on a flat board’ seat of Mister Barton’s happy ol’ Aeronca.

Somewhere down the checklist, the radio’s on, and “Wick Tower, Pilatus november zero seven tango sierra at Far North Aviation for engine start.”

“Seven tango sierra, start authorized. At your convenience, taxi to runway three one. Hold short for traffic.”

“Seven tango sierra. Roger.”

Pre-takeoff cockpit check. Everything’s in the green. The plane is brand new. Everything BETTER be in the green.

The reason for our holding short of the runway came sliding out of the sky, a regional airliner. Then “Seven tango sierra, cleared for takeoff on three-one.”

“Seven tango sierra, roger.”

And let this sweet thing roll onto the runway, line up on the centerline, and push the power control lever (it’s still the ‘throttle’ to me) forward to the stop and feel twelve hundred horsepower yanking us forward. We’re not nearly at gross, just me and Dan and luggage and that safety equipment. And full fuel. And we’re off the ground way before we get to the two thousand foot marker beside the runway.

And “ Seven tango sierra, request right-hand departure to course.”

“Seven tango sierra, right departure approved. Contact oceanic control at your convenience.”

“Seven tango sierra, roger. Thank you, sir.”

This is where the Pilatus and its state of the art electronic suite shines. The whole flight from here to Reykjavik is programmed in. A touch of a button, not even a REAL button, and the radio changes to the proper frequency for the people who will follow us across six hundred miles of Atlantic Ocean. We’re climbing. We’re going to do this from flight level two forty – twenty-four thousand feet over the ocean below.

Every so often, she tells me that I need to check in with the folks on the ground. A bit under three hours after our wheels left the ground in Scotland, it’s time. Forty miles out, it’s “Reykjavik Center, Pilatus November zero seven tango sierra.”

Crisp, businesslike. “Pilatus November zero seven tango sierra, you’re landing Reykjavik?”

“Seven tango sierra, affirmative.”

And fifteen minutes later, our wheels touch down and we’re taxiing to Birk Flight Services.

This one’s easy; what we want to do is what these people do and they do it well. We’re cleared through customs without being treated like acolytes of the Mad Mullah of Abbottabad, they treat my new toy like, well, my new toy. She’s tied down, refueled, checked out so that in the morning we’ll have a seamless departure, then it’s off to a nearby hotel, and I’m very thankful that one, these are NICE people and two, so many of them speak English.

We hit the hotel, took a refreshing shower, headed out for a walkabout. Dinner? Ask some people at a museum. Tell ‘em you’re from Alabama, USA and ask where they’d recommend. Then ask ‘em if they’d like to join us.

Picking up people at a museum tends to give you a pretty good selection, so we had a delightful meal, good conversation, and Dan made a contribution to US-Icelandic relations by picking up the tab.

We added another country to my ‘everywhere I’ve made love with Dan’ list.

At 0700, we were back at Birk, the FBO. The lady behind the counter happily took our credit cards and one of their advisors worked with us to make sure we had all the Ts crossed and Is dotted on our flight plan to Greenland. And “Don’t expect to find much luxury there.”

We double-checked the weather at Narsarsuaq Airport in Greenland. You have to make your approach up a fjord and we’ve been warned that we do NOT want to do that on instruments. Things look good, so at 0830 we’re off. A bit less than three hours later, we land in Greenland. Our next leg is doable today, so Greenland’s a quick stop for fuel and bathroom break and we’re back on the way.

Destination is Goose Bay, Labrador. In Canada. We’re arguing about the name for the new Pilatus. She’s slick. I suppose I could say something about Swiss watches and you might get the idea.

Once we level off at cruising altitude we’re looking at six hundred more miles. That’s not to say that we’ve exactly been a beehive of activity so far. All we have to do is watch. Multiple displays show us where we are, where we’re going, the state of the little engine that’s spinning its merry little heart.

“Maybe it’s extra happy because we’re bringing it home,” I remarked. Its almost a million dollar little self was made in Canada.

“I should’ve accosted you in Greenland, you know...” he said.

“What brought that on?” I asked, smiling. He’s still got it for me. That’s a good thing, because I still have it for him, too.

“Might never get a chance to do it in Greenland again.”

“We have a hotel in Goose Bay,” I said. “We can do a double. Or a triple. ‘sides, you groped me in Greenland...”

He laughed. “That’s almost melodious. A song lyric.”

“And exactly who would we sing that to?”

“My serenade to you when we’re all romantic,” he snickered.

“Buddy boy, if you’re plannin’ on romancing me, it better not include the word ‘grope’.”

“Oh, you one a’ them uppity college girls, ain’t you.”

“Gots me a dee-gree ‘n’ ever’thang.”

Two hours over water. At flight level two twenty. Not a bump, not a hiccup. I hope not. That’s COLD water down there.

Every now and then Lenya reminds me to contact route control and let ‘em know we’re doing okay.

“Lenya?” Dan asked.

“Well, YOU didn’t say anything.”

The last hundred-odd miles were along a few water features on the northeast Canadian coast. We were descending, the view becoming more and more alive as we got closer to the ground.

Finally it was the almost routine hand-over from approach control to the tower, put the wheels on the ground, go park ourselves in front of the tower for the customs checks, and then taxi to the FBO for service.

Dan and I grabbed our overnight bags, went inside, made arrangements for refueling and called for a ride to the hotel.

Dinner. And add Canada to the list. And okay ... tomorrow night in OUR bed.

Morning. Dan gets the first leg – Goose Bay to Bangor, Maine. Six hundred nautical miles. Two and a half hours. Flight level two two zero. Two hundred seventy knots indicated airspeed. Leg time, wheels up to wheels down, two and a half hours.

We’re flying across country that makes the Alabama countryside look like downtown Manhattan. Trees and trees and more trees. And somewhere about a half-hour from landing we cross the international border into the United States. It’s easy to see on the nav display.

While we’re waiting for US Customs to clear us, I get on the phone and call the bunch in Alabama.

Fuel. Bathroom. And we have a bit over a thousand nautical miles, straight line, to Auburn.

I am in the United States and thank heaven, filing a flight plan here is a piece of cake. I ask for direct, GPS course, flight level two forty. And I get it.

Just get in the air and get home. I’ve been to wonderful places and met good people all along the way but I’m still a little Alabama girl at heart and I wanna be home.

We’re out of Bangor International, climbing on course, basically southwest, and home’s four hours away.

The voices on the radio have the familiar timbre and cadence of home. I could drop into any of a few dozen airfields along our track and be five minutes away from a hamburger.

I mentioned that to Dan.

“How about just a plain ol’ ribeye with a big stupid baked potato?”

“Wonderful.”

“And whoever in the gang that wants to show up?”

“Pavilion?”

“Yep. You made YOUR phone call. I made MINE. Figure that we get there with plenty of time before dinner. You can haul up anybody who wants a ride...”

I giggled. “At six hundred bucks an hour...”

“We don’t make it an ‘every weekend’ event, but it IS new...”

I started descending when we crossed into Georgia and when we broke twelve thousand feet, I closed out our IFR flight plan.

Ten miles out and two thousand feet. “3Sigma Field, Pilatus zero seven tango sierra, ten miles northeast, for landing.”

“Seven tango sierra, four ultralights in the vicinity. They’ll stay clear until you land.”

“Seven tango sierra, roger. We’ll watch for ‘em.”

They’re orbiting west of the field, bright spots of fluorescent colored dacron against the backdrop of familiar ground.

“You awake?” I asked Dan.

“Yeah. What you got in mind?”