Volume: 1
She believes her god is preventing her from landing an airplane.
They sat in the left seat, the pilot's seat. It was difficult to direct their focus out of the plane to the outside world. They'd seen the world from the ground before. The taxiway was just another road. All the instruments and controls demanded their attention. We'd let them tinker. The engine noise surprised them. Still, their eyes watched the instruments and gauges. The language from the radio was foreign jargon whipping by too quickly. "I'll never understand that," they'd say.
Their eyes widened and the instruments grew less important as we climbed out over the ocean. We'd let go of the controls. "See, it flies itself." No way, they'd say.
To us it was one hour of flight that seemed like two. To them it was a mere blink. Back inside we'd pry their wallets open. Buy this book, that plotter, that syllabus, this calculator. Read this and this and this and we'll see you in three days.
But Barbara was different. "Tomorrow," she said.
Common wisdom says to fly one day, take two off. Read, dwell, and daydream before flying again. It was the fastest way. "Tomorrow," she said. Tomorrow then.
She went through the books, the paperwork and the written tests and drilled everything into rote memory. When I didn't move fast enough she would click her long fingernails on the desk or the wing. Her enthusiasm dragged me along, as did her clear green eyes, her 110 pounds encased in a five-foot five-inch frame that sported newly enlarged breasts, courtesy of her soon-to-be discarded husband. Enclosed together in the little airplane with that fragrance, my eyes glazed over and my mind wandered. The constant radio work helped keep me in the game.