Paul (standard:adventure, 1173 words)
Author: GXD	Added: Oct 25 2008	Views/Reads: 3453/2172	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Deborah's second lesson in flying a seaplane is an exercise, as Ivar would say, in "keeping clam".

PAUL 

The pilot was a grizzled old veteran wearing a skullcap.  Its straps and
buckles dangled past his ears.  Deborah sat beside him with the 
co-pilot's wheel stiffly in her hands.  His long gray beard jiggled 
whenever he gave her instructions.  This was her second lesson.  She 
nudged the little seaplane down toward the lake, searching for a clear 
path among the Sunday sailboats.  Soon a mast flashed by on the left.  
The sail colors left rainbow patterns on her retinas. 

"Okay, okay now," Paul grumbled, "Bring 'er up and let 'er go round
again". Obediently, Deborah edged the wheel back and watched the 
artificial horizon line, the dial with little wings.  She reached down 
and hauled on the throttle knob. 

It came off in her hand. 

* * * * * 

The flying lessons were part of a bold new approach to life for Deb. 
She had 20 years of business success behind her now.  This was the 
moment to move on in life -- ride a horse, fly a plane, surf the waves, 
take a train trip around the world, learn German and Portuguese and 
soak up all the goodies in the hot springs of Bavaria and Rio. 

Here in Seattle, the seaplanes docked at Lake Union were very available.
Flying lessons with an experienced pilot cost relatively little, and 
the weather was better than ever.  Deborah looked forward to skiing in 
Winter, wind surfing in Spring, mountain climbing in Summer and flying 
her own plane around Mount Kilimanjaro next Fall. 

* * * * * * 

Deborah stared at the knob in her hand, while a look of dismay filtered
slowly through the old man's beard.  The engine roar tapered off to a 
ticking sound as it slowed to idle.  Wind whooshed past the window and 
Deborah heard a few erratic squeals that sounded like mice.  She had 
two cats and knew exactly what mice sounded like. 

With a grunt, Paul unhitched his seat belt, twisting his lank frame all
the way around to the back seat so he could dig around in the toolbox. 

"Here, gimme that knob", he ordered, "keep 'er straight and steady. Ease
up on the wheel, don't let 'er drop more'n you have to."  The pontoons 
were still well above mast height, but a tall ferry was crossing up 
ahead and Deborah banked left to evade its radar mast. 

Meanwhile, the throttle wire was lost somewhere in the bowels of the
control panel.  Except for air speed, all the dials seemed to be 
resting languidly against their zero pins.  Whatever Paul was doing, it 
certainly was taking a very long time ... hours, minutes, maybe five or 
six seconds. 

Deborah felt that little thrill of panic as the pontoons underneath her
seat edged toward the choppy little waves.  Half a mile ahead, dozens 
of sailboats blocked her path.  From the side window, she saw bits of 
debris floating on the water, flashing, twinkling.  Sun-suited couples 
waved to her from a bright red catamaran on her right. She waved back, 
automatically. 

Paul was now on his back, under her feet, scraping and banging.  One of
the pontoons tipped a wave,  splashing a few drops in the window.  
Suddenly the engine roared and a long wire shot out beside her left 
arm. 

"Don't bring 'er up too fast!" he cautioned her.  The old seaplane
groaned and creaked as Deb eased the wheel back, kicked the rudder to 
avoid hitting a rather large yawl, and headed for the canyon between 
two downtown buildings. 

Paul, meanwhile, was patiently screwing the knob back onto the wire. He
seemed to be humming an old World War II ditty.  She caught a few 
words, "...We live in fame, or go down in flame ...", something like 
that. 



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