Paul (standard:adventure, 1173 words)
Author: GXD	Added: Oct 25 2008	Views/Reads: 3454/2172	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Deborah's second lesson in flying a seaplane is an exercise, as Ivar would say, in "keeping clam".

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

"While I'm down here,"  his ghostly voice filtered out of the dashboard,
"I may as well fix some of these other wires.  Why don't you take 'er 
around a couple more times." 

Deb nudged the wheel upward and to the right just a trice.  Out beyond
the left wingtip she glimpsed a brick facade framing a large office 
window.  Inside, six men were seated around a conference table.  The 
secretary in a yellow blouse was pouring cups of coffee.  Deborah 
didn't mind brick walls at her wingtips, but the electric trolley wires 
beneath her pontoons really worried her. 

Ahead, Third Avenue narrowed.  She had to bank the plane to the right a
little at Pine Street, while Paul continued to tinker underneath.  He 
laid a vice-grip pliers in her lap saying, "Hand me that when I need 
it." 

"Pity," thought Deborah, almost aloud, "He's missing all the fun!" 

Coming up beneath the right pontoon were a couple of roofers.  They were
spraying tar on a new layer of asphalt felt.  The tall one had blue 
eyes.  His name, "Burt", was embroidered on his pocket.  The other one 
with the blond beard wore an earring in his left ear.  Now they were 
far behind. 

A rush of wind came up between her legs as Paul jerked open a panel in
the floor. 

"You might bring her up just a mite," he said, "and don't bank so steep.
 Make your turns wide and flat.  We're in no hurry."  He reached for 
the vice-grips and went back to work.  After a few seconds, she heard 
hammering sounds that made all the instrument needles jump and jiggle. 

"You see that gauge there over on the right?" he asked.  Deb peered
closely at the controls. 

"Is it the one with red numbers across the top, or the one with little
wings like an airplane?"  The first one bore a tag saying "Sperry" and 
she thought it might be a gyroscope or a compass. 

"The one with the wings," he shouted back.  "Is it tilted?"  Deb looked
up ahead and shot back, 

"Just a minute." 

She kicked the right rudder hard, pulled back on the wheel and threaded
the plane six blocks down Columbia street at third-story level.  An 
instant later, she bypassed the ferry slip, shot over the Seaquarium 
and was zooming northward up Puget Sound, on the way back to Lake 
Union. When she looked up, Paul was strapped in beside her.  
Perspiration was streaming off his bald scalp. 

"You hadn't ought t'a done that." he chided, "This'n's a real old
airplane.  Don't have the zip in 'er like I had when she was new."  
Before long, Deborah realized that he had taken over the controls 
again. 

"I wasn't worried none, if that's what yer thinkin'."  The wrinkles deep
beneath his whiskers crinkled upward.  "Self-preservation, you know. 
Knew you had it.  Nine lives.  Carry you through every time." 

Deb found a clean rag in a niche of the dashboard, reached over and
tenderly wiped the sweat off his brow. 

"A man your age shouldn't worry so much," she said gently.  "We never
even came close.  All I need is a couple of more lessons." 

* * * * * 

Seattle, October 24, 2008 Gerald X. Diamond All rights reserved 


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