A Unexpected Surprise

A few months ago (before the problems with my knee) I submitted a story to a contest for residents of OFHs (Old Folks Homes) here in Oregon. Almost 200 people from around the state entered and, I found our recently, I was one of the 6 winners (an honorable mention)! What a lovely surprise.

Here is my story about an event that happened in 2006. I can remember every second of that landing.

St Barts

I love to fly. I love the escalating speed of takeoff that pushes you back against your seat. I close my eyes and wait. When I think I feel the hint of lift off, that very first instant when the wheels leave the ground, I crack one eye open to check. Yes, I was right, we are on the way up. It is glorious to look down as the earth falls away. But as great as takeoff is, my favorite part of flight is the landing. The long final curve to line the plane up to the airfield below, landing gear clicking in place, the shock of wheels hitting the tarmac, the race down the runway and then the incredible rush as the pilot slams on the brakes to bring the plane to a shuddering stop. Physics in action. You've got to love it, and I do, but I was still unprepared for the reality of my flight from Guadeloupe to St Barts.

My friend, Barb, had called me two weeks before with a last-minute invitation. Did I want to join her and her family for a few days at a friend’s villa on St Barts in the Caribbean? The owner was off-island and the home was available to celebrate a family event. Could I come?

Of course not. My daughter’s wedding was 5 weeks away and I had an unending To Do list sitting in front of me. It was last minute - flights would be exorbitant. It would take most of 2 days to get there and back. All of this for a few days in the sun? Don’t be silly. But a villa? On an island I had never heard of? Sitting by a pool, piña colada in hand? “Count me in,” I said, and pulled my suitcase out of the attic.

So there I was, standing in the airport in Guadeloupe, listening for my flight to be called. I had already flown from San Francisco to Texas, then on to Guadeloupe. I was hot, tired and dusty – just like the airport I was standing in. One more leg to go.

The plane was small, sitting out there on the tarmac. It held maybe 15. When I climbed on board I saw it was old and a bit decrepit. Actually, quite a bit decrepit. The seat belt felt like it would snap if any pressure were applied. The plane hadn’t been cleaned in a while – reminders of earlier passengers were scattered about. There was no dividing wall between the pilot and passengers – we were all one happy family on this plane. The pilot, wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a stained t-shirt, was last on board. He reached back, hauled the steps up behind him, and then pulled them through the only door on the plane. As he walked toward his seat he gave us our safety instructions. “If you see me run past and jump out, there’s a problem. Follow me. Hope you can swim.” That was it. “Succinct,” I thought.  “Basic info has been transmitted.” He put the plane in gear and we were off. 

I think rides in small planes are more interesting than those in big ones. You really feel the wind and it was blowing that day in Guadeloupe. Our plane buffeted sideways as we sped down the runway but then, suddenly, as always, we were up and away through rich blue skies. 

The flight was short. After what only seemed minutes our pilot twisted around in his seat and announced we were approaching St Barts. I wondered why he was aiming the plane straight at the mountain ahead. I actually held my breath when we flew through a cleft in a ridge, barely clearing cars traveling on a road along its crest. I suspect we gave them quite a shock. But I – and my stomach - were completely unprepared for the sudden swoop straight down the back of the mountain to the airport at the bottom. 

But that was not the final thrill. As we sped down the runway I saw sunbathers straight ahead, oiled up, oversized sunglasses firmly in place, stretched out on towels on a beautiful beach just beyond the airstrip. The only thing that would keep our plane from running into them was a chain stretched across the end of the runway, strung between two 4-foot poles. That was it- one chain between us and the beach. Our pilot brought the plane to a screeching halt about 10 feet from the sunbathers who didn't even glance up. Welcome to St. Barts.

Although I was wobbly when I climbed down from the plane I forced myself to remain objective when rating this landing. Yes, one result of 34 years of teaching is a compulsion to grade things and landings is one of them. Although this landing was terrifying, it was smooth. No bounces after touching down. No wasted landing strip. That sudden dive down the back of the mountain landed us on the first available foot of airfield and we needed every inch. No one appeared to be hurt in the plane, on the beach, or in the cars we almost strafed as we barely cleared the mountaintop. We were in one piece and so was the plane. The airport’s tricky location wasn’t the pilot’s choice. Incredibly, according to my rubric, the pilot earned not only an A, but an A+. He didn’t just meet my requirements; he exceeded each and every one. It wasn’t his fault that I had failed to include a “scared the pants off me” factor in my rating scale. I shook my head in amazement as I turned to wave my thanks but he was already walking toward the small group of passengers awaiting his return flight to Guadeloupe. Ah yes, my return flight. I have to get back in that plane. I assume foreknowledge of conditions, several days of relaxation and many gallons of piña coladas will prove adequate preparation.