Blue Ice Dying In The Rain

by Jim Craig

  The light outside the windows was gray and dim when the sound of a slamming door woke me. My muscles didn’t want to move. Even my eyelids resisted, preferring the dark state of unconsciousness. I'd spent the last several hours trying to pull back the dream. Trying to make it real. But it was out of reach.

  My eyes popped open then and I struggled to remember where I was. The tool truck sat beside me on the concrete floor looking cold and tired. With a deep sense of dread I swung my feet to the cold concrete floor and sat up.

  I sat there for a minute until I started to shiver. The air in the truck barn was damp and chilled, but it had stopped raining. I started remembering where I was and why. Then I wished I hadn’t. The troopers, Daniels and Rankin, were apparently lost. They were people I had known and talked to and flown with. How could they be gone? I shuddered and tried not to think about the huge body of cold water just down the hill from where I sat. I didn’t want the pictures that pushed themselves in front of my eyes, but I couldn’t help it.

  Then there was the image of the whale’s enormous dorsal fin coming right at me. And the kid’s terrified face with the empty eyes. What was his name? Something weird, I struggled to recall. Oh, yeah, Tambourine. Lord have mercy.

  The day ahead was a mystery. Any one of several things could happen. It all depended on the fog. I rolled my neck feeling and hearing crackles and crunches and looked toward the window. It showed nothing but gray. I was at an airport, but I didn’t have an airplane. The plane was miles away and across a stretch of lethal water. I couldn't think of a worse feeling.

  Sure, I was a pilot. I could slip the grip of gravity and fly high over clouds and mountains. Free as an eagle. As long as I had wings and an engine. But without them who was I? Just another earth bound plugger with dirt on my shoes and nowhere to go.

 

  I reached for my clothes. They were cold, damp, heavy and stiff. Pulling them on was torture. The shoes were the worst. Pulling the laces tight made water run from my fingers. I glanced at the make shift bunk I’d made the night before and seriously considered climbing back in.

  A bang on the door canceled that idea. “You awake in there?” Willie’s voice rasped colder than the concrete floor.

  “Yeah, what’s it to ya?” I hollered back.

  He pushed the door open and came inside. “Come on, will ya? I need your help starting the plane.”

  “Well, good morning to you too, sunshine,” I grumbled at him. Then I looked past him to see fog wrapped trees. “You think you’re going somewhere?”

  “Yeah, we’re going over to get your plane, so we can get the hell out of here.”

  I pulled on my fleece jacket and zipped it to the top. The damp fabric clenched my neck like a cold rubber glove.

  “What’s wrong with your plane?”

  “Nothing.” He said and started walking toward the tarmac. I followed tugging my cap tighter to ward off the chill.

  “Then why do you need my help?”

  He stopped and glared back at me. “What? You don’t want to help?”

  I had to pull up short to keep from running into him. “Damn it, Willie. Just tell me what’s wrong with it.”

  He threw up his hands and started walking again. “Aw, the damn battery’s acting up. It ain’t got enough juice to turn the starter.”

  “So there IS something wrong with your plane.”

  He jerked to a stop again with his hands on his hips. “Look, you gonna help me or not?”

  “Sure, sure, I’ll help you, but seriously, Willie, you’re gonna fly in this crap?”

  “WE’RE gonna fly,” he corrected me. “I can’t fly both planes back by myself, you know.”

  His SuperCub sat quietly at the edge of the parking area with large stones shoved against the tires. The wings and tail surfaces were covered with large drops of cold rain water. She looked about as ready to fly as I’d felt sitting on that pile of canvas.

  I looked out to the runway and downhill toward the bay. Taroka Island was out there somewhere but you'd never know it. An orange wind sock fifty yards away hung limply from a pole like last week’s forgotten laundry. The hillside beyond it was a gray bank of cloud. I couldn’t see the water off the far end of the strip either. All I could see was fog. A murky sky full of sullen gray mist. Brighter areas here and there in the distance glowed with the promise of sunshine somewhere above.

  “Uh, Willie. I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, for one, we can’t see shit. Secondly, we REALLY can’t see shit.”

  “Aw, hell. It’s not as bad as it looks. I walked down the hill to the water and there’s at least thirty feet of clear air underneath the fog. The sun’s even trying to break through.”

  “Thirty feet? Your damn wings are thirty six feet wide. And that sun glow’s just another thing to blind you. There's not even a quarter mile visibility up here on the runway.”

  “It’s not a problem, believe me. As soon as I take off I’ll drop us down to the water. It won’t take long to get over to Taroka. Then we get your plane and you can follow me back over here.”

  I folded my arms and looked back and forth from the cloud choked runway to Willie’s face. I felt the hair standing up on the back of my neck. He was staring back at me, but I couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “So spin that prop for me, will ya? Time’s a wasting.”

  “Look, man. I’ll help you start the engine, but I’m not flying in this stuff.”

  “Why not?” He was pissed. His jaw was working back and forth like an agitated bear and his eyes were boring holes through me.

  “Well, it’s not only illegal as hell, it’s just not safe. There’s plenty of other reasons too, but those are the first two I could think of.”

  “Illegal? Christ almighty, man. If you want to be a bush pilot in Alaska, you’re gonna have to fly in bad shit sometimes.” He stood in front of the plane glowering at me with his hands on his hips.

  “That’s just it, Willie. I DO want to be a bush pilot in Alaska. And I want to be a bush pilot in Alaska tomorrow too, and the day after that. And I DON'T need to fly in any bad shit like this. I’m waiting until the fog lifts.”

  He turned away from me and stared down the runway, thinking. I wondered if he knew I was right, but was so anxious to get moving, he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Willie couldn't tolerate standing still when there was a chance to move.

  He hadn’t survived this long by being stupid. He had to know I was right. Hell, even the ravens weren’t flying. A group of them were sitting on the ground nearby bitching to each other about something.

  Willie was a man with strict habits and daily routines, and I knew it had to be killing him to be away from Seward this long. I knew he’d much rather be drinking coffee and reading the paper at the Breeze Inn right then.

  That was his morning routine. Looking out over the small boat harbor and gossiping with local boat captains. Then he’d drive slow along the gravel beach and stop to talk to a fisherman or a cab driver parked by the outlet from the lagoon. And he’d watch the gulls flocking around the tall blue crane next to the coal ship dock. Touching base with his network. Some thought him a simple man, but I'd heard him quoting Tennyson one minute, then making a call and talking with his congressman the next.

  After a few moments, I spoke to him in a softer tone. "You know, you could agree with me once in a while."

  "Why would I want to do that?" he snapped.

  "Well, for one thing it would make you less annoying as a person."

  He blew out a puff of steamy breath and dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Okay, you don’t have to fly. Just ride over in the back seat. Then you can wait over there as long as you want."

  It was tempting. I wanted to get moving too. I took another look down the runway and shuddered seeing the sliver of clear air between the fog and the water.

  “Sorry, man. No dice. I’m waiting here.”r />
  Willie threw his arms in the air. Brandy had walked up by then and had been listening. He noticed her, pointed at her face and waved her toward his plane.

  “Get in. We’re going back to Seward.”

  “No way," she said. "I already told you I’m not flying two feet off the water.”

  I thought he was going to lose it. He looked around wildly with clenched fists like he wanted something to break. “Okay, goddamit, you people. Then get the hell out of my way,” he shouted at us.

  He whirled around and kicked the rocks away from the big tundra tires. Brandy and I moved off to the side and watched him. We looked at each other but neither of us dared say any more. We knew Willie well enough to know he was going to do whatever he decided to do regardless of what we thought.

  When he was ready he slammed open the door on his plane, climbed inside and settled into the pilot’s seat. Ignoring us, he turned his hat around backward and pulled on a set of green headphones. I watched him punch the starter button, but the propeller only jerked briefly and then froze with a groan.

  He glared over at me then and slashed with one arm pointing at the prop. As I hustled over to the front of the plane, I could see his face was red and flushed. I gestured with my arms like I was signaling a pilot to slow down. Calm down, please. His eyes went deadly flat, and he waited in silence for me to get into position.

  “Mags off?” I called.

  “Mags off,” he repeated. That was good. At least there was a reasonable chance that I wouldn’t lose my arms before I got ready.

  I stood with one foot ahead of the other, reached up and turned the propeller until I could grip the blade with both hands at the top of its arc.

  “Okay,” I called again. “Mags on?”

  “Mags on,” he shouted. “Hurry up!”

  With my knees bent I swung one leg and then pulled down with all my weight and made sure to let my arms and body swing down and out of the way. The engine caught, coughed once and then roared to life. I backed out of the way and rejoined Brandy. Willie gave it gas and began to taxi.

  We stood there together watching the small red and white plane roll out to the runway. Willie stopped briefly, ran through a quick engine check and then shoved the throttle full forward. He never looked in our direction. I knew he was pissed.

  Loose gravel and rain water flew from the back of the plane in a wet brown misty cloud. The throaty roar of the little four cylinder engine ripped through the soggy quiet of the foggy airport and rattled the windows behind us. The big tires rumbled forward splashing through the puddles. In less than two seconds he lifted off the muddy surface and struggled into the air.

  Instead of climbing Willie kept the plane just off the surface. The fog hung right on top of him but he stayed just below it and kept going. As he made his way down the gently sloping airstrip toward the bay we began to lose sight of him through the mist. I shivered knowing he could barely see his way and his only chance was to keep the ground in sight just below his wheels. I heard Brandy suck in a breath.

  Willie and his SuperCub lumbered past the lethargic wind sock and at the end of the runway we saw him sink out of sight following the hillside down to the bay. The sound of his engine grew gradually quieter until we could barely hear him in the distance. I could picture him flying just a few feet above the water, and I tried not to think about his engine quitting.

  “So, tell me why he’s doing this?” Brandy asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Your Dad doesn't like to sit still.”

  "Yeah, no kidding," she muttered and shaking her head she turned to look at the red fireweed leaves spreading along the edge of the tarmac.

  “Want to walk down there?” I asked.

  “Why? To pick up pieces of the wreckage?”

  I looked at her to see if she was joking, but she didn't look back. And she wasn't smiling.

  “He’ll be okay," I tried to reassure her. "The old bastard is too stubborn to kill himself.”

  “Hey,” she elbowed me. “That old bastard is my daddy.”

  I was about to express my condolences when I heard a sound in the distance that replaced Willie’s engine noise. It was a heavy dense tone that echoed through the stillness. It seemed to reverberate off the hillsides above us.

  “What the heck is that?” Brandy strained to see out over the bay in the direction of the sound.

  I’d heard that sound before. Around the docks in Seward. I wrestled my watch free of my coat sleeve and took a look. It was seven thirty.

  “That sounds like the Alaska State ferry,” I said, my mouth going dry. “It must be coming in to dock. I hope Willie doesn’t run into it.”

  Brandy looked at me with alarm in her eyes.

  "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. You need to lighten up." My mind started to race thinking about the plan. Charlie would be expecting me, and since the fog cancelled any ideas of flying, I was rethinking my options. Maybe taking the boat ride back to Taroka was the way to go.

  The ferry's fog horn went off again. “I’ve got to get down to the dock,” I said.

  "Wait, I'm going with you."

  "What for? Willie should be back in a couple of hours."

  "I don't want to sit around here worrying, and I could use the walk. I'll leave him a note, and if I hear the plane coming back, it doesn't take long to walk back here."

  I frowned to myself but I knew better than to argue.

  * * *