Pilotage

A few days ago I reached one of life's biggest milestone birthdays, one that many vainly—and in vain—try to deny, or at least ignore. I decided to take a different approach. I wanted to stop in my aging tracks, turn and face my milestone, shake my fist at it, and mock it for what it really is—a modest psychological hurdle that is easily vaulted.

Well, maybe not quite so easily. To clear it would require the help of my three brothers, the services of my airplane, and a getaway plan—the Brothers' Bionic Birthday Bash.

When the four of us first started talking about the Bash, we decided it must revolve around excessive physical exertion—the better to laugh at a supposedly imposing age milestone. Just as important, scheduling lots of golf, tennis, and scuba diving would present an open field for our competitive relationship with each other to run rampant.

Indulgent? Maybe, but this was the big one for me, and I deserved to be indulged by my brothers. Two years ago we gathered at Mike's to help him celebrate his big birthday, and Gerry and Steven are coming up on theirs in fewer than two and seven years, respectively.

My choice was the Bahama's out islands, which is everything in the Bahamas other than the population centers of New Providence (Nassau and Paradise Island) and Grand Bahama (Freeport and Lucaya). The out islands offer superb diving and even better flying opportunities—benign weather, beautiful-to-look-at water, gorgeous islands, and excellent airstrips. We had my airplane to use; we could enjoy two or three different islands in just a few days; and we had an excess of piloting talent—Gerry is a FedEx 727 captain, Steven has a brand-new Delta 757/767 type rating, and although inactive, Mike is a private pilot.

After many weeks of e-mails and telephone calls, we agreed to meet on my turf on the Friday before my Tuesday birthday. To no one's surprise, the plan was vectored off course at the very beginning when my brother Mike called from Boston on Friday to say he would be delayed for a day because of bad weather and the resultant snarl in airline flights.

Gerry, Steven, and I packed the airplane and, with me flying, took off on Saturday for the 40-minute hop to West Palm Beach to retrieve Mike. I knew that with four guys and gear we'd be heavy, so I planned the entire trip based on a partial fuel load. Avgas is available on only a few out islands, so the itinerary was designed with the turnaround point at an airport with avgas for sale.

Gerry took the left seat for the one-hour, 25-minute flight southeast to Andros Town, about a third of the way down the eastern side of Andros Island. We taxied up to the customs building at about 5:30 p.m. U.S. flight service had said customs would be open until sundown, but the agent at Andros scolded me for arriving 30 minutes past official closing time. He then graciously cleared us through, and we took Sammy's taxi to our hotel. The receptionist said the tennis court was "not operational." Sure enough, it looked like no one had played on it in many months. But it had a decent net and a tolerable surface, and after some minor weeding of the court we popped open a new can of balls and played hard.

The next day we met with the resident dive operators, a German couple with a relaxed but informed style. Gerry and Steven were on their first open-water dives following training, so we did not get to do any of the deeper Andros wall or blue hole dives.

Next up: Great Exuma, the largest of the more than 350 islands that make up the lovely Exuma Islands chain. Steven flew the leg, heading east from Andros for 50 miles over the 6,000-foot-deep Tongue of the Ocean until reaching Norman Cay, one of the northernmost islands in the Exuma chain and the site of an inviting-looking small resort with a long runway and two big hangars. Over Norman Cay he turned southeast to follow the string of islands, each one more beautiful than the next, for about 80 miles to Exuma International.

The next day we did two shallow dives off Exuma, probing towering patches of coral, experimenting with airplane-like "hydrobatics," and just clowning around.

The maximum-effort schedule was catching up with us. We decided to leave Exuma a day earlier than planned and head back home for a round of 18. The Exuma customs agent collected our $15-per-person departure fee, and we loaded the airplane while the main tanks were topped off. The gas was reasonably priced at less than $3 per gallon, but the fueler insisted on cash. Fortunately, Mike was carrying.

I flew back to the United States with Mike serving as first officer. After clearing U.S. Customs, Gerry won the coin toss with Steven to fly left seat on the last leg of the trip. Mike and I sat in back and listened to the professional-caliber cockpit chatter of our younger airline-pilot brothers. The high-priced flight crew got us back safely and polished off the flight with a GPS 23 approach to Page Field in Fort Myers.

Before driving off and leaving the airplane to cool on the dark ramp, we gave our faithful friend an appreciative pat on the nose for a job well done. Later, in reviewing the trip, the four of us agreed it had lived up to the milestone challenge. Gerry, who owns two taildraggers and part of an old 182, is up next. Where to, Gerry?