A new anniversary tradition
"At the classy resort overlooking the Pacific? Wow! It should be very different than last year when we dined alone at that chalet in the Rockies."
"I doubt we'll be the only ones at Laguna Beach," I reply, chuckling at the memory. "In any case, I've made dinner dates with the Larsens and the Machados."
"This will be a blast, Greg!" She endorses my spur-of-the moment plan with a kiss. Jean and I are fortunate to be pilots; otherwise my distaste for long-range planning would probably prevent us from going anywhere. Two days later, we're aloft.
Never does the Flying Carpet seem more magical than when departing sizzling Phoenix for Southern California's balmy seashore. Most of the two-and-one-half-hour flight lies over featureless barrens marked only by occasional low mountain ranges. The one break from gray monotony occurs halfway through the trip, when the Colorado River snakes turquoise across our windshield with its retinue of green and yellow irrigated fields. More parched desert follows, this time dolloped with creamy sand dunes, until we reach the Santa Rosa Mountains south of Palm Springs. There we skim the razor-sharp flank of Mount San Jacinto.
Only minutes from our destination, we now encounter a miracle-for on the other side, lush vegetation and moist ocean breezes invite us downhill to the sea. Behind us, dry blistering heat stretches 700 miles from West Texas; yet beyond this single ridge waits a cool and misty ocean paradise.
Like diving into a swimming pool we descend into the welcoming Pacific marine layer, and the temperature plummets with us. Equally startling after long hours of desert silence is the radio assault from SoCal Approach. The cacophony crescendos all the way to John Wayne Airport-Orange County, where an Airbus cozies up to our wing on final approach.
An hour after landing, Jean and I regain peace on a quiet oceanside patio. There, as if arranged specially for our anniversary, an outdoor wedding ceremony commences just a few feet away. Serenaded by Mozart, the guests take their places, and the procession begins. Remembering our own contentious church wedding, Jean and I momentarily envy those marrying in the Eden before us, surrounded by flowers and overlooking the blue Pacific.
Then our sentiment turns to levity. For as the bride and groom clasp hands before the minister, their young ring bearer wanders from his station among the groomsmen, flings his boutonniere onto the grass, and squashes it. Despite silent entreaties from his father, the child abandons the wedding party altogether to watch in safety from behind a tree. Nobody in the ceremony seems to notice, but we interlopers barely contain our laughter until drawn away by news that our dinner hosts wait in the lobby.
En route to the Larsens' for dinner, we sample drinks at another exclusive seaside resort. Toasting friendship between crackling fire and roaring waves, Jean recounts the tale of last year's anniversary, when we'd arrived at a prestigious mountain resort to find the 400-seat restaurant entirely empty except for us. Inedible food had further branded the occasion as a lifetime memory. (See "Flying Carpet: Anniversary to cherish," November 2002 AOPA Flight Training.)
While our friends laugh, I discretely pick up the bar tab. "This must be someone else's," I say quietly to Jean, upon reviewing the total. But it isn't; the $60 bill includes just our five drinks. "We're out of our league," whispers Jean, smirking. "But it's worth every penny to enjoy the company of good friends. And we are on vacation, after all." She's right, and the happy evening ahead will prove it.
The next morning we awake to the sound of crashing waves. "This is the life!" exclaims Jean, bounding for our patio with the Saturday paper. "Check out the surfers! All we need now is coffee. Where's the coffeemaker?"
"There isn't one. We need to call room service."
"What do you think coffee costs in a place like this?"
"Hey, we're celebrating! How expensive can coffee be?" I phone room service, and soon an elegant waiter dispenses the steaming beverage from a silver pot into china cups and saucers. The tab is $23.
"I've always thought that luxury was having a coffeemaker in our hotel room," I say to Jean after the waiter departs. "Here I suppose no one pours their own coffee. But $23?"
After consuming as much as possible of our caffeine investment, we spend a romantic day walking the beach, marveling at the skills of pelicans and wet-suited surfers alike. That evening over seafood we swap stories with kindred spirits, Rod and Diane Machado. Jean again tells of last year's lonely anniversary. After dinner we wander Laguna Beach art galleries. "I was relieved when dinner came to only $50 per couple," jokes my wife afterward. "That leaves a few bucks to pay for our tiedown."
In the morning we again debate ordering coffee before departing for the airport and home. "Let's not," says Jean. "I saw a corner deli where we can afford rolls with our coffee."
Eight-hundred-foot ceilings shroud John Wayne Airport when time comes to take off. We collect our instrument clearance and burst through to blue skies at 2,000 feet, not to experience another cloud all the way home. Ah, the beauty and utility of an instrument rating-hours or even days waiting for a VFR departure replaced by two lovely minutes in a cloud.
"What a great weekend!" says Jean after we land. "And we still get to celebrate our actual anniversary on Wednesday. But let's go somewhere casual, OK? I've had enough of the 'good life' for now."
Wednesday evening we drive across town to our favorite local hangout, the Sakura Inn. "Are they closed?" asks Jean, seeing no movement inside. "Shouldn't be," I reply, gingerly testing the door. It opens, but inside waits only the manager, Leelynn, along with two servers and the sushi chef.
"Where is everybody?" I ask.
"I don't know," replies Leelynn, clearly concerned. "Yesterday we were full, but tonight no one came. Take any table you like."
Jean and I turn to each other, incredulous. "How could this happen two years in a row?" she asks, grinning.
"I don't know!" I reply, smiling back.
"What's so funny?" asks Leelynn.
"It's a long story," says Jean as we sit down, laughing, "Bring some saki, please, and I'll tell you about our new anniversary tradition-dining in empty restaurants."
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include Flying Carpet: The Soul of an Airplane, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit his Web site.
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