Long wait for a cold beer
When Jean last forgot her laptop at a Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport security station, her secretary overnighted it to her in Philadelphia. But tonight we had no such option. Jean now reviews medical cases from home, and she had already worried all day about urgent "stat" reports due by tomorrow. "You can use my computer," I offered, but Jean reminded me that only hers could make the mandatory secure connection.
"Our friend John is flying up from Scottsdale tomorrow for lunch; maybe he could bring it with him," I said. "But he's sightseeing with a visitor over Monument Valley before landing here. Would noon be soon enough?"
"My stat reports are due first thing in the morning," said Jean, verging on hysteria, "plus my regular reports are due by week's end, and tomorrow is Friday. I'd better drive down tonight." This was not a pleasant option. With traffic the round trip by car could approach six hours.
Clearly the only answer was to fly back to Phoenix to pick up the computer. But even that wouldn't be easy. Along with two flight hours, the computer was an hour's round-trip drive from the airport. The weather was good, but it was already after 5 p.m. I didn't relish an extended night flight over mountains following such a tiring day.
But then I had an idea. Our friend Doug had previously helped with less-trying emergencies; perhaps he'd consider retrieving the computer and meeting me with it at Falcon Field. Then I could get back to Flagstaff shortly after dark. But was he available?
"Doug's at yoga class," explained his wife, Karen, when I called. "I'll have him phone you the moment he gets home."
I briefed Jean: "When you hear from Doug, ask if he could pick up the computer and bring it to Falcon Field. If not, I'll drive over to get it myself after landing. Even then I'd be home by 9 o'clock."
"That doesn't seem fair to ask of you," said Jean. "After all, I'm the one who forgot it."
"I know, but driving to Phoenix right now would be crazy--you'd be gone half the night." Clearly Jean was upset.
"Is this worth any Brownie points?" I asked, finally bringing a smile to her face. Our standing joke is that for good deeds Jean awards only fractions of a Brownie point, but for misdeeds she rescinds them in multiples of 10.
"I can't believe you'd do this for me!" she said, promising whole integer reward points. I swapped the unopened beer for ice water and steered back to Flagstaff's Pulliam Airport.
My cell phone rang just before I started the airplane engine. "Doug will do it!" said Jean. While I flew she'd guide Doug to the computer's location, explain how to unlock it from its docking station, and direct our friend to Falcon Field.
Not even the recorded weather had changed in the short time since we had landed, so moments later I took off. Fortunately it was cooler now, and smoother aloft. I set our rejuvenated autopilot on the familiar course to Phoenix and finally began to relax. This wasn't such tough duty after all--surfing silky skies, I soon found myself revitalized. Why don't the Falcon Field controllers question my speedy return? I wondered upon radioing the tower. If only they appreciated my vital mission....
I was straddling a ladder at the self-service pump when Doug arrived with the errant computer. "Is this what you're looking for?" he quipped. "Jean said to tell you that she loves you very much." We joked about Brownie points. "You'd better get going," said my friend, eyeing the sinking sun.
The Verde River silvered beneath me in sunset as I again leveled in flight. Near Camp Verde's old Indian Wars fort the ground faded into obscurity. Queues of headlights materialized on Interstate 17 under a still-luminescent sky.
All radio chatter evaporated with the daylight, so I tuned my XM radio to old-time country music--maudlin melodies from fiddles and steel guitars somehow seem suited to solo travel in darkness. Serenaded by Patsy Cline and Ray Price, I relived past nighttime sojourns by Flying Carpet.
When Sedona emerged from amid ghostly palisades of amethyst rock, I tuned Flagstaff's recorded weather. Welcoming me home was the distinctive basso voice of a local controller, familiar to anyone who flies here. Ahead the fading silhouette of Humphreys Peak divided city lights from a starry sky. I touched down in darkness under a still-vibrant sunset.
As I secured the airplane, a stranded pilot emerged from the blackness. "I'm ferrying a Great Lakes biplane from San Diego to Boulder," he explained. "Everything is closed, and the gate is locked."
I chauffeured him through an electric gate to the commercial terminal, where he phoned for a room. Fibbing that it was on my way, I dropped the pilot at his hotel. After all, he too was tired, and unlike me stranded far from his destination.
At home that night a feast awaited me: pork tenderloin, strawberry rhubarb pie--and my long-anticipated frosty beer. Whatever tomorrow might bring, this dinner alone was worth beaucoup Brownie points. "How was the flight?" asked Jean as she fingered her precious computer.
"Awful," I wanted to say, but "Wonderful!" came out.
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, Job Hunting for Pilots, and You Can Fly! Visit his Web site.
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