Chasing Sunsets

The Pilot

Nothing pissed me off more than late passengers. Today especially. I was willing to bet my left testicle that they wouldn't even apologize once they finally did arrive. I gave a snort and resisted the infuriating urge to glance down at my watch again.

Instead, I tried to enjoy the breeze drifting in from the sea. A welcome reprieve from the harsh, midday South Florida sun. I could almost feel the tarmac melting the rubber from my shoes. I wasn't going to complain about the heat, though. After all, I could be flying back to icy Jersey (where the passengers are colder than the weather)—the usual route for a charter pilot. Perish the thought.

Escaping the oppressive heat, I stepped into the main cabin and pulled the airstairs up to close the door. The air-conditioning in the cabin was at the perfect temperature. I did a second check for fingerprints on the varnished wood and made sure Dan, the co-pilot, had arranged the cheese tray just right and set the Evian bottles in the drink holders with the labels facing out.

"Hey, Chris," said Dan from the cockpit, twisting around in his seat to face me, "should we have some more fuel put on? It's been over an hour."

"Some of these people will be late to their funerals," I muttered. Air conditioning cost power and power costed jet fuel. Of course, rich charter guests didn't care about details like that, and they especially didn't care to keep their pilots waiting around like goddamn servants. "Let's add a few more hundred pounds." I stepped back out into the sweltering sun while Dan called in for more fuel.

Furious, I reached into my pocket for my phone and pulled up Ben's number as I headed for the terminal.

His raspy voice answered after two rings. "You lazy bastard, you better not be calling to flake." His words were barely discernible in the wind noise. The loud King Air taxiing by didn't help either.

I poked a finger in my other ear and said, "Nah, man, just letting you know my passengers are late."

"Does that mean you're gonna be late for dinner, honey?"

"Probably. My passengers are way too important to worry about my dinner plans." Hell, maybe these assholes never learned how to tell time.

"Well, shit, guess I'll throw the hogfish I speared this morning into the freezer."

"Or you could lure some unsuspecting hot tourist onto your catamaran for 'cocktail' hour."

Ben laughed. "I'll hang a sock on the flag pole so you'll know to wait for the boat to stop rocking."

"Knowing you, I won't be waiting long."

"Hate the game, not the player, bro."

"Yeah, yeah. So do I use the coconut telegraph to find you tonight?"

"Yup, call me up on VHF 16, I'll dinghy in to get you."

"I'll try to get some pics of your boat on my approach." Even from two-thousand feet on the arrival, his boat would be easy enough to spot. "I'll text you with an ETA when we depart."

"Later."

The doors to the private aviation facility slid open to a cool blast of air from the reception area. I stowed my phone in my pocket and lowered myself into a chair to await my inconsiderate passengers.

Ben was one of those lucky bastards who could work anywhere as long as he had a satellite signal. I, on the other hand, had jet fuel in my blood. Flying was like air to me. I loved everything about it, the more antiquated the onboard flight guidance computers the better. Hell, give me steam-gauges instead of fancy whizz-bang glass cockpits and I'd fly all day long.