Part 1: Daybreak
At some point, I had enough of passengers with too many opinions, too much money, not enough respect for turbulence. And even though their DNA was not naturally configured to supply feathers, I was still fed up with their basic lack of understanding of why gravity was not their friend.
As dawn breaks on another cool day, there is something comforting about being in a warm aircraft cockpit, listening to the drone of an idling engine that makes one reflective.
Well ... sort of.
Maybe it’s the way the surrounding trees are shrouded by mist, or how the first rays of light refract through the early morning condensation covering the aircraft’s wings. These elements fill the atmosphere with the unspoken promise of another anticipated day of flying.
Or maybe I just haven’t had my coffee yet.
Either way, I find myself asking, not for the first time—how on earth did this Jamaican-born Canadian find himself hanging out in the mountain wilderness of British Columbia and Alaska?
It's one of several questions I have yet to answer with any decent level of satisfaction.
I could spin a yarn about how I got here—a grand story of adventure, circumstance, or even misfortune. But the truth is, I’m not much for tall tales, and I’m even less inclined to talk about myself. Especially since those mist-covered trees, however scenic, could easily hide unwanted eyes and ears. Two hyper-aware nemeses I’ve been carefully avoiding for the past six months—at least (so far) in the figment of my imagination.
There was a time not too far in the past when I flew corporate jets, shuttling high-priced individuals to destinations I could never have afforded on my own dime. Before that, I earned my stripes as a flight instructor—demonstrating the intricacies of defying gravity to aviation neophytes in an attempt to have them grasp the skill of mastering the fine art of safely transiting and occupying a space normally reserved for those of the avian persuasion. The thing is, there is one unavoidable truism that (mostly) defines not only who a pilot is but also what they are (supposed) to do.
At all times, a pilot is required to respond to unexpected drama, in such a fashion that minimizes the impact on his or her person, so as to ensure uninterrupted oxygen flow to the lungs—all while endeavouring to remain diligent about the unavoidable, yet insidious presence of gravity.
This concept is often lost on budding aviators.
At some point, I decided I had enough of passengers with too many opinions, too much money, not enough respect for turbulence. And with students ... due their basic lack of understanding of why gravity was not their friend. Just because their DNA was not naturally configured to supply them with feathers was still no excuse.
So, I walked away.
From the lifestyle, the busy airports, the insufferable small talk at 40,000 feet. These days, I prefer the solitude of lower-altitude cargo runs and sleepy, isolated bush strips. Boxes don’t complain when the landing is rough. They don’t make nervous small talk, and most importantly, they don’t ask questions about why a pilot with my background is now flying in and out of places most people couldn’t even find on a map. To that end, I have remained deep in the interior of the Pacific and Cascades Mountain ranges ever since.
But if I’m being honest, the real reason for the drastic life change had more to do with one particular moment when I turned down a certain job that just felt ... off.
This post is the first of a three chapter, mini web series inspired by Microsoft Flight Simulator. It is a complete work of fiction augmented by aspects of my previous real-world experience as a Commercial Pilot. Subsequent chapters will be posted once per week. Additionally, this series may have the potential for expansion, along with a possible crossover with one of my current manuscripts in development - SkySilk.
This introductory series is just one element in a series of multifaceted storyboards which I am compiling for current and future manuscripts.
