1: California Dreaming-2
975 Words
SITTING IN THE COCKPIT was exciting, but once the giant bird was in the air and the autopilot was engaged, it became one hell of a non-event. Conversations with the pilots validated his personal assessment that he wasn’t made to fly commercial planes.
‘Generally, an airline pilot is only flying the plane for twenty minutes, total. Ten on take-off and ten minutes on landing,’ the Captain informed him. ‘The rest of the time, the plane flies itself, unless, of course, there’s an emergency. That’s when I actually earn my pay.’
That, he surmised, would bore him to death.
An hour into the flight, Banjo told the First Officer what he flew for a living, before asking to join the passengers in the cabin.
‘I don’t blame you,’ said the First Officer with envy in his eyes.
Cindy was surprised to see him in the galley.
‘Bored already?’
He grinned. ‘You know me too well.’
She showed him to the last available seat in Business Class and was told to behave himself.
‘When have I ever been naughty?’ he half-mockingly asked.
‘Don’t start,’ she warned.
He made himself comfortable in his seat, and after the most decent in-flight meal he had ever had, he decided to sleep most of the way to Los Angeles. The good boy that he was, just about the only problem he caused was taking his shirt off–much to the delight of a perving middle-aged woman travelling with her teenage daughter. Mother and daughter had a giggle.
An hour later, unable to sleep in the oddly-shaped bed space, he pressed the button for service and requested a couple of pillows.
Cindy brought them to him and was shocked when she found him shirtless.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she said in a low voice.
‘Trying to sleep. Thanks.’
He grinned as he took the pillows from her. Then, he propped himself up and watched television until he fell asleep.
Cindy returned to cover him with a blanket and mouthed ‘Sorry’ to the woman seating on the aisle seat next to him.
‘Don’t be. The best thing that ever happened to me,’ she said.
Cindy laughed.
God, the man could get away with just about anything.
Sixteen hours after it left Changi, SQ12 landed at LAX. The day could not have been more perfect; glorious, in fact. The weather was just right at seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit with a low twenty-five per cent humidity. And, sunny! Just the way he liked it.
He confidently strode towards the Customs Officer, his passport in hand. He queued behind a group of giggly, excited Chinese tourists until he saw another booth open; quick as a flash, he made a beeline for it.
The female officer beamed. ‘Welcome to Los Angeles,’ she said before he even made it to the front of the counter.
He smiled back. Blue-green eyes danced mischievously.
The Customs Officer took her time, eyeing the photograph on the passport and checking him out. The tall, ruggedly handsome Aussie was in a form-fitting, short-sleeve white T-shirt and denim jeans.
Amused, he set his backpack down on his feet and put his hands in his pocket, waiting for the scrutiny to end.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘San Bernardino for a week, then Fort Irwin for the duration of my stay.’
‘Military?’
‘Yup, helo pilot.’
Her eyebrow went up slightly.
‘Helo?’
‘Helicopter. Black Hawk.’
The grin on his face disarmed her. Embarrassed, she looked down and stamped his passport.
‘Welcome,’ she said again. ‘Enjoy your stay.’
‘I plan to.’
He leant down to pick up his backpack and shouldered it on his left. The car rental kiosk had his pre-paid four-wheel drive vehicle ready for him. He tossed his backpack onto the passenger seat, fired up the engine of the Land Rover and headed east.
He was a week ahead of the scheduled eight-week highly classified military training exercises at Fort Irwin, the U.S. Army National Training Centre. He came early to tick something off his bucket list: he’d always wanted to climb the San Bernardino Mountains.
An experienced mountaineer always on the look-out for new challenges, Banjo contacted several California-based climbers who were more than happy to supply him with first-rate information. One of them was especially helpful; someone named Andy Cosgrove. They arranged to do the climb together, partly because Banjo needed gear for the ascent and the descent.
The traffic was light. He followed the route east on 210 towards San Bernardino and checked himself into a Best Western. After nearly twenty-four hours of flying from Townsville, Queensland to Sydney, then L.A. via Singapore, he had to sort out his jet lag.
Resisting the urge to sleep, he showered and changed into a sand coloured T-shirt, light blue shorts and shoes that allowed him to mimic barefoot-style running.
He exhausted himself with the run, dined alfresco in a Mexican restaurant then retired to sleep off his fatigue after a long hot shower.
He checked out at seven a.m. the next day and drove towards the San Bernardino Mountains, home to the tallest peak in Southern California, Mount San Gorgonio. In their e-mails, Andy had told him that the rocks in the San Bernardino Mountains were mostly granite which ranges in quality from excellent to somewhat grainy. There were three major climbing areas: Lake Arrowhead Pinnacles, Keller Peak, and the Holcomb Valley Pinnacles. He chose to take on Lake Arrowhead Pinnacles first.
He had been driving for hours. At the end of a paved road, a barely-visible concrete water tank loomed just ahead. This had to be it, he thought.
He stopped the Land Rover next to the landmark described by Andy as ‘a concrete water tank.’ A beat-up pale pink Pajero was parked nearby, but no-one was around.
He got out of his vehicle and stretched to loosen his muscles. He was flexing to one side when he heard footsteps. He straightened up, turned around and saw the most beautifully sculpted climber of his life.
Typically, mountaineers and rock climbers have an excellent physical form with elongated limbs, slim torso and overall toned musculature. And, she was the very epitome of a mountaineer.
The statuesque brunette flashed a smile.
‘Andy Cosgrove,’ she said as she offered a hand.
He dumbly clasped her hand in his. ‘You’re Andy?’
‘Short for Andrea.’
‘Nice,’ he said.
Very nice.
- Writer
