Kauai on the Mississippi

A couple of days ago, I was taking an evening walk along the levy of the Mississippi River. It had been a hot day, even for Louisiana in the summer, so I’d waited until the sun had almost set to begin. I was listening to music on a set of earbuds, lost in the rhythm of my pace, when a cool rain surprised me.

Usually, when rain begins in south Louisiana in July, the rumble of thunder precedes its arrival. I turned the music down, and looked about. I still heard no thunder, and the cloud didn’t look like the towering cumulus one associates with lightning. It looked, actually, like the sort of cloud that brings a benign tropical shower. The rain felt gentle, cool, embracing. It felt like somewhere else.

In May, Rhonda, Dylan and I went to Kauai. (Thank goodness for all of those frequent flyer miles I've racked up "going to work.") It was our last chance to take a vacation independent of school year considerations, since Dylan starts kindergarten this year. Rhonda and I had a great time watching Dylan soak in the experience; he loved the beaches, the trail walks, and playing with local kids in the playgrounds.

One day, Rhonda had gone to buy a gift for her sister, and Dylan and I were feeding the fish at Lydgate State Park. (It’s the only place left on Kauai where feeding the fish is not discouraged.) We decided to walk up to the snack bar for lunch, and it suddenly darkened. A gentle rain began to fall as we walked, and Dylan asked me to carry him. The rain was cool, but not cold. It felt like little kisses against our bodies. Dylan giggled, then wrapped his arms around my neck and hugged me, nearly cutting my breath off. I choked a little, then laughed. “Sorry, Daddy,” Dylan said. “Punkin’, you’re getting strong,” I said. “I know,” he replied. He hugged me again, more gently, and I hugged him back.

I walked along the levy, with the Mississippi River to my left. My little boy, physically, was over two thousand miles away. But when I shut my eyes, with the gentle rain touching my skin, I could feel him hug my neck, and I could hear him giggle.

When I opened my eyes, he wasn’t there. I could still feel him, though.

First Solo

I think about being in my teens and twenties, and listening to older people. Now, I’ve usually been a good listener, but often, my mind’s eye would roll a bit as I once again heard a friend or acquaintance talk about the passing of time.

“Enjoy this time, it’ll be gone before you know it.”

“I can’t believe I’m fifty. Sometimes I still feel like I should be in college.”

“I’m sixty years old, but it seems just yesterday I was your age.”

I’d listen, attentively, but it all seemed, well, less than profound, and maybe, even a bit trite. Everyone gets older, right? What’s so profound about that?

But now that I’m closing on my forty-ninth birthday, those statements don’t seem so trite at all.

The other day, while going through boxes in the garage, I happened upon my solo certificate from Army flight school. It isn’t an official military document; rather, the civilian contractor who provided the Army’s primary flight training handed it out. It’s kind of funny: It features an illustration of a daddy eagle dropping a panic-stricken younger eagle out of the nest. On the bottom, it’s signed by one Charles White, the daddy eagle who kicked me out of one particular nest.

***

May 7, 1975, Fort Rucker, Alabama. I was an eighteen year-old Warrant Officer Candidate, a helicopter pilot in training. The Army contracted its primary helicopter flight training to a civilian company, and my instructor, Mr. White, was a retired Army pilot. He was a great guy, patient, very capable as an instructor, and seemingly, a natural pilot.

I wasn’t a weak student, but neither was I a hot shot. In fact, I was strikingly average. My training period that day had started out badly: I’d botched a practice autorotation (sort of the helicopter equivalent of an engine-out glide to the ground) right off.

I completed two more autorotations, with Mr. White ready to pounce on the controls if needed. There was no need. They were much better than the first, and I felt a renewed sense of confidence. “Okay, let’s see a normal approach,” said my veteran instructor. I took off, and entered the traffic pattern again. When I finished the approach, he said, “Hey, that wasn’t bad. You’ve really come along on that maneuver over the last couple of days. Let’s see a hovering autorotation.”

Hovering autorotations, which simulate an engine failure at a hover, had been my strongest maneuver. Even on my bad days, I could do them well. “Good job,” said Mr. White. “Hover over to the ramp close to the ops building.” “What’s up?” I thought to myself. I set the helicopter down on the ramp, and then looked to Mr. White for an explanation. Instead of offering one, he got out of the aircraft. I assumed he must have needed to use the restroom. He secured his seat belt and shoulder harness, and before taking off his flight helmet, keyed the mike and said, “Okay: make three traffic patterns, then hover back here to pick me up. If you have any trouble, I’ll be in the control tower monitoring the radio.”

I watched him walk away. WHAT?! Surely he couldn’t be serious! Solo the helicopter, NOW? I keyed the mike, intending only to talk to myself on the intercom, and blurted, “Oh sh*t! I’M NOT READY!”

“Say I.D.,” transmitted the control tower operator, sternly. Oh, geez, I’d squeezed the mike button too hard and transmitted over the tower frequency! (It wasn't approved procedure to say "sh*t on the radio.)

So, without mentioning my aircraft I.D., I simply transmitted, “disregard.” The tower came back with a curt, “roger.” Whew.

One crisis averted, I felt overwhelmed with all of the items to remember just to come to a hover, never mind flying three traffic patterns. I heard my dad’s voice in my head: “Don’t sit there and think about it, just do it.” I increased the RPM to flying speed, did a quick pre-takeoff check, called the tower for clearance, and came to a hover.

At first, I wobbled around a bit, but quickly steadied out. “I might just survive this after all,” I thought to myself. I hovered out to the takeoff lane--sort of a mini runway--lowered the nose, and took off. I wobbled about once more during climb out, but steadied out again; I turned on crosswind, and felt myself grinning. I was doing it! I was flying a helicopter, by myself! I turned on the downwind leg, and stopped my climb at 1000 feet. Geez, this was going so smoothly. Then I looked at where Mr. White had been sitting. At an empty seat. At empty space. At sky where my instructor should have been.

“If I screw up, there’s no one here to save me.” I felt that sentiment more than thought it. I took a couple of deep breaths, then keyed the radio mike to transmit. “Allen Tower, Four-eight Foxtrot reporting downwind abeam.” There. I least I managed to get that radio call off without sounding like Mickey Mouse. “Four-eight Foxtrot, number three for landing, report turning final,” replied the tower.

I looked back at Mr. White’s empty seat. I still felt a stab of fear, but it seemed more contained. Actually, I noted, I was doing a pretty good job of holding my airspeed and altitude. Hey, maybe I was ready to solo after all! The tower operator interrupted me as I admired my work: “Four-eight Foxtrot, it’s time to turn base leg! You’re flying a helicopter, not a B-52!” Oh sheesh, sure enough, I’d gone way beyond where I should have turned on my base leg. “Four-eight Foxtrot, roger,” I replied, trying not to sound overly sheepish. Then another voice came over the radio. It was Mr. White, chuckling as he offered, “For a minute there, I was afraid you were flying to Florida.” I turned base leg, then reported turning final. It was time to land.

Suddenly, I forgot how to fly. The nose pitched up, then down, as if the helicopter were flying itself. I was getting into what the instructors refered to as "P.I.O.": pilot-induced oscillation. Over the radio, Mr. White’s calm voice again: “Just fly it like you always fly it.” As if by magic, I found that I was again flying the helicopter, instead of the helicopter flying me. I terminated the approach to a hover, then called the tower for takeoff clearance. In the next two traffic patterns, I made a triumphant emotional transition, from muted terror to, well, severe anxiety. On my last approach, Mr. White transmitted, “Okay, Four-eight Foxtrot, hover over here and pick me up.”

Mr. White climbed in, donned his flight helmet, and stuck out his hand in congratulations. “Not bad, other than that first traffic pattern. Mind if I fly us home?” (The “home field” was about fifteen miles from our stage field.) Not only did I not mind, I was relieved. Although exhilarated, I felt utterly spent.

That was thirty years ago today. Wow. And yes, it does seem, at times, like it all happened a few years ago, not three decades ago. And yes, that eighteen year-old is still there: he often sees me in the mirror and says, “Sheesh, man, what happened to you?”

I have 10,000 hours of flight time now, but I doubt I’ll ever forget the way I felt on that day, the day I survived my first solo.

"The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you’ve been." Madeleine L'Engle

Bad Trip in Houston

It was 1982. I noticed her when I boarded the airplane in Los Angeles. She was sitting near the front of the coach cabin. “Hm,” I thought. I moved toward the back of the cabin, holding the image of her face in my mind. I was tired, and fell asleep as the Boeing taxied out. Upon waking an hour into the flight, I watched for her, thinking she would surely leave her seat at least once on the flight to Houston. However, she never revealed herself until we landed and taxied into the gate, when I caught the merest glimpse of her as she exited. “Yeah, right,” I thought to myself. “Like you’d make a point of introducing yourself to her.”

And yeah, at the age of twenty-six, I probably wouldn’t have broken that ice, even given the opportunity. I’d always had a shy streak around women I didn’t know, and the fatigue I felt just made things all the worse.

I’ve usually brought along only carry-ons during my airline travels, but I'd checked a duffle bag on that flight. I sleepily walked to the baggage claim area, still seeing the image of the woman’s face in my mind.

Standing in baggage claim, I looked through the crowd to my left. There she was! My pulse quickened, and I suddenly felt very much awake. “Go talk to her,” I thought to myself. “She’ll just think I’m another dork, trying to pick her up,” the defeatist part of me answered. “Aw c’mon,” I thought to myself, “she might actually be glad to meet you. Are you really going to let this moment go by without ever knowing?”

I looked her way again. She was about thirty feet away, looking at the baggage conveyer, waiting. She wore glasses, had medium-brown hair, wore a simple green dress, and looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She didn’t appear to wear a wedding ring. I had a feeling, as I looked at her, that I’d met her before, although I knew I hadn’t. “Of course,” I said to myself, “she’s your Fantasy Librarian.” Ah yes, my fantasy librarian: I’d long felt drawn to women who had that plain-at-first-glance-until-the-glasses-come-off look. And, there was something else, something I could use in the argument with Mr. Defeatist.

“She’s tall,” I thought to myself. Actually, she was quite tall. “Hey,” I admonished Mr. Defeatist, “she might be delighted to meet a taller guy.” That did it. It was time to gather my resolve and quit being such a chicken. I glanced her way again. By this time, more people had collected their baggage and moved away, so I had a mostly clear view of her.

Whoa! Did I see what I thought I saw? Did she really meet my eyes and smile at me? Wow! “Maybe she was looking at someone else,” Mr. Defeatist chimed in. “Shut the hell up,” I told Mr. Defeatist. I looked at her again. She was looking for her baggage, not at me. “See, ya dork,” came that grating inner voice again, “she wasn’t looking at you. It was wishful thinking, hombre.” I willed myself to look her way again. She was talking to an elderly lady. Her facial expressions, and body language, prompted the thought, “She’s not only good-looking, she’s kind.”

Sheesh, I was melting in place. Was she too good to be true?

I looked at the conveyer again, although by this time I’d nearly forgotten what my bag looked like. Once again, I glanced her way. Then she looked my way, met my eyes, and smiled. Willing myself not to enter the geek mode, I smiled back then forced myself to wave. She waved back. SHE WAVED BACK!!

I thought, “Dammit Hal, quit acting like you’re fifteen years old and GO TALK TO HER!”

Meanwhile, more people had moved between my position and where she stood. I would have to zig and zag a bit to get to her position. “It’s now or never,” I told myself. I did an abrupt 180 degree turn on my heel, and adopting my best yes I’m suave, debonair, and you’ll be so glad to meet me stride, I began my mission.

I didn’t see the pile of baggage until it was too late. I was so intent on casting off my chicken ways that I was hardly aware of anything but her. Sadly, I hadn’t made more than three or four masterful yes I’m suave, debonair, and you’ll be so glad to meet me strides before I found myself falling, with my legs mired from ankles to knees in a sea of baggage. Everything went into slow motion. (You knew I would tell you that, didn’t you?) Then, I saw the paper cup of coffee on the floor. My navel was on a direct course to that cup of coffee. “This is not happening,” I thought. It was happening.

As I smacked onto the floor, facedown, I learned something. That “something” was that navels are quite sensitive to abrupt changes in temperature. I learned this when my navel crushed the cup of coffee. I jumped back off the floor. Several feet off the floor, or so it seemed. “YEEEEEEOWWWWW!” I bellowed. People moved away from me, looking frightened. As I then gathered myself, a few people timidly approached me, asking "Are you okay?" Holding my shirt away from my abdomen, I assured them that yes, I was okay, other than a scalded navel.

I could feel myself blushing, wondering if blushing could be fatal, but I hadn’t forgotten my librarian. I looked to where she had stood. Gone! Then I spotted my bag. I scampered to pick it up, and rushed away from the baggage claim area, ready to resume my mission. I scurried toward the exits, looking for her. Then, I spotted her as she walked out of a restroom. She looked at me, looked at my coffee-stained tan shirt, and began laughing. Laughing hard. Laughing very hard. I began to walk toward her, but she held her hand up in a way that signaled, unmistakably, “Don’t even.” I stood in place, with only my scalded navel for company, and watched her leave the building.

Oh well. Maybe she wasn’t so kind after all.

Adios, Thibodeaux

A name has been changed to protect the guilty.

In 1979, soon after leaving the Army, I moved to the Beaumont, Texas area. I bought a little house at the end of a gravel street in a quiet neighborhood. Soon after I moved in, a fellow from across the street came over. “Howdy, neighbor,” he nearly shouted, “I’m Robert Thibodeaux, and it’s sure nice to meet you.” I shook hands with my neighbor, and he proceeded to tell me about his life.

Robert described himself as a “dyed-in-the-wool coonass.” (“Coonass” is a nickname that the Cajuns of south Louisiana often use to identify themselves. Many don't consider it a slur.) He’d grown up in south Louisiana, married his high school sweetheart, and fathered three children. Southeast Texas was as far from his birthplace as he’d ever been. Robert told me of his life, a life in which hunting, fishing, and family were the focus.

An hour later, with a silly little smile that never went away, Robert continued to tell me about his life.

Two hours later, Robert showed no signs that he might slow down.

Two hours and ten minutes later, I told Robert that I needed to go into town. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the reason I needed to go into town was to get away from him. I shook his hand once more, and left hurriedly, with a dull, tenacious headache in the making.

In the ensuing months, Robert never knocked on my door, but if he spotted me outside the house, I could usually count on at hearing at least an hour of stories about his life. He was a nice guy and a good man, but not the most dynamic fellow in the world. At twenty-three, I tended to socialize with people based on their entertainment value, and whether they were “good” didn’t carry nearly as much weight as whether they could make me laugh. I didn’t relate comfortably to people without a shot or two of Cuervo to thaw my shyness, and Robert didn’t drink. When I’d offer him a beer, he politely declined, saying that he had nothing against a beer or two now and then, but that his wife strongly disapproved.

A year and a half passed. I was out mowing the front lawn, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Robert start from his house, heading in my direction. I had to suppress an urge to cringe. If Robert stayed true to form, I’d be lucky to resume mowing before dark. As he drew close, he called out “Howdy neighbor,” over the din of the lawnmower. I managed to avoid rolling my eyes—I never wanted to hurt Robert’s feelings, after all—then shut down the lawnmower and said, “Hello, Robert.”

He looked concerned. Very concerned. “Say, my wife said she saw people looking at your house the other day. You selling?” “No,” I answered, “I’m renting the place out. I’m moving to Austin.” Robert looked stricken. I suspect at that moment he feared for my ruin: I’d move to Austin, listen to all of that hippy music, get heavily involved with drugs, and walk around naked in front of small children on the beaches of Lake Travis. He looked as if his favorite cousin was moving away, not some guy from California who'd made a hobby of avoiding him. For once, he didn’t seem in the mood to talk. He stuck out his hand, and said, “I’m going to miss you, Neighbor.” I chuckled. “Not so fast, Robert. I’ll be here for another month.” “Well, just the same, you take care living in that big city.” Poor Robert. In his eyes, I was leaving southeast Texas and moving to the City of Sodom.

A month later, Robert came over when he saw the U-Haul truck in my driveway. “Howdy Neighbor. I guess you weren’t joking about moving away, huh?” He asked me if I needed help. It occurred to me that I should really make one last sincere effort to be neighborly. “Hey,” I said, “I made some honest-to-goodness fresh-squeezed lemonade. You want some?” We sat on chairs on the front porch, where his wife could call for him if she wanted, and chatted for a half hour, awfully brief for Robert. He stood. “Are you sure you don’t need any help?” “Nah. Thanks a lot for asking, Robert, but a couple of friends are coming over to help me. You don’t want to be around them. They’re real heathens, and you’ll get in trouble with your wife for sure.” He laughed. I laughed. We shook hands, and he bid me farewell.

My, ahem, friends never showed up.

Shortly after midnight, I’d loaded the contents my bachelor household into the U-Haul, save for one item: the sofa. I decided to take a break, and walked out the front door, where I promptly slipped off the edge of the sidewalk leading from the porch, twisting my ankle.

I fell to the grass. I sat up. My ankle hurt like hell. A sprained ankle surely didn’t fit into the game plan—the renters were hoping to begin moving in the next day (actually later that day, since it was after midnight), and I really didn’t want to pay for another day’s rental on the U-Haul. I stood up. I could walk, but if loading that sofa had looked like a daunting task before, now it seemed nearly impossible. I hobbled back inside and stared at my adversary, the couch.

I think I jumped a foot off of the floor when I heard “Howdy, neighbor” behind me. There stood Robert at my open front door. “Hey Robert, it’s one in the morning. What are you doing up?” He answered, “I got up to use the bathroom, and saw that your lights were still on. Looks like your friends didn’t show up, huh?” “They’re probably still at the bar,” I answered. He chuckled. “The life of the single man, huh? That all that’s left?” he asked, pointing at the sofa. “That’s it,” I replied. Robert helped me move the sofa into the U-Haul. It was big and heavy, and loading it into the truck proved to be quite a task, even with Robert’s help.

We finished, and he noticed the cooler sitting in the carport. “Got any beer in there?” he inquired. Now, that surprised me. “Why Robert, wouldn’t that get you in trouble with your better half?” I asked. “Aw heck, it’s a special occasion, Neighbor. Besides, she won’t be mad at me that long.” I fished two beers out of the cooler. We sat on plastic chairs on my front lawn, drinking beer and talking in the warm late summer night. “How ‘bout another?” he asked. I replied, “You sure? I don’t want to be accused of corrupting you.” We both laughed. I got two more out of the cooler. After the second beer, Robert started with his hunting, fishing, and family stories. I realized, after a few minutes, that it was if I’d never heard his stories before. Something was so, well, different about his stories, sitting there on my front lawn in the night. Was it the way he was telling them, or the way I was hearing them?

I laughed my ass off. Robert was incredibly funny. How had I missed the richness of his stories, and the fact that he had the delivery and timing of a born comedian? Was it a Twilight Zone sort of thing?

He stood up from his chair. “Well, better get a little more sleep before it’s time to go to work,” he said. I stood as well. We shook hands, and Robert said, “Be careful in that big city, Hal. Watch who you trust.” It was the first time, as far as I remembered, that he called me by my name. “Thanks a whole lot for the help,” I said, “you’ve saved my life.” “Nah, just your ankle,” he chuckled. He again stuck out his hand. “Goodbye, Neighbor.” “Goodbye, Robert.”

He turned back toward his house. Suddenly, I felt the urge to call out, “Hey, you sure you don’t want another beer?” I envisioned more stories on the front lawn, sitting on plastic chairs in the warm late summer night. Talking. Laughing. Being neighbors. But I didn’t call after him. I watched as he walked back to his home, and his family.

I slept for two hours on the living room floor, and woke up well before dawn. I took a quick shower, dressed, and looked about the house one last time. I drove the U-Haul slowly down the street. I stopped the truck abeam Robert’s house.

“Adios, Thibodeaux,” I said aloud, softly.

I never saw Robert again.