Night Moves (5 page)

Through headphones came Tomlinson’s voice: “I just made a promise so damn ridiculous, God must have plans for me in Hell.
Hey . . .
my left shoe is soaked! Please tell me we’re sinking . . .” Then he began to laugh, a sound that teetered between hysteria and relief.

I looked at my feet, then my hands—they were shaking—and snapped my safety harness free. “Everyone okay?” I said and looked around. “You okay, Tomlinson? Dan—you hurt?” It seemed important to show concern for others if they were to believe I had remained cool throughout it all. But I had an eerie floating sensation in my head, as if dreaming, when I asked, “What in the hell just happened?”

Futch said, “I need a big shot of vodka. I’d drink one, too, if I wasn’t flying.” He pulled off his headphones and looked at me. “It makes no sense! Losing pitch control—doesn’t make a goddamn bit of sense! A week ago, we did the hundred-hour inspection. Went through the entire tail cluster. And triple-checked the elevator bell crank!”

I replied, “Bell crank,” as if I remembered the mechanical significance, although I didn’t.

“Exactly! I’m crazy anal when it comes to bell cranks. Maybe a cable broke, but . . . but it
couldn’t
have broken. Not in that piddly little bit of turbulence!”

Tomlinson was still laughing, telling himself, “Never get off the damn boat. Goddamn right! Why can’t I remember one simple little rule?” while Futch continued, “Always wondered if I could land with just the throttle and a trim wheel. Now we know. But, my god, I don’t want to ever have to prove it again.” He tilted his head back and took another long breath. “Geezzz-us, that was close!”

I said, “Incredible job,” and meant it. My door was still open. I poked my head out and looked down. The plane’s floats were aground in six inches of water, sawgrass almost as high as our wings as far as the eye could see.

Futch was still talking, dealing with the adrenaline crunch in his own way. “I’ll get out and take a look. But I need to sit here a minute, okay?” Then he repeated what he’d said about the recent hundred-hour inspection, adding that he had landed on wet grass lots of times because the FAA required his plane be hoisted off the ground to check the pontoons.

“There’s an industrial crane in Arcadia, but it’s miles from the water. So I always leave Boca Grande before sunrise and get there while the dew’s still heavy. See what I’m getting at?”

No, but I guessed it had something to do with me trying to direct him toward the sinkhole.

It did.

“When we went into that dive, boys, I thought we’d bought the f-ing farm. First thing pops into my mind was,
Keep adding throttle ’till we stabilize, and stay the hell away from water.
If I’d tried to land us in water at a hundred knots, the suction would’ve grabbed the floats and sent us ass-over-end. Which is why I didn’t make for that little pond. Right now, we’d either be upside down and sinking or we’d’ve of skipped into the trees at the other side. Probably on fire, too . . . the tank’s still almost full.”

My sense of reality was slowly rebooting, details were assuming form as, behind me, Tomlinson also began to recover. “From this moment on,” he said, “every second of every day is icing. Seriously. It’s like gambling with free money. Balls to the wall . . . savor every beautiful moment. My new motto is
Live like there’s a lighted fuse in your butt.
Because you never know when the big boom’s gonna come.” Then he tapped the back of my seat, demanding, “Let me out, let me out, I need some breathing room!” so I did. But I didn’t take my eyes off Dan Futch.

There was a reason. He had been palming the VHF microphone since the plane had stopped but had yet to make a call. Now he appeared undecided. Or . . . maybe there was something else on his mind. So I tried to help him along, saying, “You think traffic control will hear us from ground level? We’ll need some help getting out of here.”

While we were in the air, Futch had been too busy at the controls to shout a Mayday, but now he seemed to be postponing the inevitable call to air traffic control, and probably to the FAA. I don’t stay current on flight protocol, but we’d damn near died. The feds would want to know every detail.

Yes, buying time . . . that’s exactly what the man was doing. No doubt about it when he abruptly secured the microphone, then unclipped his harness. “Let’s find out what happened first,” he said. “You can sit here while I take a look . . . or get out and stretch your legs if you want. If there’s no serious damage, it won’t take long.” Then, nodding at a gauze bandage on my left forearm—a recent injury—he added, “You definitely don’t want to get swamp water on a cut.”

“I’ll risk it if you don’t mind,” I replied, then attempted a mild joke. “Plane crashes make me restless. Plus, I’ve got to bilge ship.” Which was island talk for urinating.

Futch pulled on a blue ball cap and fixed me with a look that communicated a lot more than what he said next. “Fact is, Doc, we didn’t crash. And there’s no law against landing hot—long as you can take off again.”

He was already out of the plane, so I swung out, too. “That wasn’t criticism, old buddy. Anybody else at the stick, I’d be dead. I owe you.”

We were facing each other, Dan standing on the port pontoon, me on the starboard pontoon, looking through the empty cockpit. Behind me, I heard Tomlinson drop down into the sawgrass, his big feet kicking water as he hurried away. Dan was studying my reaction when he replied, “Owe me? I may have to take you up on that, Doc. Don’t say it unless you mean it.”

I shrugged and said, “Sure,” but was thinking,
What the hell does that mean?

—

“I’
VE
GOT
TWO
TRIPS
to Key West this weekend. Plus, clients booked through the rest of the month—including a three-dayer to Walker’s Key. Then a big polo tournament in Palm Beach with old money clients. Tips alone will pay for my fuel and expenses.”

Dan was explaining his cryptic request while he worked at the tail section, unscrewing the inspection plate. He had already done a walk-around and pronounced the plane undamaged, but for a dent in the starboard float.

When the inspection plate was free, he handed it to me, plus screws, and looked me in the eye. “Tarpon season starts in six weeks. August through April, I make my living in the air . . . or I don’t make it at all. Kathy wants to remodel the kitchen this fall. And we’re going to surprise our daughter with a big wedding reception—Useppa Island isn’t cheap, you know. That’s what I meant about calling in a favor.”

I felt dense because I hadn’t figured it out sooner. “If you file an incident report with the FAA, how much air time would you lose? Not to mention all the paperwork, I know. But they wouldn’t ground you . . . would they?”

“Grounded? Hell, they’d confiscate my plane. Probably wouldn’t see it again until late winter. That’s a big chunk of money I’d lose.” Futch patted the fuselage. “Which would make sense if I didn’t think my aircraft was safe. But I’m a safety freak, you know that. And the feds can’t tell me anything I can’t find out for myself. Fact is, we didn’t crash-land. We just landed hot—which doesn’t constitute an incident report, far as I’m concerned.”

He motioned to the tool kit that was open on the elevator flap. “Hand me that ratchet, would you? I need a three-eighths, and the seven-sixteenths.” Locking one of the ratchet heads into place, he continued, “You mind walking a big circle around the area? There’s a roll of mechanic’s towels under the seat. Use ’em to mark any tree stumps or rocks. Anything that would knock off one of our floats.” Then referring to the bandage on my arm, he warned again, “But don’t get that damn cut wet, you could be sick for weeks.”

I was less concerned with germs than with what Futch was considering. He was going to attempt a takeoff in dense sawgrass? I wasn’t going to question his judgment, but the man knew what I was thinking.

“Don’t worry, I’ve done it before. Never with two passengers—weight could be a problem. Did you check your cell phone? Mine’s got no reception.”

I took a look and said, “Maybe if we were closer to the road.”

The pilot shrugged. “Once you scout the area, I’ll know more. Check our landing track first. We made it in. Get this fixed, we should be able to fly her out. And Doc?”

I had pivoted to leave, but stopped.

“Probably no need to remind you, but tell Quirko to watch his step.”

Quirko was Futch’s nickname for Tomlinson. I smiled and said, “Don’t worry. If you say there’s no need to tell the FAA, that’s good enough.”

“That’s not what I meant. A month ago, I flew a couple of state biologists into a spot near here. Herpetologists doing a census on exotic snakes. They showed me a video they had, them opening up a twenty-two-foot-long boa constrictor. The thing had choked to death eating a deer. Caught it just a few miles from here.”

“I saw a photo in the paper,” I said. “Tomlinson probably did, too, but I’ll pass it along.”

Futch wasn’t done. “I’m serious, I wouldn’t want to do much walking out here. In an afternoon, those guys counted eighteen boas and six or seven pythons. And I’ve spotted two snakes so big I circled around and watched them from the air. Those bastards breed like rabbits—same as the iguanas on Boca Grande. So be careful if you reach to pick up a limb . . . or have to squat for some reason.”

“Got it,” I said. “No latrine stops, and keep track of my fingers. Holler if you need me.” I could hear Tomlinson’s feet splashing aft of the plane, so I grabbed two rolls of towels from the cockpit, then slogged off in his direction.

Truth was, some time in the Everglades was just what I needed to decompress. I had followed news accounts that claimed the population of exotic snakes—escapees from zoos and pet store mistakes—wasn’t just growing, it was exploding. The media, however, have a long history of sensationalizing stories about Florida, usually exaggerating the bad, seldom the good. From hurricane damage to oil spills to red tides, I could not think of one exception. Now the possibility of seeing a boa or python gave me a reason to stop obsessing about almost dying and think about something else.

I wasn’t the only one fixated on our near demise. Tomlinson heard me bulldozing through the sawgrass toward him and hurried to wipe his eyes before turning. He’d had a breakdown, I realized, but I pretended not to notice. “Depending on how much weight the plane can handle, Dan thinks we can fly out of here.”

“Fly!”
he replied, as if the prospect horrified him.

“Yeah . . . if he can fix whatever happened to the tail section. What? You’d rather hike three or four miles to the road through this stuff?” Sawgrass isn’t a grass, it’s an abrasive sedge, each three-sided blade defended by serrated edges. It cuts clothing, shoe leather, and skin.

Tomlinson didn’t want to be convinced. “Walking’s good for you, man. I love to walk. It’s, like, one of the healthiest things on Earth. Drink lots of water and walk every day. In the marina office, there’s a
Reader’s Digest
story if you don’t believe me.”

I was nodding. “I know, I know, your body’s such a temple. But I forget sometimes. Maybe it’s all that dope you smoke, plus the nightly pint of rum. And how many beers? Think of it this way—”

“Plus, the wildlife,” Tomlinson interrupted. “Hear all those birds and frogs? The Glades . . . it’s alive, man. I see this as an opportunity . . . get back to nature. You know: simplify, simplify. And, suddenly, I’m not exactly in love with airplanes—”

“Think of it this way,” I said again. “If we hike out, it’ll take all day. Then we’ve got to hitch a ride—and that northeast front is due late afternoon. Hitchhike in the rain? On the Tamiami Trail, where nobody in their right minds would pick us up even on a nice day? Fly, though, thirty minutes from now we’ll be back in Dinkin’s Bay, sipping a beer. An hour at the most.”

I took a step closer and gave his shoulder a friendly shake. “You fall off a horse, ol’ buddy—you know the rest. If Dan says it’s safe to fly, I think you should fly.”

Expression glum, Tomlinson looked at the ground. “I don’t know, man, I’ve . . . I don’t think I’ve got the balls to climb back in that thing,” which was as out of character as the clothes he wore: a khaki safari shirt with epaulets and creased slacks he’d bought at the Sanibel Goodwill store on Palm Ridge. The shirt was baggy, and the pants so short I could see his beanpole ankles sticking out of red Converse high-tops, size 13. Sockless, of course, and he’d used a girl’s barrette to clip his hippie hair atop his head—a warrior samurai meets Barbra Streisand.

I tossed him a roll of towels, saying, “Think about it,” then motioned toward the plane’s landing track. It was a curving swath of sawgrass, bent like harvested wheat that terminated at the seaplane’s tail, where Futch was still working. “Use a couple of towels to mark any snags or rocks that would knock the floats off. You walk this side, I’ll take the other. Then he wants us to spread out and do the same thing in a circle.” I thought about mentioning exotic snakes but decided Tomlinson’s nerves were already on overload. So I finished, “The guy’s a magic mechanic. It won’t take him long to figure things out. Okay?”

“Marion . . . ?” Tomlinson only uses my first name when he’s serious about something, so I made a show of paying attention. “Thing is,” he said, “getting back in that plane . . . I’m scared to death of dying, man. I’ve known it for a while and it’s time I stopped pretending. I’m a fraud, dude. My whole act about being an enlightened spirit . . . an ordained Zen Buddhist—which is true, officially speaking—but it’s total bullshit.”

It was a struggle not to smile at his line
I’m scared to death of dying
, but I managed by concentrating as I listened.

He continued, “I’m guessing the Buddha wouldn’t be impressed by a guy whose weasel springs a leak whenever the grim reaper takes a swing. I’m supposed to be one of his divine incarnates, for christ’s sake! Or pisses his pants when a plane the size of a go-cart falls out of the goddamn sky! I couldn’t take it again, Doc. This is the second time in ten days this has happened and I just can’t handle anymore.”