A Pilot and a Passenger: Between Maine and Boston

Our pilot, Oscar, spoke in a clear and confident voice. He uttered just one “um” as if he was remembering where he was. “…and we thank you for choosing Cape Air.” He lacked a Maine or even a Boston accent, seeming to hail from somewhere other then our origin or destination. Lecturing us on the emergency exits and protocol, Oscar made eye contact with his four passengers. His near olive skin and little facial hair stemmed from grandparents who left Greece or another Mediterranean country and sailed to the United States. Oscar was definitely young, 27 or 28. He wasn’t fresh out of flight school, because he was flying solo. My other flights between Augusta and Boston had a pilot and co-pilot.

Oscar taxied us to the end of the runway in the white Tacnam P2012. He donned some cheap shades he recently picked up, having forgot his expensive and preferred sunglasses at home. He scanned his surroundings, watching for other one or two propeller-driven planes. I watched his hair move when he whipped his head to the right for a moment. It was messy in the front, straight in the back. The propellers whined loudly in my ears, despite the earplugs. But I was up front, near Oscar, rather than by the rear door that seemed to not shut all the way. 

Oscar checked his Pulsar watch, matching it with the time on his instrument panel. He spoke into his mic: “November 4 5 Charlie Alpha to 2 7 Lima.” AUG responding affirmatively. Oscar feathered the propellers as we hurtled down the runway, eliminating as much drag as possible. We rose off the runway with plenty of room to spare. Oscar kept the Tacnam aimed southward. He has flown this route over a hundred times. To him, the landscape are simply landmarks: decommissioned Brunswick Naval Air Station runways, the Kennebec River, Portsmouth Shipyard, and the skyscrapers of Boston.

To the passengers, this new perspective deserved oogling and pictures. I felt an immense amount of gratitude to live in Maine. We passed over large woodlands, dotted by fields or small communities. Downtowns of red brick. The land sliced by asphalt roads and cars driven by people unaware of us watching. I felt like God for a moment, but without any power to change anything. Simply an eye in the sky. The further south we went, the communities grew bigger: Brunswick to Portland to Boston. Each city’s expanse like a gaping wound through the woods. By Boston, the woods are practically extinct. The roles reverse: the cities are dotted with trees.

Oscar sips from his blue Nalgene. His large biceps and triceps stretch the white fabric of his uniform. Oscar works out every day. He listens to hard rock during tricep extensions and Arnold presses. At home, in his lightly furnished apartment, he prefers Italian sonatas and modern jazz. At least one friend first thought he had entered an elevator rather than Oscar’s apartment.

I have left the snow and ice of Carrabassett Valley bound for the bare earth of Massachusetts. My eyes stare out at the passing world. Gratitude continues to flow. Gratitude for life and the opportunity to view things from above. I think briefly of the chances that one or both of the propellers shimmy off the shaft and slice through the aircraft. What are the odds they barely miss my knees?

Oscar sets the plane to autopilot, utilizing the Garmin GFC-700 capabilities. His sharp elbows relax against the arm rests. He checks the map and changes frequencies to hail Boston air traffic control. They request he adjust course, requiring Oscar take manual control. He banks the plane gently towards a heading of 165. Ten minutes pass. Boston asks Oscar to resume his original flight plan. He guides the plane to a new heading of 227. He prepares the craft for landing.

Outside and six thousand feet below, the suburbs of Boston are packed with three and a half times the population of Maine. That fact astounds me. I enjoy the quiet of the mountains, but I’m headed into a busy metropolis. Cities are fun to visit, but not for living in. Does Oscar feel the same? The plane turns now into a heading of 270, straight towards Boston Logan. We fly directly at and then parallel to a blue Southwest Boeing 747. At first, I envision disaster. I remind myself that Oscar has full control of the craft. And he brings us in for a fairly smooth landing. As the wheels touchdown, squealing against the sudden friction, I wonder if Oscar ever feels out of control.