comfortable. And amusing, so terribly amusing—even when you weren’t comfortable. In some ways I miss you, darling. But not enough, thank you
.
And yet why did the feeling—the instinct, perhaps—persist? The small boat out on the water was like a magnet, pulling her toward it, drawing her into its field, taking her where she knew she did not want to go.
Nonsense!
Demons in search of logic! She was being foolish—
foolish Joel, ice-cold Joel
—stop it, for God’s sake! Be
reasonable!
Then the shiver passed through her again. Novice sailors did not navigate around strange coastlines at night.
The magnet held her until her eyes grew heavy and troubled sleep came.
She woke up again, startled by the intense sunlight streaming through the glass doors, its warmth enveloping her. She looked out at the water. The boat was gone—and she wondered for a moment whether it had really been there.
Yes, it had. But it was gone.
3
The 747 lifted off the runway at Athens’ Helikon Airport, soaring to the left in its rapid ascent. Below in clear view, adjacent to the huge field, was the U.S. Naval Air Station, permitted by treaty although reduced in size and in the number of aircraft during the past several years. Nevertheless, far-reaching, jet-streamed American craft still roamed the Mediterranean, Ionian and Aegean seas, courtesy of a resentful yet nervous government all too aware of other eyes to the north. Staring out the window, Converse recognized the shapes of familiar equipment on the ground. There were two rows of Phantom F- 4 T’s and A-6E’s on opposite sides of the dual strip—updated versions of the F- 4 G’s and A-6A’s he had flown years ago.
It was so easy to slip back, thought Joel, as he watched three Phantoms break away from the ground formation; theywould head for the top of the runway, and another patrol would be in the skies. Converse could feel his hands tense, in his mind he was manipulating the thick, perforated shaft, reaching for switches, his eyes roaming the dials, looking for right and wrong signals. Then the power would come, the surging force of pressurized tons beside him, behind him, himself encased in the center of a sleek, shining beast straining to break away and soar into its natural habitat.
Final check, all in order; cleared for takeoff. Release the power of the beast, let it free. Roll! Faster, faster; the ground is a blur, the carrier deck a mass of passing gray, blue sea beyond, blue sky above. Let it free! Let me free!
He wondered if he could still do it, if the lessons and the training of boy and man still held. After the Navy, during the academic years in Massachusetts and North Carolina, he had frequently gone to small airfields and taken up single-engined aircraft just to get away from the pressures, to find a few minutes of blue freedom, but there were no challenges, no taming of all-powerful beasts. Later still, it had all stopped—for a long, long time. There were no airfields to visit on weekends, no playing around with trim company planes; he had given his promise. His wife had been terrified of his flying. Valerie could not reconcile the hours he had flown—civilian and in combat—with her own evaluation of the averages. And in one of the few gestures of understanding in his marriage, he had given his word not to climb into a cockpit. It had not bothered him until he knew—they knew—the marriage had gone sour, at which point he had begun driving out to a field called Teterboro in New Jersey every chance he could find and flown whatever was available, anytime, any hour. Still, even then—especially then—there had been no challenges, no beasts—other than himself.
The ground below disappeared as the 747 stabilized and began the climb to its assigned altitude. Converse turned away from the window and settled back in his seat. The lights were abruptly extinguished on the NO SMOKING sign, and Joel took out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Extracting
.
And yet why did the feeling—the instinct, perhaps—persist? The small boat out on the water was like a magnet, pulling her toward it, drawing her into its field, taking her where she knew she did not want to go.
Nonsense!
Demons in search of logic! She was being foolish—
foolish Joel, ice-cold Joel
—stop it, for God’s sake! Be
reasonable!
Then the shiver passed through her again. Novice sailors did not navigate around strange coastlines at night.
The magnet held her until her eyes grew heavy and troubled sleep came.
She woke up again, startled by the intense sunlight streaming through the glass doors, its warmth enveloping her. She looked out at the water. The boat was gone—and she wondered for a moment whether it had really been there.
Yes, it had. But it was gone.
3
The 747 lifted off the runway at Athens’ Helikon Airport, soaring to the left in its rapid ascent. Below in clear view, adjacent to the huge field, was the U.S. Naval Air Station, permitted by treaty although reduced in size and in the number of aircraft during the past several years. Nevertheless, far-reaching, jet-streamed American craft still roamed the Mediterranean, Ionian and Aegean seas, courtesy of a resentful yet nervous government all too aware of other eyes to the north. Staring out the window, Converse recognized the shapes of familiar equipment on the ground. There were two rows of Phantom F- 4 T’s and A-6E’s on opposite sides of the dual strip—updated versions of the F- 4 G’s and A-6A’s he had flown years ago.
It was so easy to slip back, thought Joel, as he watched three Phantoms break away from the ground formation; theywould head for the top of the runway, and another patrol would be in the skies. Converse could feel his hands tense, in his mind he was manipulating the thick, perforated shaft, reaching for switches, his eyes roaming the dials, looking for right and wrong signals. Then the power would come, the surging force of pressurized tons beside him, behind him, himself encased in the center of a sleek, shining beast straining to break away and soar into its natural habitat.
Final check, all in order; cleared for takeoff. Release the power of the beast, let it free. Roll! Faster, faster; the ground is a blur, the carrier deck a mass of passing gray, blue sea beyond, blue sky above. Let it free! Let me free!
He wondered if he could still do it, if the lessons and the training of boy and man still held. After the Navy, during the academic years in Massachusetts and North Carolina, he had frequently gone to small airfields and taken up single-engined aircraft just to get away from the pressures, to find a few minutes of blue freedom, but there were no challenges, no taming of all-powerful beasts. Later still, it had all stopped—for a long, long time. There were no airfields to visit on weekends, no playing around with trim company planes; he had given his promise. His wife had been terrified of his flying. Valerie could not reconcile the hours he had flown—civilian and in combat—with her own evaluation of the averages. And in one of the few gestures of understanding in his marriage, he had given his word not to climb into a cockpit. It had not bothered him until he knew—they knew—the marriage had gone sour, at which point he had begun driving out to a field called Teterboro in New Jersey every chance he could find and flown whatever was available, anytime, any hour. Still, even then—especially then—there had been no challenges, no beasts—other than himself.
The ground below disappeared as the 747 stabilized and began the climb to its assigned altitude. Converse turned away from the window and settled back in his seat. The lights were abruptly extinguished on the NO SMOKING sign, and Joel took out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Extracting
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