Airborne in Alaska
By Harrison Lowman
Susanna Bronca is quite content with her
view from the ground. Gazing out across the bow of the
cruise ship “Spirit”, the forty-four year old King City native soaks in the
Alaskan tapestry being woven before her.
A snow-tipped mountain cuts through a royal blue sky, its torso scarred
by glaciers that gutted it a thousand years ago. Towering firs and spruces stand at attention, their bases
lined with swaying golden grass.
Susanna
waits alongside her husband Vanni, and her two boys Tristan and Aidan on the
deck. The scraggily teenagers fish
strands of their adolescent locks out of their eyes. Uncle George, aunt Sandra and baby Georgie accompany them. The extended family’s bags are packed
for a day trip.
The
tourist vessel surges forward, displacing the reflective water below. A fine
salty mist permeates the morning air, saturating empty lawn chairs and
forgotten towels. Men dressed in
white uniforms walk well-rehearsed steps.
The ship lets out a thunderous bellow from its horn. The Broncas have arrived at Skagway.
Families
hustle down gangplanks and disperse throughout the northern port. The colourful boats that line the docks
are guarded by a group of bald eagles.
When Susanna lays eyes on her family’s
method of transportation her heart skips a beat. The white floatplane couldn’t be more than thirty feet
long. Its crimson racing stripe reminds
her of the speeds they will soon be reaching. Her stomach churns.
Heavy
footsteps echo off of wooden planks.
The family looks up to see their pilot, a forty-something local donning
worn out blue jeans traipsing towards them. Her wavy yellow mane cascades down her blue windbreaker. Glasses sit perched on her large
pointed nose. They are wound
tightly around her neck with a protective band. She ushers the hesitant Broncas aboard the aircraft. Tristan feels like he is piling into
the minivan for hockey practice.
Once
inside the family is cramped and claustrophobic. The cabin is a sea of legs and arms. They are given headsets to communicate with
one another over the moaning propeller.
As
the plane’s pontoons leave the water it soon becomes clear something is awry. Wind whistles through the cockpit,
smacking the faces of the family inside.
The pilot is not fazed. She
flicks her wrist, swiftly closing the door firmly beside her.
“Is that normal?” asks a baffled
Vanni. “Oh yeah, no problem,
happens all the time.” Susanna’s
brow furrows.
The floatplane dips through canyons and
fjords. They can feel every movement
the aircraft makes. Leaning back
in the co-pilot’s chair, uncle George begins to taunt his sister in-law.
“Can
this thing do any barrel rolls, any loop de loops?” he asks the pilot.
George’s
requests fall on deaf ears. The
pilot has spotted a pod of orcas under the plane’s left wing. Their rubbery black hides skim the
surface of the depths below.
Excited by the rare find she throws the
aircraft into a corkscrew dive.
Susanna’s loose head is jolted violently forward. Delicacies of the north find themselves
on the mother’s new mukluks.
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