Read Online Thin Blood Thick Water (Clueless Resolutions Book 2) by W B Garalt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: W B Garalt
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border, the better.”
Maggie washed the used dishes and utensils and packed their belongings while Max went out into the attached boathouse to ready the floatplane for flight.
A check of the flight systems analysis showed everything to be in order and remaining fuel for 30-40 minutes of flight time. At the inland end of the boathouse, Max found a fuel drum. He un-reeled the fuel hose to the front of the right wing and stepped up on a stepladder. With the spout inserted into the opened fuel receptacle, he went over to the drum and cranked out 20 gallons. He repeated this on the left fuel tank.
“Are we ready to load?” Maggie asked, as she walked in carrying their baggage.
“Yes ma’am, we are ready to roll. You can stow that gear while I release the tie ropes.”
Once Maggie was inside and settled, Max began the pre-flight procedures and, within six or seven minutes he instructed, “Buckle up, here we go.”
He activated the boathouse door opener, and once the vertical stabilizer of the Beaver C2 was clear of the overhead, he gave a running shove to the pontoon supports, and the floatplane drifted back and out into the daylight. Max jumped onto the left pontoon and stepped up into the pilot seat. The automatic boathouse door closed as the whining engine starter spun the propeller for three revolutions. Then, with ignition activated and throttle half open, it sputtered into a full roar. Blue-grey smoke blew past the pilot’s door as Max pulled it closed and locked. As they taxied out on the river surface Max noted the wind direction on a marker buoy. He nosed the floatplane into the wind. Both he and Maggie were pressed back in their seats as they surged along the water and rose noisily, but smoothly, into the early afternoon air.
Flying in the reverse directions and altitudes of their arrival pattern, Max turned to a 250 degree heading and followed a route parallel to the coast. After 15 minutes of this, he climbed the floatplane to a 1500 ft. altitude.
“We should be over US waters now,” he said to Maggie over the radio intercom. Maggie nodded and gave a thumbs-up sign. Max was reassured as he looked through his side windscreen and noticed a US Coast Guard ‘Cutter’ with the familiar red, white and blue markings, trailed by a white wake, as it patrolled the ocean waters off the coast of Maine.
“ That’s a welcome sight, ” he said to himself as he turned the floatplane northwest. He keyed the intercom and told Maggie that they were going to stop off in Bar Harbor, Maine.
“Have you ever been there?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t, but I’ve always been curious about that area. It seems so quaint judging by the ‘down east’ jokes and stories that we hear,” Maggie answered. “I’m in the mood for a day or so of fun.” Max glanced over and noticed a hint of that after-hours smile beginning around the corners of her mouth. The large earphones she was wearing over her wavy auburn hair, with the reflections of the sunlight shining up from the ocean surface, gave her a dashing, adventurous kind of look, he thought.
Max had climbed the Beaver C2 to 3000 ft. elevation after the turn toward Bar Harbor and the sight of the seaward islands off the Maine coast came into view.
“We have to look for an island shaped like the letter Y,” he directed. “That will direct us to the main portion of Bar Harbor. Then we fly due north to a point at the end of Main Street where we can set down and taxi up the inlet to a dock operated by Jacques, an old college buddy. We called him ‘Jock’ in school,” Max noted. “We can tie up there and get the rest of the aviation fuel that I need to get this plane back to USAP.”
“I left my car in Lyme, Connecticut, did you forget?” Maggie asked, incredulously.
“Of course not, I’ve got that covered. In the aft storage there’s a parachute you can use as I fly low over Lyme on the way back.” Max lectured with an all-business attitude in his voice.
Maggie washed the used dishes and utensils and packed their belongings while Max went out into the attached boathouse to ready the floatplane for flight.
A check of the flight systems analysis showed everything to be in order and remaining fuel for 30-40 minutes of flight time. At the inland end of the boathouse, Max found a fuel drum. He un-reeled the fuel hose to the front of the right wing and stepped up on a stepladder. With the spout inserted into the opened fuel receptacle, he went over to the drum and cranked out 20 gallons. He repeated this on the left fuel tank.
“Are we ready to load?” Maggie asked, as she walked in carrying their baggage.
“Yes ma’am, we are ready to roll. You can stow that gear while I release the tie ropes.”
Once Maggie was inside and settled, Max began the pre-flight procedures and, within six or seven minutes he instructed, “Buckle up, here we go.”
He activated the boathouse door opener, and once the vertical stabilizer of the Beaver C2 was clear of the overhead, he gave a running shove to the pontoon supports, and the floatplane drifted back and out into the daylight. Max jumped onto the left pontoon and stepped up into the pilot seat. The automatic boathouse door closed as the whining engine starter spun the propeller for three revolutions. Then, with ignition activated and throttle half open, it sputtered into a full roar. Blue-grey smoke blew past the pilot’s door as Max pulled it closed and locked. As they taxied out on the river surface Max noted the wind direction on a marker buoy. He nosed the floatplane into the wind. Both he and Maggie were pressed back in their seats as they surged along the water and rose noisily, but smoothly, into the early afternoon air.
Flying in the reverse directions and altitudes of their arrival pattern, Max turned to a 250 degree heading and followed a route parallel to the coast. After 15 minutes of this, he climbed the floatplane to a 1500 ft. altitude.
“We should be over US waters now,” he said to Maggie over the radio intercom. Maggie nodded and gave a thumbs-up sign. Max was reassured as he looked through his side windscreen and noticed a US Coast Guard ‘Cutter’ with the familiar red, white and blue markings, trailed by a white wake, as it patrolled the ocean waters off the coast of Maine.
“ That’s a welcome sight, ” he said to himself as he turned the floatplane northwest. He keyed the intercom and told Maggie that they were going to stop off in Bar Harbor, Maine.
“Have you ever been there?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t, but I’ve always been curious about that area. It seems so quaint judging by the ‘down east’ jokes and stories that we hear,” Maggie answered. “I’m in the mood for a day or so of fun.” Max glanced over and noticed a hint of that after-hours smile beginning around the corners of her mouth. The large earphones she was wearing over her wavy auburn hair, with the reflections of the sunlight shining up from the ocean surface, gave her a dashing, adventurous kind of look, he thought.
Max had climbed the Beaver C2 to 3000 ft. elevation after the turn toward Bar Harbor and the sight of the seaward islands off the Maine coast came into view.
“We have to look for an island shaped like the letter Y,” he directed. “That will direct us to the main portion of Bar Harbor. Then we fly due north to a point at the end of Main Street where we can set down and taxi up the inlet to a dock operated by Jacques, an old college buddy. We called him ‘Jock’ in school,” Max noted. “We can tie up there and get the rest of the aviation fuel that I need to get this plane back to USAP.”
“I left my car in Lyme, Connecticut, did you forget?” Maggie asked, incredulously.
“Of course not, I’ve got that covered. In the aft storage there’s a parachute you can use as I fly low over Lyme on the way back.” Max lectured with an all-business attitude in his voice.
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