And then, met with a sudden lack of resistance, I fell backward away from the seaplane and onto my ass on the dock with a thud which made the whole dock shudder. I laughed, stood up, and handed Brock the wrench.
“Well, it’s loose. Not sure if the bolt is even there anymore, but it’s loose.”
He peeked in, snorted. “Damn, dude. I thought for sure I was gonna have to shear it off. Thanks.”
I shrugged. “Bein’ big has advantages, I guess.”
He leaned into the cockpit and snagged a big Thermos, poured steaming black coffee into a Styrofoam cup he produced from somewhere, handed it to me.
“So, what brings you to my slip?” he asked.
“I gotta get inland, and I don’t have a car. Hopin’ you have some time free today to fly me up as near to Talkeetna as you can get.”
He dug in his back pocket for his phone and consulted it. “I have a flight scheduled at ten, should be back by noon. So, if you can wait till around one or so, I can do it for sure.”
I nodded. “Fine by me.” I combed my fingers through my beard. “Just let me know your rates so I can grab some cash.”
He stared at me like I’d grown a second head. “Bro, you new? Family doesn’t pay.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t want to assume, just ’cause my cousin is serious with your cousin.”
He just grinned. “Well, no need to assume. It’s not about blood or relational distance. I’m telling you, you’re family, and family doesn’t pay. All you need to do is ask.” He pulled a paper chart of Alaska from the cockpit, unfolded it, perused it, found Talkeetna, and examined it for a moment. “I can get you right to town, looks like. I’ll file a plan and we’ll figure on lifting off around one, one thirty.” He eyed me. “What’s there, aside from a whole lot of not much?”
“A whole lot of not much is why I’m going there,” I said. “Got some shit happening and I need to get away.”
He nodded. “Well, just a heads-up—Claire had business cards printed up for me recently, as a kind of joke.” He handed me one, and I read it.
Brock Badd: pilot, philosopher, arm-chair therapist.
I laughed. “So you’re gonna try to get the story out of me.”
“Try? You’ll tell it to me and not even realize what’s happening.”
I held out a fist, and he bumped mine with his. “Challenge accepted.” I waved at him. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your engine. See you in a couple hours.”
He was already looking at the engine compartment, and just waved at me.
I headed home to pack.
Once a year, sometimes twice, I took a couple of weeks off from everything and went off-grid, deep into the bush. Usually with Fox, or one of my other cousins, hunting, fishing, canoeing. And usually I planned it way ahead of time, making room in my schedule for the time off, saving cash and paying bills ahead of time.
This was…impromptu.
I spent most of the time leading up to my departure with Brock on the phone, apologizing to my clients for the last-minute change, and pushing them all at least a month out. I’d need that amount of time—how I knew that, I wasn’t sure, I just knew this wasn’t going to be a quick or easy thing.
I told all my clients they’d get their next session half off for the inconvenience of having to reschedule so suddenly, but hey, personal crisis was personal crisis.
I honestly wasn’t sure, either, why I was leaving.
I just knew I had to.
Had to go.
Couldn’t be here in Ketchikan with Cassie, or I’d hound her. I’d need her. I’d demand her time. Consume her energy. Use her sexually for my own ravenous needs, but I needed an emotional connection. Call me a girl if you want, but sex for me has never been purely physical. It’s a bond with the person. That’s why what happened with Elise was so damned gutting—I’d thought we had that connection, that emotional bond. I’d assumed she got me. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
Cassie wasn’t ready for that kind of bond. She may want it, but she had to be able to look herself in the metaphorical mirror before she could give any part of herself to anyone else.
And if I was around, I’d just get in the way of that process.
I had to get away, for her sake.
Something told me, too, that I had my own shit to wrestle with, and I couldn’t do that here, in the city. The only way I could get quiet enough in my own head was to be out there, in the silence of nature.
So, I packed some gear—real clothes, due to mosquitos and midges and black flies and no-see-ums and bracken and such, boots, binoculars, my self-defense handgun and bear spray, survival knife, hatchet, matches, canteens…all the various paraphernalia of wilderness survival, the packing of which was second nature to me. I packed a second bag with food items to see me through the first few days, knowing I would hunt and fish for fresh meat as I needed it.
Packed, I shouldered my bag and headed for the door.
Then I stopped, for some reason. Bugged by something—wasn’t sure what.
My phone—I’d been on it all morning and intended to leave it behind. I’d stuck it on the charger and left it there.
But, for some reason, I pulled it off the charger and shoved it into my pocket. Why, I wasn’t sure. It made no sense. I just…had to.
Mystified at my own actions, I shook my head and schlepped my bag across town to Brock’s slip. I was wearing a shirt and hiking boots for the first time in months. It felt odd and unnatural, but I knew from experience that I would feel at home again the moment I entered the forest outside Talkeetna.
I tossed my bag into the fuselage, climbed in after it, and used the available straps to tie it down. Then I sat in the open doorway kicking my feet in space, watching Brock bustle through his preflight checklist once, twice, and then a third time before settling into the pilot’s seat.
He glanced at me, jerked a thumb at the copilot’s place. “Hop in, big fella. Let’s get lost, huh?”
I grinned at him. “Sounds good to me,” I said, plopping my ass into the chair and buckling up.
With a cough, sputter, and belch of exhaust, the twin propellers spun into life, and within another minute we were streaking across the channel, bouncing on the waves, skidding, skipping, momentarily weightless, and then angling skyward, floating upward, buoyed on the magic of physics.
Cassie
My phone blared the most annoying, jarring, skull-splitting song I could think of—“Chop Suey!” by System of a Down. It was my alarm, and it was going off at the ungodly hour of five in the morning.
I groaned and rolled over toward the edge of the bed.
Why had I set my alarm for five a.m.?
Oh yeah. To work out. Mobility exercises. Regain my strength and endurance and flexibility. The road back to dance.
Because…
Why?
Why couldn’t I just go back to sleep? Accept my fate. Let myself go. Just be fat and lazy and stupid and useless the rest of my life. Never dance again. Screw the workouts. Screw the relentless internal drive to move, to follow the music and the rhythm and the movement across the floor as if pulled by invisible strings.
I groaned again.