Day 50 - Paddle Faster, I Hear Banjo Music

There was no sign announcing where we had just landed, but had there been one, I imagine it would have said something like "Deliverance International," or "Welcome To... Wherever You Are." This place was desolate. All I knew with reasonably certainty was that if we were in fact still on Earth, we were somewhere in central Kentucky.
"I don't think there's anyone here," our passenger said to me as I helped him out of the airplane.
"I don't think you're wrong." I surveyed my surroundings as I stood out on the ramp. A frigidly cold, blustery wind blew across the ramp, violating my leather flight jacket and reminding me why I hate winter. It produced an ominous, howling sound and pointed the windsock in a perfect crosswind to the runway at a steady full deflection. The aural effect created a perfect ambience for the ghost town in which we now stood.
The airport sat on top of a small hill, in the midst of larger hills, and seemed more of an afterthought than a planned facility. No fence at all surrounded any portion of it, and the "runway" ran downhill, literally disappearing off into a valley. Any departure attempt was bound to look like the opening scene from the James Bond film GoldenEye, in which Pierce Brosnan dives off into a canyon and uses the gravitational acceleration of a falling aircraft basically as a takeoff roll, then rockets back into the sky (as well as back into view) after recovering. The lone building was totally abandoned. No vehicles or aircraft were visible anywhere on the property. The only evidence of any previous human inhabitants were a golf course next door with several vehicles outside (though I never once saw a single person), a tire perched in the middle of the taxiway, and an obviously archaic and non-functioning SunKist drink that was machine marked with an advertised price of 25 cents. Aside from the howl of the wind, it was dead silent. No sounds from cars, animals, or people. The evidence of society was visible, but not the people themselves. It was like they had vanished in the midst of whatever activity they were doing. Tools and equipment were left outside. Vehicles sat dormant in the distance. Charts lay on tables in the building. Pens and paper, out on tables. But there was no one else on the planet, it seemed. Just me, Ed, and our passenger, all waiting on The Langoliers to come screaming over the hill.
The passenger had a very short business engagement, and a man was supposed to pick him up at the airport, which he finally did. Since the "terminal" was locked and unattended, it was suggested that they drop me and Ed off at a restaurant while they conducted business.
"Y'all have a place in town where we can drop my pilots off to eat lunch while we have our meeting?"
"Yeah!" Replied the individual. "We've got a really nice place that's right on the way."

Apparently my cosmopolitan experiences as an aviator have skewed my sense of taste and unjustly raised my expectations as to what exactly constitutes a "really nice" restaurant. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. Not at all. I suppose it wasn't really a bad place to eat. Any negativity is offset by the entertainment factor of the place. In fact, it was downright humorous.
The obvious modification to the sign outside the restaurant betrayed the fact that it had once been a Golden Corral, and was now cleverly and, very originally, renamed the "Golden Buffet." My own observations led me to believe that it had obviously been purchased by a Chinese restaurateur, who then tried to create the best of both worlds by blending a Chinese restaurant with a country buffet. Not exactly a seamless transition. It reminded me of the M*A*S*H episode where the geishas are trying to sing country western music to Hawkeye, Trapper, and Henry, and it's just not working. It honestly looked like someone had placed ornate, Chinese blinds in the middle of a Ryan's buffet. Fortune cookies with your macaroni & cheese.
And no bastardized restaurant is complete without proper mood music. So they appropriately chose to use slow, poignant, instrumental-only, piano versions of Bryan Adams' "Everything I Do," and the classic anthem "Right Here Waiting" by Richard Marx. Appropriately, they chose to alternate those two songs, and those two only, in a perpetual toe-tapping medley that just screams hotplates and warmed-over chicken.

I'm serious folks. You can't make this stuff up.

I felt good today. Very dignified, very pilot-ish. Standing beside an aircraft, waiting on a passenger, with the goal of flying for the purpose of transporting him from one place to another evoked a great sense of pride. Accomplishment. Masculinity. Dignity. It produced a very deep, strange feeling in me. A tingling sensation. Or maybe that was the cold wind penetrating my dress pants, who knows. Either way, I like it! With each passing day, my confidence is gradually cemented, and my aeronautical scars heal a bit more. Time with Ed especially is great for that, and I look forward to our trips. I'm hoping to get to go again Thursday. I've been jumping all over every flight opportunity that I can get. The more I fly, the more confidence I'll have, the better I'll feel, and the better my logbook will look.
So I'm still rockin' right along. "One day at a time," so sayeth Hailey Dishman. I've officially been released from school duty for the rest of the week. That'll give me a little break, so we'll see what happens. Hopefully, plenty more good days.


That is, if I don't end up as cannibal bait in the backwoods of Kentucky again.

Joey