It reminded me of the story my grandmother told me about when she was a little girl growing up in Mississippi, on the river, or next to the river, the Mississippi River, or maybe it was Arkansas. My grandmaw Florence was born around 1910, so the story she told had to happen in the early1920s because by the late 1920s she was married and having babies.
Her mother was a cook for the logging camps that worked up and down the
I’ll skip the part of the story where they were playing with the shotgun and shot a hole in the mattress, and the part where a big rain came and their tent slid down the riverbank in a mudslide right into the river and I’ll start right at the part where they were crossing the train trestle over the river and the train came, so they had to lay down on the tracks and let the train pass over them. She and her little brothers and sisters.
That was what ran through my head when the Cessna Caravan nearly mowed me down on the airstrip the other day. Git yourself down girl, throw down that bike and hit the durt afore that propeller chops your head off. Do like granmaw said. And I did.
It wasn’t the pilot’s fault though, I tried to smile and give a little wave to reassure the pilot as he nearly had a conniption fit on landing. I think it was a fit, I would hate to think he was aiming for me as he headed straight down the runway.
After Yoga class I decided to take the shortcut down the airstrip, rather than take the coco-jarring bumpity bump beach path, the long way around the southpoint of Caye Caulker to the new
Whew! Close call. The wingtips flop over the edge of the tarmack left and right by several feet so its not enough to just get off the pavement and into the swamp ditch. Standing up straight, the wingtips would hit me about mid throat. And I wont mention the propeller.
I should have gone back to the airstrip entrance on the west side, if I hadn’t been brain damaged, until the plane had taken off again. But I continued on my merry way, back up on my bike, la di da. What's one brush with death? What I was slow in realizing is that, in airplanes, what comes down must go back up, but first they had to taxi back down the airstrip (over my ducked body) to get to the west end, then rev their engine and get a flying leap to take off into the wind which blows east to west. Three times over and back, each time the pilot (who I’m sure is a very nice person in real life) scowling.
So if you’re a Tropic Air pilot based in San Pedro, the fat lady on the red bike promises she won’t do that again. And I mean it.
Art Credit: Popeye, Caye Caulker.