Chapter Three
“If you lookto your left, you can see Emerald Isle. Emerald Isle is known for its sea turtles and is one of the few protected nesting sites off of our coast so, unfortunately, we can’t make a pit stop there. But, if you look out the window on your right, that there is Cocoa Island, and that will be our stop for the day.” I wait a few minutes for the passengers to take in the sites before continuing with my dialogue.
”Don’t worry about putting your seat in the upright position, there were no drinks or snacks served on this flight today, so just make sure your seatbelt is still buckled up, and hang on tight, this landing can sometimes be a little choppy. Thanks for flying with Captain of the Cove, and have an awesome day.” I cut off my mic, turning my focus to the landing ahead. It won’t be rough in the least, the sea state looks great and the crosswinds aren’t very strong today, but I like to keep my passengers in suspense, keep ”em coming back for more, hence the little ditty about the landing being rough.
Reducing my engine power, I maintain airspeed and level out the aircraft, giving a little bit of thrust before touching down on the water, keeping the nose up just enough to prevent the aircraft from bouncing along the waves. Taxiing around to the starboard side of the aircraft, I hop out to attach my line to the cleats on the dock. Once anchored, the door pops open and I announce to the passengers that they may disembark and, one by one, help them from the plane and to the dock.
My plane isn’t small, but it isn’t overly large either. A couple years ago, The Captain of the Cove, needed to upgrade from my father’s recreational plane, which only held about four passengers, to a plane built for more passengers and island hopping, which now holds ten passengers. More people, more tourists, more paychecks.
The last passenger exits the plane, a flirty middle aged woman with way too much tanning oil on, showing more cleavage than anyone would have liked to have noticed, and I point the way to the island tour guide”s hut, hoping she won’t smack my butt or say something inappropriate as she passes me by.
Now that the passengers are off on their adventures, I can finally grab my backpack, lock up my plane, and head off on my own to the non-tourist side of the island. I have about three hours before the tourists return, and need to make the return flight back to Willow Cove, so I am going to make the best of it. I know these islands like the back of my hand, having gone on pretty much every tourist”s trip with my dad before taking the reins of the business.
Following the beach north, until the rock shaped like a dragon, I take the overgrown trail to the island’s hidden lagoon. The natives on the island called it Turquoise Lagoon. It isn’t very deep, but it is home to some of the most amazing coral reefs I have ever seen in a lagoon, and because there are no waves, I can explore for hours without having to fight against the currents.
I pull off my shorts and shirt, checking around the edges of the lagoon to make sure no one is here, and hurriedly slip into my boardshorts. Shoving my clothes haphazardly into my backpack, I pull out my water socks and snorkel, hang my backpack from a tree (because there have been a few times something has gotten into my lunch) and hop into the water. I love this part of my job–being paid to swim around a secluded lagoon and explore some pretty cool places every day. This is the life.
The only other person who knows about this place, other than the islanders and Dad, is King. King is my best friend and Willow Cove’s number one surf instructor. He recently inherited a bakery and has been slammed with work, trying to figure out how to make both of his businesses work.
My cell phone rings from where I had tied my bag up, and I grumble to myself about how annoying cell phones are before making my way over to where my bag is. I shake my hand off and reach into my bag, pulling out the offending object that I should have turned off. Glancing at the number, I don’t recognize it, so my first inclination is to let it go to voicemail, my finger hovering over the answer symbol, debating whether or not to answer. I wait too many seconds and the voicemail feature starts transcribing the voice on the other side of the line.
“Hi, my name is Molly Thatcher, I work for the NOAA and will be planning an expedition to Emerald Isle for our ongoing research on sea turtles, and am in need of a float plane for hire for my travels to and from the island for three weeks in June/July. Basically the third week of June into the first week of July. I was given your information from Dr. Kendrig, and was told you were reliable and trustworthy, basically that good ol’ boy scout motto.” I switch the transcription over to voice so I can hear what the lady is saying. Transcribe says some really strange things sometimes. The woman continues to talk, barely breathing through her run on sentences as I put the phone away. I will listen to the recording later, when I have a big, fat notebook to take all of the notes she is most likely monologuing.
So Dr. Kendrig finally retired? Good for him. He was getting on in years, and every couple of years, when the NOAA sent him on his sea turtle outings, I would have to carry more and more of the heavy equipment that he brought. Groaning inwardly, I remember that the new Dr. Kendrig is a woman. A small sounding woman, who would more than likely need me to cart around her equipment too. Maybe I won’t be accepting the job after all. But the NOAA pays well, and watching all of those little baby sea turtles is one of my favorite things to do, so maybe I will accept? Bah. I have time to decide.
I slip my phone back into my backpack and spin around, excited to get back out to the coral reef and explore, when it starts ringing again. What in the actual heck? I trudge back over to my backpack, pulling out the phone again, seeing the same number from before flash across the screen. Waiting for the phone to go to voicemail again, I run my toes through the warm sand, itching to get back into the lagoon. The words pop up on my phone, flying across the screen as Molly Thatcher begins to speak. “Hi again. I forgot a few details from earlier, so I figured I would call back before I forget.” A staticky sound comes through and I can hear her muffled voice speaking to someone else.
“Doesn’t he ever answer his phone? I mean, how can you run a business if you never answer your calls?” The staticky sound appears again and her voice comes through, unmuffled like before. She must have been trying to cover her speaker up. Apparently, she doesn’t know where it is because she only partially covered it. I shake my head and laugh at her stupidity. I’m not going to let this lady make me angry. It isn’t worth it.
“Sorry about the interruption. As I was saying, I forg–” I click the end button, not bothering to listen to her rambling, and turn the volume off before sliding it back into my backpack.
Turning to head back out, my stomach rumbles, reminding me that it is lunchtime. I guess I won’t be heading back out. If there is one rule I abide by, my stomach comes first.
Finishing my lunch, I jump back into the water, pulling my goggles and mouthpiece back down from my head so I can see, and head out to the reef, where all of my favorite fish like to swim. Today there are: Atlantic menhadens, a few striped mullets, a small school of mummichogs, and some gray silverside fish.
Just before I am about to head in for the day, I even get to see a spot fish jump out of the water, which is pretty dang cool. I head for the shore, where once again, something has gotten into my backpack from where it hung. I pick up the granola wrapper from the ground, hoping that is the only thing the animal made off with, before rummaging in my backpack, finding everything else safely tucked away. I pull on my shirt, slide on my shoes, and head back the way I came.
I arrive just as the sun is sinking below the horizon, sending colors of orange, pink, purple, yellow, and blue across the sky. A few of my passengers look a little red, and the woman from before is now completely covered, except for her face, which has more of a pink hue than the tan she was working toward at arrival. She winces as she moves to board, and I offer her a hand to help her up. She glares at me and I hold back my smile as she tries to shimmy to her seat without touching anything. Poor thing. I have been there one too many times, which is why I now bring reef safe sunscreen with me wherever I go. Looking like a lobster that has been boiled in a pot is not my idea of a vacation.