Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

Now properly lubricated, we are continuing our endless discussion of the Clintons, as Sid ambles over to listen. Silly is starkers, absolutely naked, enjoying the pool, while I’m expounding:

“Do you realize that poor bastard, is waking up right now, having to decide which power-tie to wear with what suit? He’s going to have meetings, change shirts, make a few speeches today, and he’s doing it because he wants to be President. What a fucking asshole, he could be here with us in Bali, doing…what are we doing?” I ask Willy.

Willy suggests that we’re doing, “Nada, Baby.”

Sid starts comparing Australian politicians with American politicians, “They’re all the bloody same, bunch of thieving barstards,” We fall instantly in love with Sid.

“Yeah,” I continue, “they all spend millions of dollars, their own, and other people’s, in order to be elected to a job that pays $100,000 a year.” Passing the Arak now to Sid, who takes quite a slug out of the bottle, “They’re obviously doing it out of civic virtue mate, pure altruism.”

Sid spits Arak.

“You know we Airline Pilots have to be tested for alcohol, drugs, and competency. We take first-class medicals every six months, proficiency checks, line checks… the public expects competent, sober, healthy pilots, and they deserve that. We only expect one thing from Senators and Presidents… integrity!”

“We should pay those bastards $1,000,000 tax-free dollars a year, for life, and we should demand only one thing from them, lie detector tests! Before and after every vote, we hook them up to the machine and ask only one question, “Are you voting your conscience on this issue, or are you being paid off, or expect to be paid off, for your vote?” Then maybe we’ll get some relief from the bastards… it’ll be cheaper in the long run. What do we have 100 senators, 500 congressmen? About 650 people, if you throw in the President and Governors… at a million a year each, that’s only $650 million. Hell, the first vote would probably save billions in giveaways.”

“Spot on, mate, but they’d steal some more, anyway!”

“Yeah, you’re probably right, look at the Marcos family… it’s human nature… they couldn’t take a few million, or a hundred million, no, they took everything.”

“Have you been in Bali long, Sid?”

“No, mate, been here on holiday with the Mrs. over the years… we’re from Perth, a stone’s throw, but we had us a hotel in Borneo.”

“Borneo, I’ve never been. Do you still own that hotel as well?”

“Hell, no, we had to get rid of it, they ate my manager.”

A long pause of incredulity, a sidewise look at Willy.

“No, Stevie. It’s bloody true! They did eat him, and he was a skinny-fucker, too!”

Willy and I were fascinated by Whitestar’s girlfriend’s armpits. The women around the pool, mostly Aussie’s and Europeans, went topless matter-of-factly. At first, we would study this new terrain, pretending to be casual about our sweeping glances. After a while, the ‘white-tips,’ as Sid called them, became too familiar to be titillating.

Whitestar’s woman, however, had trimmed her underarm hair. Unshaved, yet unthatched, they were barbered, and perfect. Something about the texture, color, shape and buzz-cut of her pits, sent a direct message to “sex-central,” releasing all the heart-tripping chemistry of my uncontrollable lustbuds. I would have fought and killed to be able to run my nose and mouth through her armpits.

During our Arak walk-abouts, Willy confessed to the same obsession. From then on, we would bracket her chaise lounge, as casually as possible. Not interested in her breasts, which I can’t even recall, only for our chance to worship her armpits. To us, their siren song was a command to view, without focus. When “our Miss Pits” was at poolside, we were mesmerized, unable to look elsewhere.

She, for her part, would sprawl, completely relaxed, her face protected by a towel, arms thrown back, casually, behind her head. Whether she was aware of the power of her pits or not, is subject for debate. Willy thinks not, but I believe she knew their effect on men. We never knew her name. I don’t remember her ever speaking.

Whitestar himself was an interesting creature. How we came to meet and befriend him, I can’t recall. We’ve visited his gorgeous Balinese spread of homes, behind the huge security fences, and walls. Whitestar is in his fifties now, with no apparent source of income, however it is whispered that he started the flow of “ice” and “ecstasy” into Hawaii.

He had traveled off-beat paths as a young man, and he was now telling us the tale of one of his early treks. Seems he and four or five likesouled young men, were on walk-about in Tibet. Avoiding the well-traveled paths, they were in joint, yet uncommunicated pursuit of the unusual, the exotic. One of their number, Guy (say Ghee), a French-Canadian, was their misfit. Whitestar and most of his buddies were quiet and unassuming in their quest, invisible visitors from another galaxy, taking everything in unobtrusively. The Canuk was pushy, his camera always present, upsetting the serenity. They could not shake him, yet no one would coach him on their unspoken etiquette.

After weeks of intentionally climbing further into Tibet’s vast remoteness, they hear talk of an old Buddhist Monk who spends his days in a trance, his eyes rolled back into his head. It was said that this Monk was more than 100 years-old.

Whitestar and his band, after an arduous two-day climb, find an unassuming monastery, guided there by some villagers. Easing within the room, they now see an ancient man in saffron monk’s robes, seated lotus style. His head is back, his eyes are rolled up inside his skull. He is a living still life. The old man is being attended by an even older woman, who brushing cobwebs aside, soundlessly beckons them close.

Reverently, they shuffle near the tranced-out ancient one. Guy, the insensitive fellow with the incessant camera, walks right up on the monk, clicking away from every angle. This desecration horrifies Whitestar and his mates, who freeze in place. As the rude young man continues clicking away, the old monk’s eyes roll down into focus. It is a silent summons to the old woman, who places her ear close by his whispering lips. She withdraws, and whispers into Guy’s ear, as the Monk’s eyes, once again roll upwards, showing only their whites.

“Finally,” Whitestar thinks “that asshole is finally gonna’ get his comeuppance.”

Later, passing back through the remote village, and down the mountain, Whitestar asked Guy, “What did the old lady say?”

“She said that the old man wanted to know if I could send him some copies of the pictures I took.”

I tell the group of my experience at the temples in Narita, Japan. Over a course of two years, every few weeks I would have an opportunity to visit the Buddhist temple, which is actually a sprawling, yet serene collection of wooden temples, hand-carved over the centuries. Near the massive, stone-lintled entryway, stood a grated incense burner, open on all sides. I mimic the gathering, and washing of the smoke over my face and head that I see being done by the Japanese worshipers, to bring them luck.

Each visit, I take in another building or two. They are fascinating to me, what with their indecipherable script and symbolism. One huge wooden building is covered about, on all four sides, with carved heads and faces. It is said (a sign says in English and Japanese) that if you look at these thousands of faces carefully enough, you will recognize one of your parents or grandparents, that it will be them. I spend an entire day, able to study only half the building, with no luck, so far.

Another of the buildings looms three stories high, lattice-sided. Narrow passages have been carved, allowing entrance through all four sides. Inside it is empty of people, yet there, taking up the entire center of this building, is a massive three-story high top, a dredl-like cylinder, pointy-end down. Pigeon-holes, stuffed with parchment, envelop it’s entire surface, and it is supported through it’s central axis by a forty-foot pole, anchored top and bottom. This mysterious affair, which must weigh tons, has horizontal poles, chest high, protruding every few yards around its perimeter.

Along one wall is a countertop with a slot for coins and paper money built in. A sign behind the cash slot explains that the “if you turn the wheel three revolutions around its axis, that you’d derive the same benefit as having studied all the written works of Buddhism.” Seems that the parchment documents stuffed into the pidgeon holes contain all the sacred writings of Buddism…. “Donations are customary.”

Pushing some yen through the slot, I approach the behemoth. Over the years, a circular path has been scrubbed through the tiles by the feet of countless believers. Taking a grip on the pole nearest me, I notice that it too has been reshaped by thousands of earlier hands, also anxious for wisdom. Planting my feet firmly, putting my back into it, I start to shove, part of my mind registering (for the three count) where I’ve begun. The monster