“Neither. Death in the family.” That should shut theconversation down pretty fast.
Her facepaled and she tipped her head with remorse. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorryto hear.” She printed off my ticket and handed it back to me with my ID. “Well,Hopefully, next time will be under bettercircumstances.”
“Hopefully, there won’t be a next time,” I replied flatly, thenheaded off to security.
***
Airplanes weren’t my thing. I was hastily reminded why when Iwas jostled from my coma-like sleep, the hard metal arm of my chairdrove into my side. I attempted to blink away the cloudy film thatfilled my eyes, still drowsy from the high dose of Dramamine Itossed back just a couple of hours earlier. The plane’s cabin wasshrouded in the dim light of the midnight flight, butits occupants were alertwith panic as we battled some rough turbulence. A bing from theintercom shot through thespace like a sharp echo.
“This is your captain speaking. We’re just approaching thecoast of Newfoundland and have encountered some turbulence. Restassured that everything will be fine once we drop out of thisaltitude. Bear with us as we enter a quick decline. Thankyou.”
Mystomach scrambled to the base of my throat as the plane suddenlydropped, my ears buckling from the pressure of the elevationchange. The beds of my fingernails protested as my fingertips duginto the underside of the armrests and I attempted to breathe through the chaos. But we,thankfully, leveled out and the plane soon coasted back into asteady pace. I let out a heavy breath and pried my hands from theirgrip, the adrenaline subsiding and dissipating in mychest.
I hatedflying. Give me the sea any day.
There was noway I’d get back to sleep at that point, so I pushed up my windowblind and gazed down at the vast blackness of the cold ocean below.But, within moments, the stunning rocky coast of my homeland cameinto view, the landscape aglow in the barely rising sun, and myheart fluttered. From this height, the scattered lights across thecoast looked like little fireflies, stationary, but still beautifulnonetheless.
Iwatched as we descended, the details of the landscape sharpeningthe closer we got. My only regret was not being able to get adaytime flight, so I could appreciate the raw beauty in a betterlight. Still, the flood of the night sky didn’t diminish anything,only created a different version of it when mixed with the glow ofthe coming sun. The thick green forests were dense anddark and wrapped themselvesaround the tiny communities of firefly lights like lazy, blacksnakes.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I nearlyjumped out of my skin as a quiet shriek escaped my throat andlooked to the passenger next to me. An elderly man. He grinned atme. “Sorry, dear, didn’t mean to startle you.”
I returned thesmile. “No, it’s okay,” I chuckled, “I was just… daydreaming.”
“Hardnot to when you’re faced with somethin’ like that, ‘eh?” He liftedhis chin and motioned at my window. The old man then leaned incloser, to get a better look, and I shifted so he could. “I’llnever get tired of this view. I fly out to Alberta half a dozentimes a year to see the grandkids, and I love every second of it.” Hepaused to heave a thoughtful sigh. “But there’s nothing quite likethe trip home.”
“I wouldhave to disagree with you there. I despise flying.”
“Oh,yes, the flight is dreadful. Too long.” The man looked back at thewindow. “But that right there is worth it. To see my home from uphere. The majesty of it all. It’s absolutely magical.”
Oh, hewas one of those people. The old-timers who still believed in the fables of myhome province. We have a heavy history of British ancestors, butwith a sprinkle of Irish and Scottish mixed in. My Aunt Mary wasone. So was my mother. Dad hated every bit of it, so she only evertold me stories when he was absent; fairies, mermaids, and witches.I used to love it.
“Are youcoming home or just visiting?”
“Um,coming home. Funeral.” My gaze then dropped to my lap where my fingers fussed with thebottom button on my jacket. Being that close to home made thereality of it hit sharper. Harder. A woolly lump formed in mythroat and I swallowed hard to force it down.
The oldman placed his hand over one of mine on the armrest and gave it a squeeze. “Oh,m’dear, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Silence filled the tiny spacebetween us as he waited for me to reply, but I couldn’t. “Someoneclose?”
I noddedand was startled at the sudden sensation of wetness in my eyes. Ihad been so strong. Aside from the initial phone call from my aunt,I never really fought with tears over my father’s death and Irealized what the trigger was. The old man. He reminded me too muchof Dad. The Dad I knew before my mother passed away. The lovingsweetness, the alertness in his eyes… before it all faded away with the agony of herdeath. But it seemed the old man could sense my pain.
“So,whereabouts are you from?” he asked, changing thesubject.
I blinked awaythe teary film and slipped my hand out from under his hold to rubmy eyes. “West Coast. Just outside of Deer Lake, by GrosMorne.”
“Ah,pirates,” he replied, “gorgeous over there. We go to MarbleMountain every Winter.”
“Pirates?” I asked, confused.
He justchuckled. “You don’t know your own history?”
“Well,yes, I do. Sort of. I mean, I know my Dad’s side, I guess.” I feltlike he was about to school me. I knew, as most Newfoundlanders do,that our province had a lot of ties to piracy back in the day. “Ithought the whole pirate stuff happened on the East Coast, over bySt. John’s? What was his name, Easton, or something?”
“Ah, soyou do know?” he replied with a cheeky grin. “Yes, Peter Easton wasprobably our most famous pirate. But not the only one. The WestCoast was riddled with them. All those coves and bays, lined withcaves and
