Lourdes proceeded low and slow, ready to land where instructed.
After their roll-out, A.T.C. finished instructions to the two who had just landed. "Both of you exit the runway to the left onto the grass, now, follow ground crew there to parking. Welcome to Oshkosh?"
Lourdes watched everything, making sure she knew what every airplane was doing so she could follow any instruction given.
"White and blue high wing- I want you to land short on the orange dot near the thousand foot markers."
Lourdes pulled on the rest of her flaps, turning her half-barn doors into huge-barn doors. The plane noticeably slowed some more. It was coming down.
"Okay- No. White and blue high wing, don't land yet. Keep it up. Keep it in the air. Keep it up-"
Lourdes couldn't see what the controller was telling her to avoid, but she had faith in him. He could see something she couldn't, or he was making room for someone behind her.
Her compliance was automatic. She applied full throttle. Her little engine fought her barn doors and struggled to maintain altitude, even climbing a little. She held her plane at about fifty feet above the runway.
"Okay," A.T.C. finally said over her radio. "Now land, white and blue high wing. Land now. Right there."
Lourdes chopped her throttle and settled her plane down on the runway near the green dot half way down the runway, with barely a skip.
"Good job," A.T.C. said. "Turn left onto the grass and follow ground crew to parking. Welcome to Oshkosh."
Off the "active," Runway Two Seven, onto the grass approaching orange-vested ground controllers, Lourdes held up a piece of paper she'd prepared per NOTAM displaying her aircraft's year of manufacture-1964-and three large letters, "V.A.C," meaning Vintage Aircraft Camping. Ground control personnel marshaled her to turn left then right down various taxiways to the South Forty. She taxied by thousands of aircraft, by row after row of warbirds, then homebuilts, then past Show Central, to Vintage.
Jim and Mike had just ridden their scooters back to the area near the Vintage operation's shack, when Mike called out, "Lady pilot- Aiiieee, no! I can't do it, Bub! She's got to be yours. I've got Millie nowadays. Still making the switch after all these years," he said as if to apologize.
"She's Hotel Sierra," Jim said.
"I noticed a hole over there on Row 63 by Theatre in the Woods. Great location!" Mike said.
"Thanks," Jim said to Mike, and raced to intercept the little white and blue Cessna.
Lourdes saw a biker, wearing an orange vest, take a position in front of her left wing tip, out of the way of the propeller, tapping on his head with his left hand for "Follow Me."
Lourdes nodded and followed.
The Vintage biker exited the taxiway onto a path, and Lourdes followed, noting how unusual it was for her plane to subtly waddle during taxi on grass. Four-wheeling with three wheels. She added a little extra throttle as needed now and then to compensate for the additional drag on her wheels.
The biker led her between rows of planes, past a little shack. Two crossing guards held the crowd back as the biker lead her across a small hard-top road, then onto more grass to a field full of antiques and classics.
It was a little tight between two rows of parked planes. Her biker slowed through that area, then he raced ahead to a parking spot on the right and got off his bike to marshal her into position.
As tired as she was, Lourdes watched closely, careful not to mess up.
Another biker in an orange vest arrived and dismounted, stood at the wingtip of the plane camping on the right.
Her Follow-Me man, who seemed to be in charge of her, held his arms high in the air and bent them at the elbow, moving his palms toward his face over and over, meaning come forward.
Lourdes did.
The man moved to the side, out of the way of the propeller, then held his right hand straight out and down, moving only his left hand toward his face, meaning she should turn left a little.
Lourdes did.
Then the man waved both arms to come straight forward? A little more?
Lourdes was very careful. The man was standing offset to her left, where she'd think he should be, but she didn't want any mistake with her swinging propeller.
The man slowly crossed both his arms in front of his head signaling her to stop all forward motion-Lourdes applied her brakes, throttled back-then the man drew his hand across his neck telling her to stop her engine. Lourdes pulled her mixture control out, cutting off the fuel.
Her engine died. Her propeller swung to a stop, and all was quiet.
She slowly removed her headphones.
Her marshaller came around to the pilot's side of the airplane, ducked under her wing with a big welcoming smile on his face, as he did for everyone, and said, "Welcome to Osh-"
Lourdes buried her face in her hands and cried.
CHAPTER 5
Jim stared at the lady crying in the cockpit.
Tall and skinny Mike came around to the pilot's side of the plane with a large smile, stooped to go under the wing, and stopped when he also saw the lady inside. "They don't react that way to me," he said to Jim. "Love me, they do. But you? The Terminator. Linda Hamilton, poor thing. Two seconds, she's been here, you got her crying like a baby-"
Jim objected. "I didn't do anything!"
Mike smiled sarcastically, pointing to the lady inside. "You break her, you buy her," Mike said, throwing up his hands, stepping out from under the wing.
Jim looked back at the lady inside who seemed to withdraw.
"You know what, Mike, I'll take it from here. I've volunteered enough for one day, anyway." He took his orange safety vest off and handed it to Mike to take back to the Ops Shack, looked back at the lady inside.
Mike took the vest and a smile grew on his face. "Okay! Right. I see. Okay then," he said, very British. "I'll just work over here," he motioned with his hands the entire South Forty, "while you do your angel routine all over there," he said, motioning with his hands to indicate most of the airshow area. "I'm sure you'll do fine. And I'm here to help, even though I'm with Millie now. You know: girlfriend? The idea of a lady-friend who is a good friend, you know? So I'm off the market, as it were."
Another biker rode past them on row sixty-four, one row south of where they were. "Hey, you guys! I heard we have some Piper Cubs coming in soon. They're 'parking,'" as in not camping with their planes, "in their special group area over there," he pointed.
Jim waved at him with a distracted smile.
Mike ran interference for his friend. "I'll get it," he said. "Jim's gonna help this lady here for a bit. You can have someone come get his bike, now. He's done with it."
The supervisor nodded and spoke on his radio, drove off.
Mike gave Jim a knowing smile and drove back to the Ops Shack on his bike, leaving the area quiet.
Lourdes could hear all the talking outside her door, but finished her cry without paying attention.
She knew where she was, but, really: where was she? Now what was she going to do?
She jumped when she noticed a man standing outside her door on the left side, stooping slightly under her wing, looking in at her. She began wiping her tears with the sleeves on her shirt. It wasn't very ladylike. She was embarrassed and tried to recover. How much had he seen? How long had he been there?
She looked in her flight bag in the passenger seat for some tissue, found none, looked back at the man and tried to smile.
"Oh," Jim said. "Hard flight, huh? May I?" He asked as he opened her door to help her out. "Sometimes the the weather, and days of travel-and then the complex NOTAM here, can be really emotional when you get here."
He helped her out of the plane-not because she needed it, but because he wanted to.
"You'd be surprised how many times I park pilots who actually get out of the plane and kiss the ground they're so happy to have finally made it."
Lourdes stood under the left wing of her plane-without stooping, because she was
shorter-and looked up at her gentle wanna-be angel.
"Me, I just want to hug the grass, I love it so much," Jim said.
"Where am I?" Lourdes asked.
"Oshkosh, Wisconsin."
Lourdes walked out from under the wing to distance herself from him and look at her intended camp sight.
"I mean, this is camping, right? I can pitch a tent?"
"Yes, it is. And I can help."
"No, no. I can do it." She went back into her cargo bay and pulled out the lightweight tent she used up at Columbia, California for days-off camping getaways.
When she pulled the tent out of her cargo bay, the bag came open. Thin, steel stakes rained out on the grass by the left main wheel.
She bent over to pick them up and fell backwards over the wheel, landing less than gracefully. "Aiieeee!" She started to get up, but he stopped her.
"It's the fatigue," he said. "But you know, it's such a lovely lawn, here, the shade under the wing is cool, and the view is so great. Why don't we rest a second. I'd enjoy it. I've been working pretty hard, too." He sat on the grass near her and lay back to stare at the underside of her wing, surrounded by blue sky.
"Tell you what: If you'll let me rest for a second, I'll help you get that tent up in short order. You got any tie downs?"
She looked at him.
"Ropes? To tie the wings down. Stakes for it? Wind's nice now, but just in case the wind blows.
"Oh," she said again.
"None?"
She shook her head. Lourdes didn't carry stakes, normally.
"Well, then I think I can rustle up some. We have some over in the Ops Shack. Someone else took off and left them behind. I could go get 'em. I bet they'll be glad to find a new home."
Lourdes jumped at the word "home" and started to tear again, struggled to avoid breaking out into a cry.
Jim's face showed concern. "Don't worry," he said calmly. "It's okay. It'll be alright."
Another Vintage volunteer showed up on foot.
Jim saw him. "Hey, Dave?"
"Hi, Jim."
"Here to get the bike?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Key's in it. I never take it out-and hey, you know where those extra stakes are on the shelf by the cooler?"
Lourdes lay back on the grass, giving up.
"Right there against the east wall, yeah. At least they were there an hour ago," Dave said.
"Can you bring them here? Ropes and all?" Jim asked.
"Sure. You bet." Dave looked at them lying on the grass under her wing. "You're not going to work too hard now, are you?"
"Not if you'll bring a hammer too," Jim said with a smile. "This is supposed to be a vacation, you know?"
Dave rode off on his scooter and came back in short order with the equipment. Lourdes looked exhausted, so Jim let her lay there while he went to work staking the plane down-one under each wing tie and one under the tail.
He picked up Lourdes' tent and examined it.
"This is a good, lightweight tent for carrying in the plane, especially over long hauls, but I do think that here at Oshkosh, you might need a more rugged rain fly. Sometimes you get a real doozy of a rain, and if we do, that tent will flood in two minutes."
"Rain fly?" Lourdes said, barely awake.
"Yeah," Jim said as much to himself as to her. "The cover over the top."
He looked through her windows into her plane. Mostly original interior. Cosmetically challenged, but in good enough shape. Tablet on the right yoke. One bag in the right seat. A few assorted camping things in the back, sleeping bag. But little in the way of clothes and no food.
"Where do you think is a good place to put the tent?" he asked.
No answer.
"My thinking is: right here," he said. "Somewhat under the left wing, with the door flap facing the cockpit door?"
No answer.
"So that might be a good place to start. It's easy to move, if you decide to later."
There was still no answer from her, so he set about putting up her tent as well: simple rip-stop fabric design with thin fiberglass tubes for overhead sleeves. Stake the bottom down with her tiny factory-supplied stakes, pull up on top, insert fiberglass poles into stops, one at each corner? Though barely effective, he put her rain fly on top of it.
She was still lying under her wing.
"Oh, what time is it?" He made a show of checking his watch. "Whoa, it's nearly noon. Yup. I like to eat lunch nearly every day."
Lourdes started getting up, groaning a little at the effort.
"Hey, Ma'am. You know, this is Friday, and the airshow isn't officially open until Monday. Not much to eat around here today, so I'd like to go into town and have a nice meal at a restaurant."
No answer.
He looked around. "No one around to go with." He waited. "I don't mean to sound forward, but I'd be glad if you'd come along. And after we're done, we could go to Target and get some camping supplies. Bet you could use some."
Lourdes recovered some with her rest. "Oh, no you don't. I don't need some Matt Damon movie-star hunk look-alike smoothing me out for a fake date an hour after I get here. You probably pick up on women when they get here, talk slick and expect some special attention three days later-" She ran her hands through her hair.
"I'm not Matt Damon, or I don't have his millions, anyway."
"You have his looks."
"And you- You-" he stumbled. "You look like Joan Baez, a little."
Lourdes was stunned.
Jim continued, "I know you're what, maybe about my age? Fifties?"
Lourdes was offended.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Your private business. I'm just saying you look kinda like Joan Baez at that age, but with her hair when she was younger: long, dark, center part, with a bit of a turn to it. More recently, she has the short-cropped hair, and I just meant- And you have a Mediterranean look to you. I guess."
"My family's from Mexico."
"Oh, my family's from Wichita," He smiled at her again, which felt disarming to Lourdes.
"I'm not doing a fast pickup on you. Cute little thing needs help? No factor! Just one pilot to another here early for the biggest airshow of its kind on earth. You don't know me, but everybody knows I volunteer here, and they know I've been helping you, and this place is about the safest on earth, so how bad does it sound?
"We can ask Millie to join us."
Lourdes looked at him.
"Mike's girlfriend. The guy who was just here?"
No recognition from Lourdes.
"We do have to eat, and it is Friday, so-really-Matt Damon or no, I think we need to go into town and have a bite. I bet your stomach agrees? And it just so happens I have access to a car. It's Mike's." He dug into his pocket and brought out some keys, big smile confirming.
Lourdes didn't have the will to fight him.
They walked northwest across her camping field through antique biplanes, over a small, wooden pedestrian bridge, and through an area of hundred-foot tall aged oaks.
It was one of the most beautiful places Lourdes had ever seen.
He showed her some sights along the way while they talked.
"This outdoor stage over here, with that huge, steel awning, is the Theatre in the Woods. After you walk five miles a day trying to see everything, it's a great place to sit with a few thousand others and watch whatever they have going on: awards, presentations, musical groups, whatever-especially if it rains of an evening. Very nice."
"Lovely," she said. "So what is your name?"
"Matt Damon."
"Not for real."
"No really! I've been him for ten minutes now."
She gave him a look like Don't mess with me.
"Ok," he held up his hands defensively. "My name's Jim Boone. It's on my volunteer name tag, see here?" It was clipped to his shirt. He showed her. "No relation to Daniel or Pat. That I know of."
"What do you do, Jim?"
"Oh, I'm wholesome and safe as th
e git-go: I run a cute little farm with a cute little white house, some roses, a red barn, fields of waving crops-"
"Picket Fence?"
"Yes, actually, and a kitchen that smells like cup cakes, often as not."
She stopped, hands on hips and glared at him.
"Ok. I'm an international jewel thief."
Lourdes rolled her eyes and turned to continue their walk west across a road into an area of motor homes.
"This is Camp Scholler. Mike-you remember that guy who also helped you park? Guy on a bike but not Dave? Millie's boyfriend?"
"No."
"You don't know her any better than you don't know him?" he asked.
Lourdes gave him a sour look.
"Well, Mike is building an RV-9A, not ready yet, so he drives up here in his motorhome with his girlfriend, Millie-and they tow his car. That's what these keys are for."
"He doesn't mind?"
"No. Its okay. We're thick as thieves."
"He's a jewel thief, also?"
"No. He's InterPol."
"Really?"
"No. But he is building his RV in my shed, so it's all very kosher. And-?" He looked at her, eyebrows raised. "So what's your name?" he asked.
"Lourdes Aida Luz Camila Montoya Delgado Rodriguez-del Aviles."
"Really?" he asked her.
"No."
He took his lumps and walked on with her.
"What was the first one?"
"Lourdes."
"Is that one real?"
"Yes."
"Lourdes." He smiled. "What a beautiful name! Religious, even."
"I'm not religious."
"That's okay. Not required in the Pilot Operating Handbook."
"And I really am Jim."
"The thief."
"Jewel thief, actually, Madam. The distinction is hardly academic. No, actually I pulled your leg a tiny bit on that. Really, I'm the one who is InterPol, and Mike fences stolen property."
"You're an angel, I can tell, because you're helping me."
Jim nodded acceptance.
"But you're neither police nor thief."
"True. Not any more. Or not very good ones, anyway. Here it is," he showed her. "That motorhome there, the short one, is Millie's. And there's Millie, right by the charbroiler tending to her Maltese. The dog's name is Li'l Missie. They're both from Greenhills, Missouri. Prettiest little town you never saw."
"That's where you're from?"
"Not any more. Now I do all my work out of Paris. Got the idea from the 'Bourne Identity' when I saw Matt Damon had his apartment there."