home
prev next

      
FLIGHT
(from Frobisher Bay to Broughton Island)

Eight of us, four Inuit in parkas, four whites
in various lightweight coats, Frobisher Bay Airport,
June 3, 1976 - destination Broughton Island
(Kikerten name in old days).  We scramble up
steep unrailed steps into the womb
of a has-seen-better days DC3.
We choose seats from those
along one side
the other is loaded with luggage,
snowshoes, an engine, skidoo, - 
I recognize my own bag - skis, traps
and boxes holding who knows what
are strapped into place.
Seats ragged, uncomfortable - two each however.

The air is cold!

Captain himself, handsome in uniform,
welcomes us aboard.
Smiling, he ducks his head
through a low doorway and disappears
beyond a folding curtain . . .

Twin motors leap to life
the plane paws the air, cracks, buckles.
roars high on shuddering wings
into a sky blue as the heavens
over our prairie home.

I stare at the sparkling cold beauty
of a winter landscape below
"June?  Can this be June?"
then I settle to the daily entry
in my journal.

Twelve minutes later,
snuffing brief candles of complacency,
Joanne (Nord Air Hostess, daughter-in-law,
mother of my grandson)
emerges from the Captain's cubicle.
Tossing back her golden hair, she says,
"We're going back!"
Voice and eyes are steady - silence!

Someone asks, "Is Broughton fogged in?"
Her reply, "One engine's conked out
one's OK.  It's all right,
but we do have to go
back to Frobisher!"

Mind cycles memories,
regrets, unfulfilled hopes, prayers
while ragged Time spends itself
in hoarse beat-beating
of a single motor like a heart pumping life blood.
Cherishing the harsh sound,
we munch biscuits Joanne passes
and wait - wait - wait!

My reactions:
 (My coat is thin - over 90 in Montreal
  when we left - unseasonably hot.
  Down there I'll need something heavier.
  Where will we land if
  steady, steady, coat, think
  about your coat - Joanne, her husband and child
  waiting at Broughton, smiles,
  dimples dashing out and in.
  Is your terror smothered like mine
  in trivial thoughts?  Is this a bridge
  which may never have to be travelled?  My coat's thin -
  too thin . . .
  I must remember my coat's too thin!)

The clouds are soft,
angel wings in an azure sky.  Below
rock pierces snow mounds blazing in sunshine,
The Sylvia Grennel River winds,
a cold highway of glittering ice.
Cold!  Cold!  Cold!
Beat, beat, beating on, still on . . .
Ten, twelve, fifteen minutes later
our wings darken red of fire engines
on the Frobisher tarmac.
The Captain sets the DC3 down
gently, as a mother
laying her sleeping child in his crib.

      

Return to top of page

Copyright 1989 by Mildred A. Rose,

all rights reserved.
Originally published by The Music House Press.
No part of this collection may be reproduced,
except in short reviews, without the
author's permission.

Feb 07, 2012, 02:36 PM CST

RMS Publications
BFS Media Group
EM.CA Internet Services