by Mandy Smith
“Sure is,” I said, stroking the soft blond hairs on his leg. He looked so handsome – unshaven and rugged, which was unusual for him. He was showing me how to check the horizon to make sure we flew straight. I gazed at him not hearing a word … I had only one thing on my mind that day: sex.
It was mid July 2001. Jonathan was still a trainee pilot and was building up his flying hours in Florida in order to gain his commercial pilot licence, so I’d taken a week off work to join him there. It was a rare treat for us to spend some quality time together away from the pressures of work and home. After Jonathan’s marriage proposal – which turned out not to be as half-hearted as it seemed – in Barbados, we’d had a good long chat about our relationship and agreed that, if we were to get married at some point in the future, we really should try living together first. Within three weeks we’d moved in to a little two-up, two-down house on a new estate in Westergate, Chichester.
Living together had many perks: being able to walk around the house naked without the fear of bumping into flatmates – or disturbing them with our noisy sex sessions – snuggling up in front of the TV, and showering together. There was no more PMT-features Becky crashing the Hoover around at all hours or screaming about unpaid bills. But, like most couples who cohabit for the first time, we were also discovering some habits about each other which were less appealing. Jonathan found it irritating – and hurtful – that I never wanted to speak to him when I returned home from trips. But the last thing I needed after a ten-hour flight of small talk was to discuss avionics for the Cessna 172, or hear him prattle on about how many job rejections he’d received. I just wanted to relax in the bath with a glass of wine.
What niggled me about Jonathan – not that it was a major issue – was that he was rather tight with money. It always seemed to be me who was paying out for things around the home. When he called me from trips abroad, it was always a half-minute call to say: “Can you ring me back?” Whenever he bought me flowers they were always anaemic, limp carnations from the local garage. But despite his frugal proclivities, I loved him dearly and I was thrilled to come to the Sunshine State with him … even if it did mean kipping in a basic dorm at the Huffman Aviation flight school, which was another money-saving brainwave of Jonathan’s. “Saves splashing out on an extortionate hotel,” he said.
Our first few days in Florida had been magical: flying over the Keys, exploring Venice and the vast, pristine beaches of Sarasota where the sand is as white as icing sugar. We visited fantastic restaurants and feasted on lobster claws and steak and giant prawns. We made love in the sand dunes, collected sharks’ teeth and swam in the Gulf of Mexico. It was like a mini honeymoon … if you took the flight school accommodation out of the equation.
Our excursion to Marathon had been equally as romantic and decadent: picnicking on the palm-lined shore of Sombrero Beach, feeding each other succulent slices of cantaloupe, sunbathing and burying each other in the sand. We’d shared salty kisses in the Atlantic, Jonathan wading in languid figures of eight as I clung onto him, legs clamped around his waist, his hands creeping into my bikini bottoms under the water.
By the time we left Marathon I was highly aroused. My body felt like an erotic solar panel, drenched in sexual energy from the sun. I was in the mood for something risqué.
As the Cessna climbed further into the sky, and my hormones continued to scream “take me now”, I remembered a conversation I’d had with Jonathan a few weeks back about joining the Mile High Club.
“I can’t believe we’ve not done it yet,” I’d said, as we lay in bed that Sunday morning after attempting the suspended scissors position from the Kama Sutra (we were still trying to master that one).
“Done what?”
“Joined the Mile High Club … I mean, it’s embarrassing really – we both fly for a living … and we’ve had plenty of opportunities when we’ve been on trips together. We’ve no excuse.”
“I don’t think it’s something you can just do on a whim, Mands. It requires a certain amount of planning.”
“Planning? Don’t be ridiculous. That’s the whole point of it – you just sneak into the toilet and go for it – that’s what makes it so exciting.”
“It’s a technical point, Mands.”
“Go on,” I’d said, suppressing a little laugh. I couldn’t imagine what was so technical about bonking in a plane – unless it involved performing the Suspended Scissors position, of course. That was difficult enough on the ground.
“Well, technically you shouldn’t really do it at 35,000 feet. It’s called the Mile High Club so it should happen at 5,280 feet – exactly a mile high. It’s logical when you think about it.”
This had all sounded rather geeky to me at the time. Now, however, I was beginning to warm to his theory. We’d been in the air for almost ten minutes, which, according to my estimation, would mean we must be a mile high by now. I glanced over at Jonathan, surveying the space between his groin and the yoke. It was tight, but doable. His voice flooded my ears again.
“You okay, Mands?”
Very doable.
I nodded. “How high are we flying?”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes, studied the altimeter. “About 5,000 feet – still climbing.”
The timing was perfect.
“November niner niner, eight zero Delta,” I purred, unsnapping my seatbelt. “You are clear to fly me.”
In a series of sleek, rapid movements I removed my headphones (they wouldn’t be needed), kicked off my flip-flops, pulled my T-shirt over my head and untied my silver bikini top. Jonathan shot me a sideways grin. He was saying something but it was impossible to make out his words over the engine noise without my headphones on. I wriggled out of my shorts and bikini bottoms, unleashing a deposit of sand, and reached across to unfasten Jonathan’s Bermuda shorts. He was flying commando – and more than ready for action.
My next manoeuvre was tricky. I had to weave my whole upper body under Jonathan’s right arm and over his left shoulder, and angle my head to avoid obstructing his view. Then I threaded my legs through, knelt on his lap and, using my hand, gently guided him into me. The sensation was exhilarating, almost tantric. Jonathan was in no position to thrust because he couldn’t let go of the yoke, and I didn’t want to cause a crash by going for it cowgirl style. So I took it slow, rocking my hips backwards and forwards, side to side. I could touch him but he couldn’t touch me. It was like a lap dance in the air … with extras.
Jonathan’s body was rigid against mine, his legs tense, pelvis tilted, hands still firmly gripped to the yoke. I could feel his heart accelerating against my breast. I turned my head sideways to catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes were glazing over, mouth open and jaw jutting forwards. It was an expression I knew well – that I’m-going-to-come face. The plane hopped and bumped through the air, adding to the thrill; even in the best flying conditions, it’s very rare to experience a smooth ride in a two-seater Cessna. I continued to grind and rock as the Cessna climbed and swayed, burying my face into the crevice of Jonathan’s neck. He smelt of the sea … and Nivea Factor 15. Sunlight flooded the cockpit, warming my back. Jonathan’s chest heaved and blood rushed to my head – I had to grab the back of the seat to steady myself. Seconds later I came, followed closely by Jonathan. It was the most ethereal orgasm I’d ever encountered, shivering throughout my entire body for what seemed like an eternity.
When I’d recovered I weaved my quivering limbs back to my seat. Naked, weightless and giggling uncontrollably, I slipped my headphones back on to check in with the pilot.
“November niner niner, eight zero Delta: did you reach the required height?”
Jonathan grinned, glanced briefly at his lap. “This is November niner niner, eight zero Delta: roger that, correct height confirmed.”
“I must say,” I said, “I’m most impressed at your ability to maintain full control of your joystick.”
“It’s all part of the service, madam,” he said. “Now, if you wouldn’
t mind dressing and preparing the cabin for landing.”
“I was thinking I’d just stay as I am,” I teased. “Land of the free, and all that?”
“That’ll give the guys at Venice Air Traffic Control something to smile about.”
As Jonathan began our descent I slipped back into my beach gear. As much as I found the idea of me climbing out of the Cessna in the buff highly amusing, I didn’t fancy getting arrested for indecent exposure – that would’ve ruined our perfect day out.
We touched down at Venice Municipal Airport with a succession of bumps. I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. Finally, after two years flying round the world, I’d joined the Mile High Club in a fashion I’d never imagined. I couldn’t wait to tell the girls.
“Did we really do it at 5,280 feet?” I said, as we parked up.
Jonathan flicked a switch, twiddled a couple of knobs and buttoned up his shorts. “We sure did – I was watching the altimeter. It was bang-on.”
He switched off the engine. “That was fucking amazing, Mands. Do I get a kiss now?”
So there we remained, for the next ten minutes, kissing passionately in our little love plane. Outside the early evening sky was beginning to flush pink, and I thought to myself, This is the life.
CHAPTER 10
9/11
I managed to call home just in time: moments after American Airlines Flight 11 slammed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, just before the phone lines crashed and cyberspace froze. Moments after people inside that doomed skyscraper made unimaginable heart-wrenching final calls to loved ones. In that brief shell-shocked pocket of time before the world descended into chaos.
When the horrific news broke, I was in Florida, hung-over and tucking into the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet with my crew mates in the lobby restaurant at the Marriott Orlando Airport Hotel. Prior to this we’d been having a giggle – recounting embarrassing stories from the previous night when we’d pushed the mild-mannered bar staff to near-breaking point with our brash drunken antics. Jokes were also flying around about Hurricane Gabrielle which, according to the local radio station, was currently brewing in the Gulf of Mexico and was about to batter Florida with a vengeance. “All airports could be closed,” warned the newsreader.
“Looks like we might get to Disney World at this rate,” joked our captain, Steve, in between mouthfuls of sloppy maple syrup–saturated pancakes. “If this storm gets going we could be looking at spending a good few days here. Get ready to party, kids.”
And it was literally at that point, as the word “party” spilled out of his greasy crumb-stippled mouth, that the haunting image flashed up on the giant TV screen behind his head: A slick silver skyscraper – such an iconic feature of the New York skyline – engulfed in flames with plumes of smoke billowing from a gaping black hole in its side.
The breakfast din of subdued chatter and cutlery scraping china came to an abrupt stop as everybody stared at the screen in stunned silence. And suddenly, memories of busty Julie whipping her top off and dancing on the table in the Kicks Bar didn’t seem remotely funny anymore. And the hurricane and Disney World and the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet all paled into insignificance.
A cataclysm of Armageddon proportions was going down in Manhattan … and my parents thought I was there in the thick of it all; I’d been due to fly to JFK on September 10, but I’d swapped flights with a colleague, Debbie, at the last minute because she was desperate to see her boyfriend, Tom, who lived in New York. Only I hadn’t told Mum and Dad that I’d switched. There had been no need to tell them, as they hardly ever knew where I was, and I routinely swapped flights. But I had been to see them the previous weekend and told them I was off to New York, so I knew that wherever they were and whatever they were doing at that precise moment in time, Mum and Dad would have heard the news and they’d be going out of their minds with worry. So, as the frantic eye-witness accounts flowed, and the grainy footage of what looked like a plane hitting the tower filled the monitor, I fled to my room to make that call.
“Please be home, Mum,” I said over and over, as I furiously punched the ten-digit code from my international calling card into the bedside phone.
The line crackled then connected. The ring tone purred into my ear. “Please pick up, please pick up,” I said out loud. But the phone rang out and connected to the answer phone. I heard Mum’s cheery voice: “You’ve reached Sue and James. We’re out just now, but do leave a message. Thank you.”
I waited for the loud bleep to end and left a message. “Hi Mam, hi Dad,” I said, trying to sound calm. “I don’t know whether you know what’s happened over here yet, but there’s some horrible stuff going on involving planes in New York. I just wanted you to know that I’m safe and well. I swapped my New York flight and I’m currently in Orlando. I’ll try and call later. I love you.”
I hung up and tried calling Jonathan, but by the time I’d dialled the code again, the lines had crashed. I stayed in my room for a while, thinking about the tragic scene that had just played out on CNN downstairs in the lobby restaurant. It was totally incomprehensible, like we’d been watching a scary movie, or somebody had hijacked CNN’s airwaves and broadcast fake footage. I couldn’t erase the harrowing image from my mind. Outside I could hear the early rumblings of Hurricane Gabrielle. I looked out of the window. I’d stayed here dozens of times on trips but I never tired of the view. You could see for miles – across the vast car park and man-made lake all the way to Cape Canaveral, where monstrous charcoal storm clouds were now looming, making ever-changing scary faces in the sky. The palm trees were being whacked out of shape in the wind, and the fountain on the man-made lake became distorted. Cars jiggled in the car park, threatening to take off. The room darkened. The air con pumped frosty breaths on the back of my neck and the flagpoles squeaked and chimed eerily in the storm.
Walking back to the bar, I felt as though I was trapped in a dream world. The hotel had hosted one of those hideous child beauty pageants at the weekend and the contestants were out in force – in the corridors, the foyer, turning cartwheels on the garish swirly-patterned carpets and belting out Broadway hits. They looked like mini Dolly Partons minus the boobs – dolled-up to the nines in layers of make-up and fake tan, masses of big hairdos, dressed in revealing spandex costumes or frothy dresses akin to those worn by the dollies that sit on toilet rolls. They were like the product of a genetic experiment gone wrong. And as they twirled and strutted and posed and sang, a second plane hit the South Tower.
In the lobby restaurant more misery emanated from the television: people leaping from the towers, others running for their lives, coated in grey dust. It didn’t make for good viewing but none of us could tear ourselves away from the screen. We had around two hundred crew members in New York and no way of contacting them. What if any of them had decided to visit the Twin Towers that morning? It didn’t bear thinking about. All of us had stayed in New York at some point in our flying career, but I had done so many flights there every month, I now classed it as my second home – bumping into more friends walking down Fifth Avenue than I ever would at home. Most of us were too shocked to speak … apart from Steve, who started chanting lyrics from “Bob the Builder” when the South Tower collapsed. We all looked at him in disbelief. Obscenities such as “knob-head” and “wanker” were muttered. For once, a wave of realisation spread across Steve’s face – he knew he’d been bang out of order this time.
“Sorry guys,” he said, sheepishly.
Steve was one of the fat, bald pilots who fancied himself as a Casanova and had a bit of a God complex – one of the ones quick to brag about the fact he has “at least 400 people’s lives in my hands”. He was always trying to get the young stewardesses into bed, labouring under the misapprehension that they’d be happy to oblige just because he could fly a plane.
The ghastly footage continued to roll: the smoking Pentagon, crumpling like a house of cards; the White House evacuated; reports of United Airlines
Flight 93, headed for San Francisco, crashing into a field in Pennsylvania; the work of terrorist hijackers; that fuzzy shot of a plane striking the North Tower relayed over and over again to the soundtrack of yet more eyewitness accounts. We were hearing reports of airline crew fighting off the hijackers – and that one passenger had had their throat slashed. A nightmare was unfolding in front of us.
None of us moved from the restaurant until the early hours of the following morning. We were glued to the screen, cut off from the world with only each other for company. The mood was solemn. We felt for the crew who had lost their lives – how they’d gone to work that day and just never returned. This played on my mind as I drifted in and out of sleep later that morning, Gabrielle performing a raucous dawn symphony outside my window. I wondered whether I’d ever really contemplated the risks involved in this job. During training we’d been taught how to deal with potential hijack situations, but none of the scenarios put to us had involved planes crashing into major landmarks. “Hijackers normally have only one goal in mind: to seek asylum,” we were told. “Listen to them, don’t antagonise them and, in most cases, nobody gets hurt.”
The previous day’s events affected some crew members more badly than others, one being Nicole, a new recruit who was only nineteen, and who woke me from my restless sleep when she called my room at 8am, sobbing down the phone.
“I can’t cope,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ve not slept all night … I want to go home.” She sounded so fragile.
“Come up to my room,” I offered. “I’ll stick the kettle on.”
Five minutes later Nicole arrived, looking as white as a sheet, with red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, dabbing at fresh tears with a soggy, disintegrating tissue, cardigan slipping from her delicate shoulders as she stretched the sleeves over her hands.
“Don’t be silly, hon,” I said. “Come, sit down and I’ll make you a cuppa.”
As I made the tea, Nicole’s emotions gushed out.
