by Evelyn Weiss
the blue of the sky and the lake bursts on my sight again. The wind remains fearfully cold, but the sun is warm on my face. I see ships below us. Then I see that we’re flying directly above a ferry, and I can see people on the deck. Like little dolls on a toy boat. We must be a thousand feet in the air.
The ferry disappears behind us and we fly on, for several minutes maybe. I’m not sure how long: I’ve lost all sense of time. Blue below, blue above. On the next boat that passes below us, I can see the upturned heads of the crew. I guess that – like me, until now – they have never seen an airplane. And to see one for the first time, out here on the lake, must seem to them like a wonder of the world. I see them pointing and gesturing to each other, and I can even make out the amazed expressions on their faces: the boat must be closer to us than the previous one, as if we’re now flying a little lower. I have no idea where we are or how long we’ve been flying. Are we near the end, or not yet half-way? Maybe near the end: we’re flying even lower now. As that boat too disappears behind us, I notice that the surface of the lake looks quite close. I can see the crests of waves again, and white shapes: they’re seagulls, sitting on the water.
Chisholm shouts in my ear “We seem quite low.”
I guess Rufus knows what he’s doing. But then Chisholm shouts “Ask him.”
I tap Rufus on the shoulder to get his attention. He doesn’t react: I guess he’s concentrating. Then I shake his shoulder. He doesn’t answer, or turn round: he just keeps looking straight ahead. I hear Chisholm in my ear.
“Try again, Agnes. We seem to be flying even lower now.”
I shake Rufus’s shoulder again, hard. He shakes under my grip, then rolls towards me, lolling like a rag doll on the bench. If it weren’t for his safety belt he would slide off and fall… His face twists up towards mine: his mouth is open. Behind the goggles, I can see that his eyes are shut.
Some things scare me, make me feel faint. But here and now, my brain says: there’s no time for that. You need to deal with this situation, Agnes.
I show Rufus’s inert face to Chisholm, then I feel the wrist for a pulse: I can’t tell if there’s one or not. I pull his goggles off and hold them over his mouth: if they mist up, he’s still breathing. But if there is breath coming from his mouth, the wind takes it away. I glance round at the blue of the lake, closer again now. I’ve spent thirty seconds already just trying to find out if he’s alive. We’re heading for the water. If another thirty seconds pass without me doing anything, all three of us will be dead.
I shout to Chisholm. “When you two talked – did he tell you anything about flying?”
“Yes. I can pilot this, maybe, if…”
Somehow, all three of us must change places so that Chisholm can reach the controls. I’m already unbuckling my safety belt, then Rufus’s. I stand up from the bench, putting all my weight on the frail-looking foot rail, and turn around to face the unconscious body. My skirts flap around me, but I just focus on what I have to do: I must drag Rufus into my own place in the middle of the bench. It’s horribly awkward: like moving a heavy sack of potatoes, and with each movement I think: he’s going to slide forward towards me, off the edge of the bench. I grab onto the waistband of his trousers in my struggle to move him sideways, and I can feel the thin metal of the foot rail bending. The airplane dips, climbs, then dips again, more steeply now.
I strain every fiber of my muscles to move Rufus, and I glance down at my feet on the foot rail: it’s bent, but it holds. The wind gusts round me like a hurricane. The water races below my shoes, the plane tilts crazily, but I have to ignore everything. All that matters is that I move Rufus out of the way, so that Chisholm can get into the pilot’s seat and reach the controls.
Rufus is in the middle now. All Chisholm has to do is sidle across his lap, into the pilot’s seat.
But as I look at Chisholm, it seems like time is standing still. He doesn’t move, not one inch. Below his goggles, I see a wry smile forming on his lips, like a brave man going to his death because of a trivial twist of fate, and laughing about it. He shouts a few simple words at me.
“Agnes. My safety belt’s stuck.”
It’s like some horrible joke. I hold one of the wooden struts to steady myself as I reach over to the buckle of Chisholm’s belt. My fingers are more delicate and nimble than his. But the thing is clamped shut.
The airplane is swaying and slewing a few feet above the water now. At this speed – maybe sixty miles an hour – I can tell what will happen next. One of the wildly dipping wingtips will catch the surface of the waves, and the drag on the water will instantly rip the whole airplane over into the lake. The engine and propeller will keep spinning. Unconscious Rufus, and Chisholm, strapped helplessly in place, will die as the engine goes through their backs. I may be able to leap free.
And then, the fate that I cheated on the Titanic will catch up with me. Hypothermia. The winter ice has not long melted on this lake. I’ll part drown, part freeze.
“Chisholm, I’ll get into Rufus’s seat. I’ve not a clue what to do, but –”
“I’ll shout you instructions.”
A moment later, I’m back on the bench, in Rufus’s place. The airplane continues to dip and weave like a dragonfly over a pond. Water scuds below my feet. Chisholm yells hoarsely over the wind.
“Hold the two sticks.”
They’re just like wooden walking sticks: curved ends as handles. I listen for instructions. Chisholm yells above the din of the engine.
“The left stick controls the elevators. Pull it back – very slowly.”
I grasp the stick and try to move it gently. Nothing happens. Is it stuck? I try again, firmly but gradually.
We lurch upwards and I feel the air resistance buffeting the entire structure; the engine seems to stutter. The craft trembles in its flight, then shakes as if it’s going to fall apart. Suddenly I feel sick in the pit of my stomach: we seem to fall in the air. Like an autumn leaf dropping down from a tree. We’re just above the water now.
“We’re losing airspeed, Agnes! The plane’s about to stall.”
“What shall I do?”
“You’ve pulled the stick back too far. Move it forward a fraction.”
To me, it seems like I had hardly moved the stick at all. But I try to move it forwards again – so, so slightly. Two, three seconds pass. The stuttering lessens, then ceases, and the plane levels off. The engines roar, the speed quickens again. I say a silent prayer of thankfulness. But I can’t waste a moment. Although we’re under control again, and flying almost level, the surface of the lake is still horribly close, racing past me and under me. A wave grazes the skis, and I’m splashed in the face. I feel like my mouth is filled with ice, I choke and spit. And try – so, so subtly – to move the stick backwards again.
Nothing happens.
“Pull the stick back!”
I’ve moved it already, I think. So fractionally… but yes – I did feel it shift. Should I listen to Chisholm, pull it again? And now another wave hits the plane, this time splashing over all the lower wings. We have to gain some height, right now. But I remember what happened a few seconds ago when I pulled the stick too much. I hold my nerve. I don’t move the stick.
Another wave comes towards us, bigger this time.
And misses us. Just inches below the wingtips. We’re holding a straight, controlled course in the air. It’s almost imperceptible, but we’re climbing. Straight ahead, I see blue sky and the disk of the sun.
“Good work.”
Seemingly, we’re leveled out now: I keep both sticks rigidly in position: we’re maybe fifty feet above the water, and ahead of me, above the lake, is a dark line. It moves towards us, getting bigger and clearer. The coast of New York State.
Almost before I can believe it, the wild rapids of the Niagara River are below us. I have no idea how to land this thing – but first, I have to steer it to our landing place, up-river from the Falls. I shout as loudly as I can.
“Chisholm, how do
I steer?”
“What?”
“How do I change direction?”
“The right stick. Gentle movements, like before.”
But there’s no time to think carefully about what to do. In the blink of an eye, a white wall of falling water appears in front of us. But not just in front of us: above us, too. We’re still far too low: below the top of Niagara Falls.
I control my instinct to jerk the left stick back. I move it gently, but we’re not climbing. We’re heading straight for the base of the Falls.
Maybe we could steer out of the way? I move the right stick, gently. Nothing happens except the airplane tilts over to one side. The white wall is closer now, and above the roar of the engines, I hear another, deeper roar. Thousands of tons of water, falling.
“Steer more, Agnes! Bank and climb!”
I have no idea what bank means, but I pull the right stick over more. The tilt increases and yes, we start to slew over to the left-hand side. The tilt is horrible, I look down to my left and I see the swirling river just below me, like the plane is tipping over, and I wonder if Rufus will slide from his seat.
We’re fractionally higher now, and curving up to our left. But it’s not enough. Even if we miss the water, we’ll smash into the cliffs on Niagara’s American shore. I try easing the left stick a bit more, to try to climb above the falls. Can we climb, just a fraction?
Nothing happens.
And suddenly the roar is deafening
