Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,11
swamp water on a cut.”
“I’ll risk it if you don’t mind,” I replied, then attempted a mild joke. “Plane crashes make me restless. Plus, I’ve got to bilge ship.” Which was island talk for urinating.
Futch pulled on a blue ball cap and fixed me with a look that communicated a lot more than what he said next. “Fact is, Doc, we didn’t crash. And there’s no law against landing hot—long as you can take off again.”
He was already out of the plane, so I swung out, too. “That wasn’t criticism, old buddy. Anybody else at the stick, I’d be dead. I owe you.”
We were facing each other, Dan standing on the port pontoon, me on the starboard pontoon, looking through the empty cockpit. Behind me, I heard Tomlinson drop down into the sawgrass, his big feet kicking water as he hurried away. Dan was studying my reaction when he replied, “Owe me? I may have to take you up on that, Doc. Don’t say it unless you mean it.”
I shrugged and said, “Sure,” but was thinking, What the hell does that mean?
—
“I’VE GOT TWO TRIPS to Key West this weekend. Plus, clients booked through the rest of the month—including a three-dayer to Walker’s Key. Then a big polo tournament in Palm Beach with old money clients. Tips alone will pay for my fuel and expenses.”
Dan was explaining his cryptic request while he worked at the tail section, unscrewing the inspection plate. He had already done a walk-around and pronounced the plane undamaged, but for a dent in the starboard float.
When the inspection plate was free, he handed it to me, plus screws, and looked me in the eye. “Tarpon season starts in six weeks. August through April, I make my living in the air . . . or I don’t make it at all. Kathy wants to remodel the kitchen this fall. And we’re going to surprise our daughter with a big wedding reception—Useppa Island isn’t cheap, you know. That’s what I meant about calling in a favor.”
I felt dense because I hadn’t figured it out sooner. “If you file an incident report with the FAA, how much air time would you lose? Not to mention all the paperwork, I know. But they wouldn’t ground you . . . would they?”
“Grounded? Hell, they’d confiscate my plane. Probably wouldn’t see it again until late winter. That’s a big chunk of money I’d lose.” Futch patted the fuselage. “Which would make sense if I didn’t think my aircraft was safe. But I’m a safety freak, you know that. And the feds can’t tell me anything I can’t find out for myself. Fact is, we didn’t crash-land. We just landed hot—which doesn’t constitute an incident report, far as I’m concerned.”
He motioned to the tool kit that was open on the elevator flap. “Hand me that ratchet, would you? I need a three-eighths, and the seven-sixteenths.” Locking one of the ratchet heads into place, he continued, “You mind walking a big circle around the area? There’s a roll of mechanic’s towels under the seat. Use ’em to mark any tree stumps or rocks. Anything that would knock off one of our floats.” Then referring to the bandage on my arm, he warned again, “But don’t get that damn cut wet, you could be sick for weeks.”
I was less concerned with germs than with what Futch was considering. He was going to attempt a takeoff in dense sawgrass? I wasn’t going to question his judgment, but the man knew what I was thinking.
“Don’t worry, I’ve done it before. Never with two passengers—weight could be a problem. Did you check your cell phone? Mine’s got no reception.”
I took a look and said, “Maybe if we were closer to the road.”
The pilot shrugged. “Once you scout the area, I’ll know more. Check our landing track first. We made it in. Get this fixed, we should be able to fly her out. And Doc?”
I had pivoted to leave, but stopped.
“Probably no need to remind you, but tell Quirko to watch his step.”
Quirko was Futch’s nickname for Tomlinson. I smiled and said, “Don’t worry. If you say there’s no need to tell the FAA, that’s good enough.”
“That’s not what I meant. A month ago, I flew a couple of state biologists into a spot near here. Herpetologists doing a census on exotic snakes. They showed me a video they had, them opening up a twenty-two-foot-long boa constrictor. The thing had choked to death eating a deer. Caught it just