Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,2

you’re still over water. The more research I do, Doc, the more I’m convinced it could have happened.”

Futch, too, was thinking back to that stormy winter night when the five torpedo bombers went missing. It was possible his theory was valid, but I was skeptical despite the fact my pilot pal knows a lot more about aviation and missing planes than I ever will. We were over a sea of sorts—a sea of scud-colored swamp and sawgrass; the horizon a plain of flaxen gold in the late-morning sun. Below, the Earth was pocked with limestone implosions, random as craters on the moon, and there were islands of cypress trees that illustrated isolation, each silver dome set miles apart, alone, eroded into tear shapes by the slow flow of water draining seaward off the Florida plateau. A river of grass, Marjory Stoneman Douglas had described it, which is accurate but does not capture the immenseness of the lower forty-eight’s largest roadless, unpopulated wilderness—the Everglades.

“We’ve got some thermals building up ahead,” Futch said, “but that’s what we’re here for, right? And that high-pressure system is still moving toward us from the northeast. So it’s looking like we chose the right day.” The man was preparing us for the bumpy ride ahead, but his manner said No need to be concerned.

I wasn’t. Much of my traveling life has been spent in choppers and small planes, and I’ve done some flying myself. Nowhere near Futch’s league, though—he’d logged more than twenty-six thousand hours in the air and was among the most respected seaplane pilots in the country. In my headphones, I heard Tomlinson respond, “So far, the smoothest ride ever.” Then added, “You ever think about flying into a waterspout? You know, just to see what would happen? I did it once in my sailboat. Really an interesting experience. Maybe not today, but let your subconscious work on the idea. I’d go with you.”

In reply to the pilot’s questioning look, I nodded, then shook my head: Yes, Tomlinson really had sailed into a waterspout. No, he was not crazy. Well . . . maybe a little.

As we communicated, the little plane shuddered, then began bucking at the rim of a thermal, which was not unexpected. But then something in the tail section went BANG! For a moment, the seaplane paused in midair, listing mildly to port as if it, too, were surprised, and suddenly undecided about which laws of physics applied. Beside me, I was aware that the steering yolk had lost resistance, moving freely as a trombone slide in Futch’s hands.

“Pitch control elevator,” he muttered, “it’s gone,” which is something you never want to hear from a pilot, yet he said it coolly as if he’d anticipated the possibility, maybe even practiced what to do. At the same instant, the plane teetered, nose-heavy, like a roller coaster that has topped a hill, then we dropped from the sky like a dart, the propeller pulling us downward. The sick sensation of my stomach falling slower than my chest plastered me to the seat. I thrust out my hands to stop the Earth from accelerating toward us, but the windshield flooded the cockpit with mushrooming details of where we would soon impact: a prairie of lilies, rock, and sawgrass, a film of black water glittering beneath.

Pilots use the abbreviation G-LOC to describe the loss of consciousness that occurs when excessive gravitational force drains blood from the brain. Maybe that’s what happened to me because the next few seconds were a blur of images and sensations. I was aware of Dan working feverishly at the controls, his right hand darting between the trim wheel and the throttle, while his left babied the steering yoke. Even wearing headphones, sound was obliterated by engine noise, the airstream howl of chattering aluminum, so those moments passed in a roaring silence. Later, Tomlinson would swear he’d shouted, “Looks like we’ll be on the ground early!” before whispering some Sanskrit chant. Maybe it was true. If so, his words didn’t register. All I remember clearly is taking comfort in the confident flow of Futch’s hands moving among the controls, all the while my eyes fixed, unblinking, on a patch of limestone that was hurtling toward my face.

Gradually, I became aware of the plane’s changing angle of descent. We were still plummeting toward the hardpan, but on an incline that suggested we might hit belly first and not auger in like an arrow. Great! Emergency crews would be able to identify us