Part 3: Sometimes You Have To Let Go


Friday, September 22
Harm’s Loft
North of Union Station
0515 (local)

Normally I don’t have a problem getting Harm to follow me into the shower. Normally we’ve already made love and are hurrying to not be late for work.

This is not normal.

Waking up at 0500 is not on Harm’s ‘like to do’ list. Even when I’m the one trying to wake him up.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles. For the third time.

“NO, Harm. You’re getting up now or I’m pouring a bucket of very cold water over you.”

As he sits up in bed, the man’s entire body personifies ‘grudgingly’. “That would leave a very large wet spot, Mac. Which I would be honor bound to make you sleep on ‘til it dried out.”

Cranky, but a little funny, and definitely still gorgeous despite the hour and his reluctance to wake up.

I grab him by the hand. I know he knows his way around his loft in the dark, but I don’t want to risk him dropping off the trail between his bedside and the shower.

I set the water temperature like Goldilocks: not too hot, not too cold. Or so I think.

“EEEEOWWHH!!! JESUS, MAC, YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK???”

Maybe ‘not too cold’ is different for squids.

I take him in my arms, spin him away from the spray (though that’s kinda tough to avoid in this shower, usually one of its great attributes), and quickly adjust the controls.

“Sorry, Harm. Guess I take it colder than you do.”

While he clearly didn’t appreciate the cold wake up, he’s clearly awake now.

“No, Mac. With you I always prefer it hot.”

OK. I know we’re supposed to be at the airfield by 0700, but I guess Keeter and Heather will wait if we’re a little late.

College Park Airport
College Park, Maryland
0730 (local)

As Harm and I pull into the parking lot, I see Keeter and Heather unloading their gear from an SUV. Well, we weren’t the only ones a little delayed this morning. I’ll use their ‘newlywed’ excuse any day.

Oh my.

Did I just think that?

‘Newlywed’?

Is that what Harm and I are?

Maybe we do need to talk about ‘going public’.

We join them in the Operations Building lobby where Keeter is already filing the flight plan and filling out the necessary paperwork.

“Hey, guys,” Heather and he say in almost unison.

“Hey,” we return in perfect unison.

Oh, this might get scary.

“They got any coffee around here? I only had one cup.” I’m not complaining about how I woke up, but I’m still craving caffeine.

Harm, Keeter and Heather all turn and look at me like I’m nuts.

I see Harm and Keeter exchange glances, Keeter shoots a telegraph to Heather, Heather walks over to me and says, “Mac, we didn’t get much time to talk at the wedding. How ‘bout we take a seat in the lounge, near the rest room, and get to know each other a little better while the guys do what they have to do?”

I follow her into the lounge, flush with recognition. Oh, right, four-seater plane, no head. Coffee not a good idea. Visiting this rest room a really good idea.

“Thanks.” She sees that I got it.

“You’re welcome.” She shifts back on the couch, checking to see how Harm and Keeter are doing with the paperwork. “You know what really sucks. If *they* have to go, all they need is a bottle. If you ask me, we women got rooked. We have to have periods, breasts that get sore with same, we carry the pregnancy, we nurse the baby, we go through menopause and, to top it off, we have to pee sitting down on a bucket!”

Wow. That’s a pretty impressive list of ‘reasons women were rooked’. Gee, she didn’t seem like a strident feminist when I met her at the wedding. But then, how would I know? I was just quickly introduced to her after our award-winning tango then we escaped to dance upstairs in Harm’s room.

Besides, I’m a woman who has worked her way up the promotion ladder in the US Marine Corps. Who wouldn’t think I was a virulent feminist? (Doesn’t ‘virulent’ make it sound like it’s a disease?)

She blows her bangs off her forehead with a ‘whoosh’, slaps her hands on her knees and grins at me. “Thing is, I don’t think I’ll ever get over the first time Jack and I went up in this Mooney. I had had three cups of coffee, he knew it and didn’t warn me. I should’ve known then that he got his nickname ‘The Joker’ for a reason.”

“What’d you do?”

“I made him set down in a field....I ran for the trees and barely made it. He was laughing so hard he couldn’t get back in the plane for five minutes. The next night he asked me to marry him.”

Yes, I understand why Keeter and Harm have been good friends since the Academy. Even better than Sturgis, though Harm and Sturgis see each other almost every day. Sturgis might help Harm rebuild his Corvette, will always be a moral compass for him to consult and a great buddy to shoot hoops and drink a beer with. But Sturgis would never pull a stunt like that on the woman he hoped to marry. Harm would. In a heartbeat.

Oh man. That’s twice this morning I’ve had thoughts like that. Must be some ‘newlywed aura’ exuding from Heather. Couldn’t be that I’m coming up with this on my own, could it? Naaaa.



0815 (local)

Keeter’s finished the paperwork, he and Harm have done independent preflight ground checks, our bags are loaded and they’ve come back into the lounge for us.

“Ladies, your Mooney awaits,” Keeter says with a bow reminiscent of a Musketeer.

Heather takes his arm and I take Harm’s. They escort us to the waiting plane. I must admit, the Mooney is a great looking plane. Single engine, closed fuselage, four-seater but sleek, neat, complete.
Harm puts his hand over mine where it rests on his forearm as he escorts me across the tarmac. “Mac, are you OK with this?”

He knows I’ve had some misgivings about some of our past plane rides (the Appalachians, Russia and Paraguay come to mind).

“I’m fine, Harm.” I see his concern. “Better than fine. I’m think this is gonna be great fun.”

His look says he’s not completely buying this.

“No, really, Harm. I’m good to go.”

“You didn’t have more coffee, did you?” He’s panicked.

“Not like that. I’ve done that. I’m fine. Stop worrying. Until you hear me scream.”

His look is priceless. Where is that camera when I need it?


Airborne over Pennsylvania
1130 (local)

Wow. Keeter was right. This is the best way to view the fall colors.

No getting stuck in traffic jams on two lane country roads. If the colors aren’t the best in one section, just split off for another and in a few minutes you’ve got a whole new group to take your breath away.

Since we’re flying VFR (visual flight rules), Keeter and Harm have been taking turns piloting and being the spotter. Seems we’re not the only folks with a private plane that have figured out this is a great way to see the colors. Mostly traffic is light, but a few times the guys had to really pay attention to what other planes were doing.

Keeter’s flying now and Harm’s spotting.

“Hey, ladies. How ya doing back there?” Keeter’s tone makes it very clear how he’s doing up there. Kid in a candy store comes to mind.

“Great.” “Just great.”

“OK, then, I think we’ll just mosey on up along all these lovely State Forests a little longer then set down for lunch.”

“Sounds good,” “OK.’
I notice Harm didn’t say anything, but I figure he’s busy following another private plane I can’t see from my side.


1200 (local)

I don’t know how Heather’s been able to keep track of this, but she has a map and I see we’ve flown over the Buchanan State Forest (two parts, guess that guy had a lot of pull around here), Trough Creek State Park (with the bonus of a lovely lake) and Tuscarora State Forest. We’re just starting to turn west to cut over to Rothrock State Forest when I hear Harm say, as quietly as he can yet still be heard over the steady thrum of the propeller, “Keeter.”

I watch Keeter turn and look at Harm. I see Harm give the barest of nods possible. Measured in micrometers it would hardly register.

Oh, this is either a very bad mechanical problem, or Harm has to pee.

Keeter inconspiculously shifts his body, as if he’s just stretching a bit. To a casual observer, it would seem natural. Sitting in the pilot’s chair for four hours would give one a need to stretch. And reach under the pilot’s seat. And surreptitiously pass a large-neck bottle to Harm.

Oh, the moral dilemma that engulfs me. Do I innocently start asking questions about where we’re gonna land, leaning as far forward between the seats as possible? Do I quietly elbow Heather and give her an eyebrow and hands message about what’s going on in the front seat so we can have our private, female giggle at the cocky (oh how so!) pilots? Do I stay silent and then tease Harm with it tonight in the privacy of our tent? So many choices. What’s a Marine to do?

‘Semper Fi!’ immediately comes to mind. Always faithful. To the Corps, to the Country, to myself and my man. OK, that’s the third time some kind of thought like that has come up this morning.

I wonder. Did Harm put something special in the dinner last night? I know he wants to ‘go public’, but now all of a sudden I’m thinking about it, too.

OK. I won’t bust him. But that doesn’t mean I won’t peek.

My indecision has cost me most of the show, but Harm doesn’t know that as he turns and sees me watching him. The blush he gets on his face is beyond precious. I blush back and he gives me his most charming sheepish grin. The FAA would pull his license and Keeter’s if they even suspected what I was thinking.

“Mac,” Harm’s grin is replaced by a funny look. An intense, serious look, but funny all the same. Well, maybe more strange than funny.

“You remember the first time you and I went flying?”
He’s got to be kidding. I’m gonna forget a forced landing in a field surrounded by big scary trees, then being shot and nearly raped by crazed poachers? Not to mention sleeping with his arms and legs around me, him promising me he’d get me out safely and then, guess what, he did!

“Nope, don’t recall a moment of it.”

“Yeah, right. Well, anyway, that was the first time I told you about my plane and my grandma. We’re gonna be circling her farm in about 5 minutes. She’s gonna be standing outside waving to us. If we were in ‘Sarah’, we could land in the field behind the house, but not with this Mooney. I promised her I’ll bring you up our next free weekend. Either by plane, train or automobile. I want you to meet my grandmother.”

Heather’s elbow in my ribs is anything but subtle.

Keeter’s shocked but pleased look at Harm doesn’t exactly slip under the radar either.

“We’ve just dropped down the western side of Jack’s Mountain and picked up State Route 655. We should be at Belleville in two minutes. Once we get close to the Rabb farm, I’m gonna be dropping low and circle two, maybe three times, OK folks?”

Ever the smart pilot, Keeter informs us backseaters of his intention to drop low suddenly and circle well before he actually does it. Best way to prevent panic is to let the backseaters know in advance. That “oh, I thought you’d figure it out” afterwards rarely keeps the pilot from a few nights sleeping on the couch.

Keeter’s cut the airspeed back as far as he can, I think. We cruise over a lovely small town with a charming Main Street that gives way back to rural roads and farm land. He banks right and starts to gently dive as a spur off the rural road appears. It’s lined with beautiful oak trees that are at the peak of their color. The spur, I now realize, is the country version of a driveway and it terminates in a circle that borders a rambling farmhouse, a barn and a smaller out building.

Oh. This is the Rabb farm. This is where Harm’s father grew up. This is where Harm’s grandfather lived. This is where Harm came to recover from his ramp strike.

I’m suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. My fingernails aren’t long enough for me to dig into my palms to divert my feelings with physical pain. OK. I hate doing this but I have no choice. I chew down on the inside of my right cheek enough to clear the tears from my eyes.

Harm swings around as much as he can from his seat and reaches through the space between us to grab my hand.

“Mac.”

His voice is laden with emotion and his eyes are unashamedly glistening.
Damn. Will I ever get it right?

“Thank you, Harm.”

Keeter circles lower and we see a sturdy white haired woman in blue jeans, plaid flannel shirt and barn jacket looking up, waving both arms and laughing. I can see from here where Harm got his smile.

Keeter wiggles the wings and Sarah Rabb mimics him with her arms, then pushes us away with a “go on” wave, followed by a finger wag that I’m sure Harm can interpret precisely.

We’re all quiet for a moment as Keeter climbs away from the Rabb farm.

“Been a while since I saw your Gran, Harm.” Keeter says, almost nonchalantly. “She’s looking good.”

“She’s an amazing lady.”

“What does she do for Christmas?” Keeter’s question knocks me, Harm and Heather off our stride.

“Ahh, what?”

“What does she do for Christmas, Harm? You know, December 25th, when we all get the day off work.”

“Lately she’s been spending it with her neighbors. I haven’t been able to get away and Mom and Frank always seem to be out of the country.”

“Seems a shame to waste a perfectly good farmhouse, surrounded by great sledding hills and snowball fight fields. I mean, it’s almost always snowy here by Christmas, right?”

Keeter’s pursuing this as he starts to radio in our position to the University Park Airport just northwest of Houserville, which is itself just northwest of State College.

Man, a state’s gotta be pretty low on imagination to name a city State College. Wait a minute, ‘Washington’ comes to mind (hey, the DC came later). ‘New’ York was named after ‘old’ York. Ditto for ‘New’ Hampshire, ‘New’ England, ‘New’ Jersey, need I go on? So maybe the founders weren’t so creative when it came to city names. They sure did a good job creating a new form of government.

Keeter and Harm, both focused on bringing the Mooney in, are oblivious to what’s going on in the back seat.

Heather has decided to do some sort of Helen Keller or Children of a Lesser God reenactment.
She taps me on my thigh. Hey, yes? What? I’m kinda busy watching and listening to these two guys bring us down into this little airport.

She taps me again. What? Oh, right, gotta make nice. We’re spending the weekend with her and, if I read it right, the Christmas holidays might not be far behind.

Heather points to the back of Harm’s seat. She hugs herself. Then points at me.

Crude but effective. No way can I pretend I don’t know what she ‘said’. I give a giant, exaggerated shrug.

A more vehement head shake I’ve never seen. Good god, she’s risking spinal injury with that move.

Back to her sign language. She points at me, twice, hard. (OK, OK, I get it.) Hugs herself again, this time with a little rocking side to side. Zips her finger toward the back of Harm’s head so strongly that if I thought she had combat training I’d be all over her.


She sees my instinctive response to protect him, crosses her arms over her chest, raises both eyebrows while curling her mouth into that “yeah, I knew,” smirk that only women who have won hands down get to use.

Game, set and match to Heather.