Two month’s later, D.B. and I are matched up again, and Lois tags along with D.B. on a trip to Guam. Its going to be fun, a room for a week at the Hilton Hotel, snorkeling on Tumon Bay. We’re doing morning turns to Japan, and we’ll be back early every evening, a vacation.
Tradition has it that we have a debriefing session upon our arrival into Guam. The eight hour Honolulu-Guam flight gets in at about 5 a.m., its still dark by the time we check into the Hilton. So, most of the crew gather on the beach to greet the gorgeous sunrise, while drinking from stolen mini’s, or from their own bottles.
A couple of hours later, the sun’s been up for a while, and D.B., Lois and I are the last ones left “debriefing.” The sunrise has been beautiful, and the bantering conversation has been fun. Were all in our cups now, tipsy, and Lois says, you know, I think its wonderful how close you guys all get, like family, knowing so much about each other, I think its great, that male-bonding thing.”
I can’t resist…."You know, you’re right, Lois. Just the other day, one of the guys confided in me that “…there he was performing oral sex on his wife, and she cut a fart like to burn the hairs out of his nose!” D.B. groans. Lois looks at the two of us, then throws her glass of ice and Jack Daniels at us both, You Sons of Bitches!” Seconds later she starts to laugh. We all do. No wonder D.B. married her. She’s a good shit, one of the guys.
The King of Tonga
The King of Tonga, His Royal Majesty Taufa’ahau Tupou IV, was snoring heavily, drool moistening the collar of his “Aloha shirt.” A grossly overweight man, this last true Monarch of the Pacific, filled his first class seat completely. The King’s wife, his Crown Prince son, and their retinue, had purchased exclusive use of the First Class cabin for our flight from Guam to Tokyo.
Captain D.B., Wild Bill Chowder, and I were the crew flying this royal assemblage to Japan, to attend Emperor Hirohito’s funeral, in January of 1989.
En route, I told D.B. of a story I had read as a kid, one which stuck with me all my life. Jim Thorpe, the American Indian running star, had been sent to Europe at the turn of the century, to represent the United States in the Olympics. Having won a number of gold medals, this young kid, right off the reservation, was on the receiving line being introduced to the King of England. Jim Thorpe said, “Hi, King,” The London Times famous banner headline screamed “H I K I N G” and Jim Thorpe became the toast of Europe.
D.B. raises an eyebrow, he knows this story’s been goin’ somewhere. “Darry,” I ask, “may I?”
“Hey Kesh, not many real Kings left,” D.B. says, granting me his permission, with this bit of wisdom. Before I leave the cockpit, I carefully straighten my tie, put on my pilot’s jacket, and adjust my hat.
“Very pretty.” D.B. says.
“Thanks,” I agree, leaving the cockpit.
Everyone’s asleep in First Class, including His Royal, snoring Majesty. Decision time….Fuck it….I tug gently on his sleeve… nothing. In for a penny in for a career, I pull on his cuff more insistently. His poached egg eyes roll down, focusing on me as he comes awake. Sticking out my hand, I say, “Hi, King.” Graciously, the mountainous Monarch shakes my hand.
As I reenter the cockpit, D.B. looks back at me. Giving him the thumbs-up, I say, “Thanks, D.B.”
“Hey.”
Initiation
“Oh my God, he came in my ears!,” screaming, she rips off the headset, the sticky, white fluid dripping from her ears, and down onto her collar. In a panic, Cyndie runs from the cockpit, slamming the door behind her.
D.B., Jerry Lovell and I were crying too, hysterical with, laughter.
Cyndie, the new-hire airhead, was thus initiated to aviation on the last leg of our pairing, Guam back to Honolulu. The rest of our flight attendants were in on this bit of mayhem.
We had recently received a series of memos concerning the “do’s” and “don’ts” of sex discrimination, written by our in-house Sex Cop, Vice President of Sex, or whatever her politically correct title was. Pilots, being the most irreverent of God’s bastards, say whatever they want to say, whenever they want to say it, political correctness be fucked.
Cyndie was a newbie, a brand-spanking new flight attendant. Working first Class, she had come up to the cockpit a number of times over the past week, bringing us our meals, and our coffee. It didn’t take long to discover the empty universe that lived between her ears.
“If’n that little girl tried to blow her brains out with my pistol, the bullet would travel in endless circles forever, looking for somethin’ to hit,” declares D.B.
“Hell, D.B., she sticks her head out her moving car’s window to get herself a refill,” I add.
“I don’t get that,” D.B. says. What’s that mean?”
“You know, refill, air in the ears, ‘airhead’ …” I stop myself seeing him grin at me, he’s got me again.
“We got to do her!” Our Captain has made a command decision.
D.B. concocted some gizmo in his room during our last day in Guam. Taking a headset from cabin class, the old-fashioned kind, with the rubber-tube ear-pieces, he cut off the last couple of inches. Filling a balloon he bought at Gibson’s with just enough milk, creating a little bladder, he inserted the end of the headset into the neck of the balloon, and secured the whole apparatus with a rubber band.
Now, we’re established at altitude, on our last leg, the flight home to Honolulu. D.B. carefully tucks the entire affair down his uniform pants, and puts the phony headset on. He’s sitting in the left seat, a very still spider in it’s web, waiting patiently.
Cyndie, the fly, finally buzzes into the cockpit, and starts chatting with me and Jerry Lovell. D.B., all the while, remains studiously uninvolved, monitoring the instruments, seemingly oblivious to us. Eventually, Cyndie eyeballs the tube running down the outside of the Captain’s black tie, and disappearing into his trousers. Fascinated by the cabin-class movie headset on D.B.’s head, Cyndie flys into the spider’s web. “Captain Swayde, what are you listening to?”
D.B. blushing, shyly looks over at her, and says, Its kind of embarrassing to talk about, but my wife Lois and I have been trying for kids for a number of years now. We’ve gone to all the doctors and the specialists, you know. This last specialist, he’s come up with some new technique, and he’s taught me how to listen to my sperm count, to see if it is ‘proper.’ So, on the last leg of every trip, I listen to my sperm count. If it’s a good count, I go home and we try to make a baby. You wanna’ listen to my sperm count?”
Cyndie, saying yes, leans her head close, as D.B. now gently places the headset over her ears. When he’s done, and she’s concentrating, he gives the bladder buried in his pants a little squeeze, and the milk squirts out of her ears.
“Oh my God, he came in my ears!” Cyndie screams, ripping the headset off, charging from the cockpit.
“Mission accomplished,” D.B. says. “I sure do hope we’re in compliance with the Company’s policy for…”
“We’re in real fuckin’ trouble,” is my only response.
“Hey, Chubby,” Lovell asks, “Why do women fake orgasms?”
“Okay, why?”
“Because they think we care!”
“Lovell,” D.B. asks, “you know why the bride’s smilin’ as she’s walkin’ down the aisle? It’s ‘cause she knows she’ll never have to suck his cock again. But, why’s the groom smiling?”
“Because he doesn’t know it yet!” I beat him to the punch-line.
A male flight attendant, with severe female tendencies, brings us up our coffees, and quickly minces out of the cockpit.