"Not afraid to fly are you?" he asked Jack gently.
"I was a paratrooper in the war," Jack replied. "The last time I flew it was over Berlin and I had a parachute and an M1 on my back."
"Well have no fear," Ron assured him. "I go along with the smart pilot's credo. There are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old bold pilots. I've been flying for more than twenty years, including a stint in A-1 Sandies in Vietnam. I've logged thirty-six combat missions and more than six thousand hours total. You are perfectly safe with me at the stick."
"That's good to know," Jack put in.
We roared into the sky shortly afterword, Jack sitting in the front next to Ron, me sitting in the back. The two older men exchanged tales of their war experiences as we soared over the gentle rolling hills of Eastern Washington and finally over the Cascades where the unstable air bounced us around quite frightfully. We landed perfectly normally at nine-fifteen that morning and caught a cab to the motel where I'd made reservations.
I changed into my suit and caught another cab to the medical center, arriving twenty minutes early. The interview went well, outstanding in fact. I was all but assured that the job was mine if I wanted it.
We went to the baseball game and spent a pleasant four hours just shooting the shit and drinking beer and eating hotdogs. Jack bought my beer for me and no one ever questioned the fact that I was drinking it. The Mariners, despite horrible odds to the contrary, beat the A's 4-3, coming back with a two run homer in the eighth just when things seemed hopeless.
We went back to our motel room and crashed hard, Jack in one bed, me in the other. Jack, I found, snored like a chainsaw.
A wake-up call at 5:30 the next morning got us up and around. The day was beautiful for fishing, with no clouds and no rain. Summer is the best part of the year in Seattle. We scored some coffee and a light breakfast from the motel restaurant and then caught a cab to the waterfront. I had a large ice chest with me, the same one I took on boat trips, and we filled it with ice and beer. We obtained our one-day fishing licenses, rented our equipment, and at 6:40, the seventy foot fishing boat headed out of Puget Sound for the open water.
The sea was very rough, with fifteen-foot swells bobbing us up and down like a cork in the Pacific Ocean. There were sixty fishermen and women on the boat and well over half of them became completely incapacitated with seasickness. Bodies were laying everywhere, on every bench, on every table.
The bathroom was flooded in vomit, it overflowed the toilet and ran across the floor.
Jack and I did just fine. Both of us had been deep-sea fishing before, Jack many times throughout his life, me on five consecutive years as part of a company function in my previous life. Of course I didn't tell Jack this and he admired my stamina. Those of us that remained un-sickened managed to catch the limit for everyone else that was unable to fish. We no sooner dropped our lines in and let them sink to the bottom than we were pulling them up with three fish on the hooks. I caught twelve rock cod and Jack caught ten. He also managed to hook a lingcod, an ugly, dangerous looking fish, which the first mate gaffed and drug aboard with a long pole.
Jack and I basked in male bonding throughout that day, becoming closer and closer to each other, becoming friends despite the differences in our ages (which wasn't quite as great as Jack thought it was). We drank beer and ate the sandwiches we'd bought at the waterfront deli before departure. We gave contemptuous glances and comments to those that were too sick to fish, even though their non-participation was a blessing because we rarely got our lines tangled with another fisherman.
By the time the all the lines were pulled in for the last time and the boat began heading back towards the protected water of Puget Sound, we were pleasantly exhausted, sunburned, and sore all over. We found a relatively clean spot near the stern of the boat and sat down, both of us cracking open a fresh beer. Jack surprised me by producing a couple of cigars from his belongings. He offered one to me and I took it, seeing with pleasure that it was a genuine Havana.
"These are illegal in this country," I said with mock sternness. "And you, a government employee, has them in your possession."
He burped, firing his up with a disposable lighter. The fragrant smoke drifted off behind the boat. "Yep," he commented, unconcerned that he was violating a federal law. "A buddy of mine makes a trip up to Calgary every couple a months and picks me up some. That little shitpot country ain't good for much but goddam do they know how to make a cigar."
I took his lighter and, after considerable work in the wind, managed to get mine burning. I'd never been much of a cigar smoker but Jack was right, there was something about a good Cuban. I had a sudden vision of offering him a few tokes off of the illegal smokeable that I had stored in my bible and the image of Nina's father getting stoned was so amusing that I had to suppress a grin.
We smoked in silence for a few minutes, feeling the stern of the boat go up and down, left and right in the swells, watching the sea sick people that were still laying out on every available surface. I was gathering my courage to bring up the subject that I wished to talk about. Jack, perhaps sensing my mood, simply sat there.
"Can I show you something Jack?" I asked him finally.
"Sure," he told me, tossing his empty beer can into a garbage can six feet away; a fairly remarkable shot I might add.
I reached into my pocket and took out a small box that I'd carried with me the entire trip. Inside of it was what I'd purchased downtown the other day. Wordlessly, I handed it over to him. He looked at the felt-lined box for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Finally he opened it and beheld the diamond ring that sat inside.
"That's an engagement ring, isn't it?" he asked, snapping the box shut and handing it back.
"It is," I agreed.
"I'm already married," he told me. "And I don't think I'm your type. But I'm flattered."
I laughed nervously. "I think you know who the ring is for," I told him.
"I guess I do," he nodded, opening the ice chest. "Why are you showing it to me?"
"Because I'm asking your permission to marry your daughter," I said. "A little old-fashioned maybe, but I know how much she means to you and I thought I owed you this."
"You're asking me permission?" he asked, considering this while he pulled two beers from the ice and handed me one. "And suppose I say no? What are you going to do then?"
"Are you saying no?" I asked, cracking open my beer.
"I'm not saying anything just yet," he answered. "I'm just curious as to what you're going to do if I say no."
"Ask her anyway," I admitted. "I think you know that."
He chuckled. "Then I guess this whole conversation is pretty much meaningless then, isn't it? No matter what I say, you're still going to do it."
"But I'd feel better about doing it," I explained, "if I had your permission, which would necessarily include your blessing. It also would make you a co-conspirator when we tell Mary."
He laughed harder. "Mary scares you a little bit does she?"
"A little," I admitted.
"Good," he nodded. "Maybe that fear will keep you in line." He looked meaningfully at me. "I'd be proud to have you as a son-in-law Bill. You have my permission and you have my blessing." He held out his hand to me.
I shook with him, feeling relieved that this conversation had gone well. "Thanks Jack, thanks a lot."
He nodded, puffing his cigar. "But those threats I made to you that one day, remember those? They still apply. Even more so now."
"I'll keep it in mind."
"When are you going to ask Nina for HER permission?" he asked next.
"Soon. Very soon."
Chapter 16