and, I presume, the languages that are offshoots.”
“Close enough, Mr. Drago. This is only a small portion of the roots of languages. Do you see the word ‘Celtic’ by some chance?”
I nodded.
“And do you see the word Isular?”
“Yup.”
The professor’s face replaced the chart, eyes glaring out of my screen. “Did you just say ‘yup’? What are you, 12?” He put the chart back on screen. “Insular categorizes the Gaelic languages that began in the British Isles, not on the European continent. Small matter to you. But the words in your photos are under the word ‘Goidelic.’ I’m not moving too fast for you rubes, am I?”
Sal and I shook our heads.
“Good. The Irish version of Gaelic came from the Miliseans, another word for the ancient Irish. About 5,000 years B.C. For you two, that means a very long time ago. The Miliseans, like all good Irish, spread their seed into Scotland and beyond taking their language with them. Good God, if it weren’t for the Brits and Romans beating them to a pulp for a thousand years, we’d all have red hair and speak Gaelic! I tell you, the Irish are humanity’s equivalent of rabbits! They’re damn near everywhere!”
“Professor, we’re getting off track. Can you translate this stuff?” I asked.
“Of course! But you’ll have to give me one of those gold balls as payment!”
Sal and I looked at each other. “You know about the gold balls?”
“I said I could read the words, people. See the words on the first photo?”
I flipped to the picture. “All I see is ‘le corp brataithe no cludaithe le oir lomhar.”
“Gad! That was the worst accent I’ve ever heard! Don’t do that again, Mr. Drago. It means a ball or object made from a gold metal. Ancient Irish Gaelic. Maybe handed down from three or four thousand years ago. Send the photos and I shall translate for you.”
The professor spat out his address and the screen went dark.
Sal leaned back in his chair. “He’s such a joy to talk to.”
As the crow flies, Bandon to Holly, Colorado is something around two hours in a private jet. But commercial airlines don’t fly that way. They stop here and there and everywhere and the same trip becomes a full day (17 hour) affair. Bandon-to-Portland-to-Denver-to-Holly with an assortment of delays, waiting for connections and dealing with Denver weather conditions which can be horrendous.
Sal and I climbed in my Cirrus at 8:30 a.m. While I completed the typical safety check outside the plane, the big man fired up all the glass panel dashboard instruments, plugged in the flight path data and played with the techy stuff, his favorite part of the aircraft. We’d be in Holly by 1:30, some 12 hours faster than commercial flights.
Taxiing the Cirrus, my heart rate bumped up a couple of notches. I love to fly – as long as I’m behind the stick. This little single-engine craft is the Lexus of small planes and with a few minor modifications it was faster and roomier than the standard model. A turbocharger bumped up the horsepower and removing the rear seats to accommodate my longer legs and Sal’s let’s say larger frame, made the SR22T perfect for these kinds of trips. Besides, it was the only plane Cookie would let me have because of the built-in parachute.
Takeoff from the south end of the Bandon airfield is a breeze. Wheels lifted off and I banked right to take us on the heading directly toward Holly.
“Airport in Holly, Sal?”
“Checked and yes, there is. Long runway. About 4,000 feet. More than you’ll ever need.”
“Fuel?”
“By the bucketsful.”
“Well, then, settle back.”
The sky was that perfect cloudless blue every pilot loves. The horizon as clear and sharp as a well honed knife blade. The ground rolling slowly under the wings, every detail down to the swing sets in backyards and old cars on blocks, crystal images of rural Oregon.
Sal’s bright gray eyes were half closed as he scanned the instruments with occasional glances out of the side window.
Watching the city of Myrtle Point pass below, he asked, “You brought the donuts, right?”
“Thought we needed a change of pace. Packed up some apples, peaches, lots of cherries and a tub of yoghurt.”
Sal squinted and his eyes slid toward me. The nerve in his left cheek began to twitch.
“No?”
The twitch became more pronounced.
“Don’t go all Joe Biden on me. Got donuts. By the bucketsful.”
The big man’s beard wiggled. The twitch came to a halt. “And coffee?”
“By the bucketsful.”
When piloting, I’m not a big talker. I’d rather take in the sights. Feel the pure amazement that there’s 20,000 feet between me and the hardpan. Everything drains away once I’m at cruising speed and altitude. The engine settles into a soothing buzz. The incremental movements of the joystick come naturally in response to minute shifts in wind currents. Some pilots prefer quick, snappy, noisy aircraft they can toss around like a beach ball. Not me. I’m into sedate and heart-rate calming flights. Every once in awhile I’ll toss the plane into a quick bank just for the heck of it, but those times are rare. Give me some Dwight Yoakam in the headset turned way down low and a long stretch of good air and I’m happy as a clam.
Sal’s flown with me at least a hundred times and has this uncanny ability to fall asleep regardless of the weather, speed or maneuvers. I always assumed it was a knack from his government days – whatever those were – where the standard operating procedure is to sleep whenever and wherever you get the chance. You may not have the opportunity for days afterward.
After a long nap, he began tossing around in his seat. “Are we there yet?”
“Another hour or so, Sal. Glad for the extra fuel tank. We’ll have a sip or two left when we land.”
Sal stretched, sat upright and reached for the coffee, giving me a sideways glance.
“How big is a ‘sip’?”
I held my fingers about an inch apart.
“Good enough.”
He poured two mugs, popped the sippy lids on both and handed me one.
“First stop lunch. I’m starving.”
“The airport’s only a mile from downtown Holly, according to the map.” He pulled a long swig from his mug. “We made good time, Nicky. Tailwind?”
“Big ‘un. Shaved a half hour off of the trip. With the time change, we’ll touch down around 2.”
“What do we use for transportation?”
“Forte
