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Perched on the tarmac of the Miami International Airport was the Helio Super Courier. Looking like a sparrow hawk surrounded by sparrows, it gleamed under the torturing, tropical Florida sun. Tapered like a Champagne flute, its main purpose was to take men and supplies to short, undeveloped airstrips in the jungles and the mountains. As such, it was designated a STOL aircraft (Short Takeoff and Landing). With a Lycoming 480 Engine, capable of producing 295 horsepower, it was powerful enough to haul a thirteen hundred pound payload a thousand miles at nearly a hundred and thirty miles an hour. These numbers were straight out of Jane’s Aircraft of the World, a book that Paul Hewlett kept on the office desk of his condominium in Miami. Though beguiled by planes, he could no longer fly, because he had to surrender his pilot’s license when he was convicted of driving under the influence of alcohol as a teenager. It was his only brush with the law. Though the state eventually expunged his record, the FAA did not. Having his driving license taken away for a year paled in comparison to losing his flying license for good. However, he did keep up with flying by reading flight magazines and exploring regional airports. His favorite airstrip was at Miami International, for there, sooner or later, anything with wings flew through. But he always stopped to check out this particular Helio Super Courier. Owned by Skeeter Davis, it had Ariel discretely stenciled in small black letters on the vertical tail. Right below Ariel, in smaller black letters, was the name Davis Aviation. According to those who would talk to him, gossips or instructors, Davis did some things most pilots wouldn’t.
The plane was as airworthy as any F-18 you’d find on the deck of the Eisenhower. It was white with Ferrari red on the engine cowling, the wing tips and the vertical stabilizer on the tail. It had a soul, unlike the other planes at the Tamiami FBO, the fixed base operator. At airports across the States and overseas, FBOs were the refuge of private pilots who lingered in the lounge, buying their coffee from the FBO owner, while sipping on their coffee and getting stale sandwiches from their vending machines. It was here that the pilots plotted out their trips, checked the weather en route, called the flight service, filed flight plans and to a large degree lived between legs on their flight route.
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“I don’t think so.”
“You sure?”
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