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Hold at Minot 1/2 (mm)
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Subject: "Hold at Minot" m/m - Part 1
Date: Tue, 4 Jul 1995 15:50:30 UTC
"Hold at Minot" m/m - Part 1
I'd left Edmonton two hours earlier than planned, knowing
that the cold front and snow forecast for central Alberta would
influence local weather for the next several days. My Piper
Saratoga had been checked and fueled, and I was determined to get
as far south and east as I could before being overtaken by the front.
Instinctively I knew that being overtaken in Regina or Minot
or Bismarck or Pierre was successively preferable to being caught
in a small airplane in the western steppes of Canada in November.
Apart from a urinal/coffee/gas/weather/urinal stop in
Regina I spent the entire day barely one step ahead of the front.
Regrettably the front did not stop for rest, and must have known
that I could fly no farther that day than Minot, my airport of entry
to the U.S.
Notwithstanding - and perhaps precisely because of the
autopilot on my Saratoga - I'd been close to being ravaged by the
lusty arms of Morpheus when I touched down at Minot
International Airport, so late in the day that US Customs had hours
earlier abandoned the field for the day. Quite possibly they sought
the warmth and camaraderie of a local bar or pub, or the hearth of
home. In any event, despite its impressive name, Minot was at this
time of day and this time of year an uncontrolled field, meaning
that it had no control tower to manage the flow of air traffic in and
out of the field. And this time of year, traffic was light.
I landed C4549X and taxied up to one of the several painted
"customs" circles on the tarmac where private international flights
must wait to be "cleared" by customs officials. N2490R, a Piper
Malibu, must have landed just before me, since the pilot and two
passengers - like me, and as required by US federal rules - were
waiting in their airplane in its own separate customs circle. We
must remain there till cleared.
The "N", ("November") at the beginning of a plane's
identifier indicates that the United State is the country of
registration, just as "C" ("Charlie") at the from of my airplane's
identifier told all who cared to notice that I was registered by
Transport Canada as Canadian.
By this time, my bladder was dismayed to learn from
operations that it would take the better part of an hour - and a
surcharge in US currency for the after-hours visit by custom
officials - before I would be able to stagger to the urinal in the
operations building.
I was sufficiently afraid that my penis might turn into an
uncontrolled tower of its own that I defied both custom and
customs by slipping out of the airplane for a leak, being careful to
remain within the white painted circle to which I was confined by
US law. As my abdominal cavity adjusted to my massive release of
body fluids, I noticed 25 feet or so off to my right the young pilot of
N2490R managing his own "tower" in much the same way.
"I suppose I was a jerk for having that last cup of coffee in
Regina," I yelled across the short distance that separated us, as we
both continued to water the tarmac.
"I earned my jerk status at the coffee shop in Saskatoon," he
responded with a grin that expressed youth and humor. We zipped
up more or less at the same time and still within our separate
painted circles. "I guess that makes us members of the same circle
jerk club, eh?" he said with a boyish grin.
I laughed audibly, as I pictured the young man sitting with
his boyhood chums and all whacking off so everyone could watch
and whack together. It was reassuring to know that young group
male sex is not an exclusively Canadian pastime. He added: "Yup,
but now it's time to pull that little fella back into his little cotton
cock-pit, right?"
I laughed again, and he patted his crotch and sighed. "See ya
inside, guy," he yelled before stepping back into the Malibu.
I chuckled, said something un-memorable, then retreated to
my plane. Alone now as I waited for Customs to arrive, I pondered
our short exchange and the extra attention we'd just given to our
shared maleness. The simile of the "cock-pit" was as old as flying,
but hearing it from this hot looking young charter jock stirred
something inside of me.
He was slightly under six feet in height, no more that 180
pounds, about 33" at the waist, and looked to be in his early
twenties; but these droll specifications slipped into insignificance
against the background of the magnificent 7"+ shaft that I'd seen
moments ago retracted into to the warmth and comfort of his 501's.
Having no passengers to afford digression from these
meditations, I decided simply to enjoy the slight arousal that this
ambiguous exchange had spawned in my groin. I'd been on the
ground at Minot less than ten minutes, and already I shifted the
core of my self perceptions from that of being a pilot to that of
being male, and clearly in need of a form of relief that my last trip
to the tarmac could not provide. I wondered and wished that the
same were true of my American counterpart. For whatever reason,
probably somehow grounded on hope, I held off treating myself to
the traditional form of release traditional among charter jocks
stranded and alone in North Dakota in late November.
My recollections of the ensuing hour or so flip by my mind's
thumb with no clear order of occurrence. Customs came and went;
and the next scene which made it past short-term memory was of
Brad (as he had subsequently introduced himself) and me pouring
over the computer display from the National Weather Service, and
an assortment of low altitude flight charts lying on the adjacent
table. Invoking this service by a DUAT terminal in the now
deserted flight operations room, Brad and I soon discovered that
his trip to Minneapolis and mine to Boston were on indefinite hold
for at least twenty-four hours, courtesy of the Alberta Clipper.
His passengers - who turned out to be honest-to-goodness
Eskimos from the Northwest Territories - had left for more
sensible quarters at the "American Inn" just off the field, alert now
to the inevitability of having to spend an unplanned day in North
Dakota. What Eskimos might wish to do in this middle American
college town is beyond my powers to imagine; but I knew that I
would have to come up with answers for myself than were more
stimulating that staring at weather systems as reported in NWS
code.
Engaging my sexual auto(erotic)pilot, I launched into a string
of double entendre that should smoke out any companionable
interests of his own on the general theme of male intimacy.
"I could use an approaching warm front just about now," I
said, again in pursuit of a double "respondre" from Brad.
Brad's hands gripped the front corners of the computer
terminal as though he were used to being in charge of all within his
reach, and acting as if he had not even heard my last and
meteorologically irrelevant comment. "Well, from the looks of it,
you and I are the only warm fronts in sight," he grinned, and moved
over to the map table.
I glowed internally at his response, as if it had been a signal
of recognition, coded for support and encouragement. No way
would I not follow up with more. "Converging fronts could make for
a fun day, eh Brad?," I offered.
"Yup, and there's no way we're going to escape this mother,"
he said. The frontal system extends all the way back to BC, and it's
close and heading this. Low pressure, cold temperatures, and lots
of moisture. Snow, snow, and more snow."
He shook his head and said: "Well, we've sure been here
before haven't we, Chris." Nodding assent, I found myself very
pleased indeed at having to spend a little time with this cute young
American flyer.
The decor of Minot flight operations and "pilots' lounge," in
addition to what we needed to plan and file IFR flight plans,
consisted of a Pepsi machine, a "snack" machine, a TV, and a rather
broken-in/down couch.
After rites of introduction most pilots tend to display in such
circumstances, I learned that Brad also was a charter pilot, ferrying
two Eskimo entrepreneurs from a village near Great Slave Lake to
a meeting with their venture capitalists in Minneapolis to discuss
financing for a northland casino. Brad was based in Duluth, some
800 kilometers (500 miles) or so west of my home base at "CYSB"
(Sudbury, Ontario).
"A pocket of high pressure is driving this front," Brad said as
if in mocking meditation of maps and weather. The "front" of his
Levi's now rested at the right front corner of the map table so that
the bulging "pocket" of his crotch rested prominently at the table's
surface clearly for my visual benefit.
Adopting a similar posture at the table's left front, I traced a
line with my finger from just in front of my own crotch to just in
front of his, and said: "It seems to me that high pressure gradients
run from about here to about here, and are building."
"You're right, Chris," he retorted, escalating the level of
double entendre, "and there's considerable moisture in these two
converging fronts that we're gonna have to deal with over the next
twenty-four hours." "I certainly hope so," I retorted.
I was amazed and delighted that Brad was playing along with
such vigor in my verbal artifice, with remarks no less sexual in
innuendo than they were related to flight, and equally on the
money.
"See," he pointed to the monitor, "we actually have
converging frontal systems, that will combine over North Dakota
and inevitably result in precip. Moisture in fronts like these can
build up only so far before having to release explosively."
I smiled at the image of "precip" from his "frontal system,"
and its "explosive release," just as I'd hoped his smile meant that he
was thinking the same of mine.
Stretching his body forward now over the table's top left
corner as if to point to a distant spot on the map, his well packed
pouch slipped smoothly further onto the work surface. I recall that
he made some reference to the trouble "occluded fronts" can cause
to pilots, to which I responded that "...they only cause trouble if
they get squeezed on map tables."
"Well," he chuckled openly at that last one, "the clever pilot
always finds relief from occlusion." "Yeh," I retorted, "but seldom
without hands-on help from Flight Service or a very good friend."
He doubled up with laughter, and flopped on the couch to recover.
"You know, Chris," he said, "being from Duluth, I really know
how to take care of myself in the face of advancing Canadian
frontal systems."
"I'd expect no less, Brad," I quickly answered, "and since
systems rarely advance from south to north, I'd need a lot of help
in dealing with any front advancing into Canada from the south."
"You're in luck," he came back, "I'm a known authority on the
subject, and at your service."
"Hmmmm," was all I could think to respond, and silently to
myself at that.
"I'll be right back, Chris," he said pulling away from the map
table, and grabbing hold of his crotch, "My body's experiencing a
rapid moisture buildup and my temperature is approaching the
do..,er, dew...point, so I better hit the head before I'm embarrassed
by premature precip. In short, I have to take a leak. Be right back."
At the thought of any feeling this hot guy's body might be
having, I said almost reflexively "I have to go too." We shuttled off
to men's room together.
- Erostos:070295
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