The dark brown swirling waters of the Mississippi River meant that he was almost home. It had been another milk run taking duck hunters to the South Arkansas Delta. Cole Drake adjusted the plane’s trim, pulled back on the throttle and felt as his Cessna 172 Seahawk floatplane started to sink back to earth. He called ahead to the tower and requested landing instructions. Fifteen more minutes of flight.
Cole took a slight detour, went down to five hundred feet and headed toward his farm. He dropped the left wing and circled. There, in his driveway, was a strange truck. Then he saw a strange man being walked out to that truck by his wife Samantha. And THEN he saw Samantha kiss the man. He leveled the wings, called the tower and made a change in flight plan.
That was five years ago and he had been in the Florida Keys ever since.
Drake’s charter business was booming. On an average day, he transported fishermen, sightseers and anything else anyone wanted to run for the right price. And when he wasn’t flying, he usually was asleep in his hammock. All he had gotten from his divorce was his dog Ajax. Ajax, a farty Basset Hound, had taken a liking to the tropics and fresh seafood. So had Cole. Both slept soundly as a steady sheet of rain pounded the Keys. A low pressure season had blown up south of Cuba making the weather nearly impossible. He looked out at the whitecaps and felt sorry for the poor bastards who had to sail in this chop. So he tied his plane down, turned on his answering machine and took Ajax down to The Key to Paradise Bar. The man, dog and an umbrella sloshed a couple blocks down to the local hangout. There he began to drown the last glimpse of a memory of his ex-wife. Ajax ate some boiled shrimp in a bowl. Some guy with a guitar stood on the make-shift stage and sang Jimmy Buffett’s Cowboy in the Jungle.
Three beers into his quest, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. Cole turned around to see a man mouthing something to him. Rain came down harder on the tin roof, making casual conversation nearly impossible. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
A man with a white beard and a hawaiian shirt stood there with the goofiest grin. He then repeated himself even louder. “I hear you’re good at making deliveries.”
“The best. Whatcha got in mind ol’ man?”
“I’m in the delivery business myself. Let’s just say I’m a little overextended this year. I need your help.”
Ajax barked. A couple of college students looked over at the dog before returning to their margaritas.
“When do you need me to fly?”
“Christmas Eve. I’ll pay extra.”
Cole looked at the old man and thought he recognized him. He had a round face, little round glasses and fat belly. Ill-applied sunscreen caused streaks on his cheeks. And his nose was as red as Rudolph’s.
“Where do you need me to fly?”
“An orphanage in Cuba.”
Cole paused for a second. “You want me to get shot down, old man? The Cubans ain’t too keen on Americans flying in their airspace. They’ve been jumpy since the Cuban missile crisis back in ’63. And the Americans’ll think I’m a drug runner.”
The old man said, “I hear you’re the best.”
Cole was. He had been an F-16 pilot in the U.S. Air Force and had dropped enough bombs on Iraq and Afghanistan to blow the Keys into coral marbles.
“OK, ol’ man. You have a deal.” Cole wondered why in the Hell he had just agreed to do something so stupid. The old man had a persuasive way about him that he just couldn’t explain.
As the old man left the bar, Cole looked at this dog and said, “Dunno Ajax, I’m afraid we’re about to become fish food.”
The weather had cleared by Christmas Eve. Cole finished gassing up the Cessna and loaded Ajax into the front seat. The old man arrived at the end of the dock in a red 1963 Pontiac Catalina convertible. He got out, opened the trunk and lifted out a giant brown bag of toys. “Thank you, Cole. You don’t know how much this means to me. Now, I have to run. I have a busy night ahead myself.”
Cole loaded the toys into the plane, fired the engine and then started to taxi away from the dock. Cole killed the plane’s lights and adjusted his night vision goggles. His hand glided the throttle forward and they took off. Like a solitary gull gliding over the waves, the little floatplane headed south to northwestern tip of Cuba. He was skimming the wave tops, hoping his low altitude (and the fact that it was Christmas Eve) would mean the Cubans weren’t manning their radar scopes.
Cole landed in a small bay, pulled up to the beach and was greeted by three women and a man. “Thank you, señor. Feliz Navidad. And God bless you. So many little children will be thankful that they will have a toy to wake up to tomorrow morning, ” said the priest as he took the toys out of the plane.
Cole got hugs. Ajax got his tummy rubbed. And then they took to the sky once again. When they were back in U.S. airspace, Cole finally exhaled. The moon had finally risen to where he no longer needed the goggles. “I think I just aged 10 years, buddy.” Ajax barked in agreement.
And at that moment, Cole looked to his right and saw the old man right next to them. Cole screamed. Ajax fell out of his seat. The old man was flying in a sleigh being pulled by tiny reindeer. As Cole rubbed his eyes in disbelief, the old man saluted Cole and the dog and quickly pulled away.
And on that moonlit Christmas Eve, Cole Drake and his farty dog Ajax became Santa’s favorite little helpers.
