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Flag of Canada.

Flag of Vancouver.

     Departing Seoul on the evening of 16^th December 1988, I began my first trip to Vancouver.  Launching a flight of nine hours and thirty minutes - across the black North Pacific - and concluding our journey at an altitude of 37,000 feet.

     And it was at this point of my trip that I experienced a strange anomaly, apropos the fabulous “Singapore Girl.” Which the airline had a tendency to “pimp-out,” through its expensive advertising campaigns.

     Our attractive female flight attendants could be dropped inside one of two categories: “Player” or “Non-Player.”

    The “Non-Player” had recently joined the airline, and was very timid and single.  A pilot didn’t have a hope in hell of getting a date with her, as she was holding out for “Prince Charming.”

     The “Player,” however, had been with the airline a number of years, already found her “Prince Charming,” and after the honeymoon wore off, realized he was actually a “toad.”  Plus the mystery of sex had vanished; being replaced with the drudgery of marriage.  This “Singapore Girl” was ready to experiment!

     Even so, contrary to my method of classification, there was always the unexpected wild card.  Her name was Maria; she was Muslim-Malaysian, relatively new to the airline and single.  Plus, she deliberately got herself assigned to serve the cockpit crew. 

     Only the most junior flight attendants got stuck with this job – which they avoided like the plague – and, in a word, their service was abysmal.  They’d flit into the cockpit similar to a humming bird, terrified of the pilots, hover for an instant, and then dart out as if their tail feathers were on fire.  If I ordered tea – I got coffee.  If I ordered coffee – I got tea.  In any event, I could always count on one thing – both beverages would be stone cold.  If I ordered the chicken – I got the fish, and so on, and so on...you get the picture, dear reader.

     Right out of the gate, as we commenced our crossing of the North Pacific, Maria appeared, all jovial and entertaining, surprisingly taking a pause to chat with us.  Or, I should say, mainly with me; rolling those big, beautiful liquid brown eyes at me...flashing white, even teeth...and showing off her trim figure in her dark blue, form fitting, sarong kebaya, with its exotic batik pattern.  Her shoulder-length, raven hair completing a sultry, gorgeous package.

Maria chatting with the captain – a total surprise.

     For the next nine hours, she frequently visited the cockpit, paying particular attention to me...giving me all the “signs.”  This didn’t add up, dear reader.  What the Devil was going on here?

     We arrived on schedule in the mid-afternoon, to a beautiful day at Vancouver.  Tracking down airway V-317 to the TREEL waypoint, 28 NM from the airport, I saw the green British Columbia mainland on my left, with all its amazing coves and inlets, plus an emerald and massive Vancouver Island on my right.  That reminded me of a news report, claiming two-thirds of all cougar attacks in North America happen on this island.  We shall avoid hiking on that island, dear reader, and stick with pub crawls.

Trekking on Vancouver Island.

Why we shall be “trekking” through the pubs instead.     

     Continuing our approach and descent down the Strait of Georgia, in the distance, off my left front, sprawled the city of Vancouver, on the Burrard Peninsula, surrounded by more water on three sides.

False Creek and Downtown Vancouver.

     We were performing the TREEL STAR (Standard Terminal Arrival Route), which set us up on a perfect intercept of the ILS for Runaway Eight (080°/260° magnetic, NE/SW).  By this juncture I was 13 NM out, and had a perfect view of Vancouver International.  The airport took up a large portion of Sea Island, lying south of the city, in the middle of a split in a branch off the Fraser River.

     Encompassed by all this water, the airport seemed to verily sparkle in the Canadian, early-afternoon sunshine.  At this stage there were merely two runways, and for the succeeding four years, whenever I performed one of these trips, I was consistently assigned Runway Eight with a length of 11,000 feet.  Apparently, I kept hitting a prevailing wind out of the east.

During the time I operated into Vancouver they only had two runways – since then they’ve built a third runway.

     The instrument approach lay out, coupled with the top notch Canadian Controllers, made it slick as Vaseline on glass getting in and out of the airport.

Racing to the gate at Vancouver!  Does this look familiar?

To prevent bird strikes, Vancouver employs a “Raptor Program.”

     Clearing immigration and customs was also dead easy, and then the crew buss zipped us away to downtown Vancouver.  With Burrard Inlet and English Bay to the west, plus False Creek to the south and the harbor to the north, I discovered downtown to be isolated by water from the rest of the city; making it pleasing to the eye.

     The crew buss delivered us to Le Meridien Hotel on Burrard Street, whose motto was: “To bring a taste of Europe to one of North America’s most beautiful cities.”  Let me assure you, dear reader, the hotel was totally successful in this endeavor.  For of all the five-star hotels throughout the world that the airline billeted us at, this was by far the best.  Each item at the hotel was utterly sumptuous and pleasing to all the senses; making one never wanting to leave.

     As myself and the other 20 members of my crew stood in the lobby, waiting for our room assignments, Maria boldly walked up to me, tapped me on the chest with an index finger, and stated, “You can take me to dinner tonight.  Meet me in the lobby at six.”

    Upon making this demand, she coolly turned and strolled away from me.

     “Do I have a choice?”  I retorted.

     Looking over her shoulder, she flashed me a beautiful grin, and said, “Of course not.”

     And from that point on, dear reader, we were off to the races. 

     We enjoyed an excellent meal in the hotel’s restaurant, and then afterwards caught a movie down the street; “Rain Man” with Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman.  

     Later, enjoying a nightcap in the hotel’s bar, I learned a few interesting facts about Maria. 

     She was engaged to a Muslim-Malaysian first officer, also flying for SIA.  Never having met this gentleman, it didn’t stop him from calling me on the phone two days before I left on this trip, in an attempt to swap trips with me.  I declined, as I hadn’t been to Vancouver since 1969, when I ferried a damaged Cessna 310 back to the States, and desired to explore this beautiful city again.  Because he really wanted to share this trip with Maria, he telephoned me again, with the same song and dance, one day before I left.  Being the mean man that I am, once again I declined to swap.

     So evidently, Maria latched onto me as a substitute for her fiancé.  Before I could feel “used,” she revealed a rather strange event.  Shortly before she left on this trip, she claimed to have experience an erotic dream; concerning “making it” with a bald man.

     Oh yes, dear reader, it gets even more weird.

     For the next couple of days we kept company and enjoyed the sights.

Totem poles, orcas and otters – Vancouver has it all.

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     On the 19^th of December, 1988, we departed Vancouver and headed back to Seoul, South Korea.  Once again Maria volunteered to serve the cockpit, resuming her flirtation with me; making my captain and flight engineer grumpy with jealousy. 

     Jesus, dear reader, I actually don’t need this soap opera crap in the cockpit!  Coupled with the fact, as we’re now bucking headwinds, it was an extra-long flight that stretched out for eleven hours and eighteen minutes.

     That was the downside.  On the upside, Maria never screwed–up an order.  She always delivered spot on and piping hot, with a glorious smile!

     Arriving on schedule, we were once again whisked away to the Grand Hyatt Seoul, where we spent three nights.  

     During the day Maria and I explored Itaewon Street; doing a little shopping and dining on Korean cuisine.

     On our last night in Seoul, there was a knock at my door.  I was wearing a black kaftan I had bought in Morocco, and entirely naked underneath, as I was intending to sleep in it.

     Upon opening the door, I found Maria also in a kaftan and equally naked.  Quite honestly, dear reader, despite my acting as a perfect gentleman due to her engagement, the sexual tension between us on this trip had been consistently building.  I felt Mount Vesuvius was on the verge of erupting; which it did when we dumped the kaftans.

     For some odd reason, as our love-making reached a climax, Maria rolled us out of the bed; dropping to the thickly-carpeted floor.  Where, I was to learn, she preferred sexual activity.

     All the lights in the room were off, allowing a weak light to filter out of the bathroom.  Maria was on top of me in silhouette; riding a happy Mr. Meat Puppet cowgirl style.  Through half closed eyes – yelling “WAHOO!” in my mind – I began to observe a strange phenomenon.

     If you’ll remember, dear reader, in Chapter Two I report what my father told me he witnessed on the deck of the SS Brazil one night; regarding the torpedoed merchant seaman’s body emitting a soft purple glow while receiving a blowjob.

Personally, I had always written this off as one of my dad’s “exaggerated stories.”

     Nevertheless, what I was observing tonight completely changed my mind.  For Maria’s nude body was emitting a pastel, greenish glow of her own – somewhat akin to Saint Elmo’s fire - as she came!  

     Wow, dear reader!  So my dad’s story apparently wasn’t bullshit after all.  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.  I’ll never be a doubting Thomas again.

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     We finally wound up this trip, returning to Singapore on 23^rd December, 1988.  For the following few months, whenever Maria and I were in town at the same interval, she’d come to the Sea View Hotel, where I was living, and, true to form, ball my brains out.

     My room at the Sea View Hotel.

     On every occasion, right after I came, she’d hop up from the floor, leaving me sweating and gasping for breath flat on my back, and shower.  While she quickly dried herself with a towel, Maria would glance at her wristwatch and exclaim one of the following comments:  “Oh...I’m late for my wedding dress fitting!”  “Oh...I’m late for the bridesmaids’ fitting!”  Oh...I’m late for the wedding caterers!”  “Oh...I’m late for the wedding florist!”

Maria in my room.

     Afterward she’d dress, and was out the door like a shot; leaving me behind, nude, sweating and still flat on the floor breathing heavily.  And, yes, dear reader, utterly mystified by this modern generations’ rules.  Nonetheless, in the words of Clark Gable: “Frankly, my dear...I don’t give a damn.”  Why?  You may well ask.  I was discovering this generation didn’t seem to have any rules whatsoever for deportment.

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