[color=lightsteelblue][h2][b][center]Chris MacDonald[/center][/b][/h2][/color]

The flight from Cancun International to Azul was a little over half an hour at cruising speed. Chris had flown it so many times he was reasonably confident he could do it blindfolded and include the water landing at Isla Zafrio just for thrills. Under thirty minutes was possible if he pushed it, but there was never any need and the climb up to thinner air at high altitude was hard on the turbine. No one on the islands was in that big of a hurry. This was an off day though. Normally he flew up every Tuesday and Thursday, loaded the mail run and if passenger service was busy, he might even make two trips. Wednesdays were usually a jaunt over to Belize City where he’d already picked up some survey equipment and dropped it back at Isla Ramilo. Now what would technically be a chartered flight and his third international border for the day was for the same customer, [I]Miguel Cardnas[/I], picking up one passenger and her assortment of luggage and gear that filled out his useful weight limit. In aviation accounting, it was a big score, but the Cardenas paid without reservation. Chris mused a little at the thought, glancing at the instruments in the exact same rhythm he did multiple times, nearly every day: fuel, speed, heading, and so on ending with an eye on the delicate temperature of the internals. Such was his feel on the yoke, the motion of the plane beneath him and the furious hum of the prop that he knew what they would read even before looking. 

Decades ago, the Flores set up the MacDonald’s and Era to be Azul’s [i]only[/i] aviation service and there was fair partiality there. The Flores would always get priority, but he could feel those days coming to an end even before recent events. The Cardenas could keep the prop turning just as much as anyone else and all the islands could sense their growing momentum in the business of Azul. The equipment he’d picked up earlier was for the winery and it was becoming more common for Miguel to fill out large blocks of the aircraft’s schedule with complex parts for the distilleries or even simple filters for the equipment that worked the land. The ability to get resources to the islands, sometimes on the same day, was indispensable and Chris rather liked the variety over the standard routes his dad worked out with Esteban Flores years prior. He’d been to Panama, the Dominican, Mexico City and once to Havana and these weren’t pickups, they were [i]deliveries[/i], exports. No one else within Azul was involved in this level of commerce outside of tourism. His current passenger wasn’t quite so exotic though, dressed about as casually as anyone else flying out of the US, meaning only a few steps past looking like they just got out of bed. She was easy enough on the eyes though and started off quiet, however she seemed to overcome any anxiety about the time he turned the nose south. There was a little relief when the handoff came from Cancun departure to Merida control and she had to pause so he could talk back to ATC.

The horizon beyond the nose was nothing but blue water and gentle evening-gray cloud for the moment. Isla Ramilo would come into view first and the Mexican coastline was visible to the west with waves churning ashore pushed by an easterly wind that buffeted the plane lightly. Iris was talking up a storm to the point that he was thinking about “accidentally” muting her mic, but that was bad practice. Even chatty or annoying passengers were another set of eyes that could catch something even a veteran flyer might miss, even if only by chance. He nodded and agreed as she rattled away while his eyes, shielded behind sunglasses, seemed to scan the airspeed and GPS position more often. As was often the case, Chris was the first and last person from Azul that many islanders saw in their journeys and there was a regular rhythm to their comings and goings, though he was sure it had been at least a few years since he’d dropped off Iris on this exact route in reverse. A fact that she quickly confirmed, but then dropped altogether preferring to talk more about the weather, dolphins and any number of other rapid-fire topics; vaguely alluding occasionally to the flurry of unintended circumstances that had landed her into his right seat. She was jabbering on about el nino or la nina or some other nonsense while Chris again glanced at the ETA to the next waypoint: the airspace boundary for Azul, at which time Merida would jump back on the radio and release him from their control. At that point he would normally start a slow descent with Isla Ramilo right on the horizon, but he had a better idea.    

When control came up he acknowledged casually and began trimming out the [i]secondary[/i] controls. Those [url=https://i.ibb.co/xfWQ9fk/206img.jpg]right in front of Iris[/url] that moved before her with all of his inputs. Once he had maxed out all the tabs, making her controls soft enough that he could counter anything she did, he jumped back on the mic before she could continue. “[color=lightsteelblue]Alright, you ready to fly us the rest of the way?[/color]” He said with a feigned tone of sincerity and a smirk, nodding towards the yoke right in front of her. 

[@Fading Memory]