Two Ships Passing

The old Hong Kong airport was its usual disaster—crowded, smelly and noisy. I was first to board the giant 747 when the announcement finally came. I turned left into the first class section and found my window seat on the right side of the cabin. The stewardess took my coat and offered me the choice of champagne, white wine or orange juice. I passed and quickly took off my shoes and put on the slipper socks supplied by the airline, grabbed my book and settled in.

My name is Dave Williams. I’m five feet eleven inches tall, brown hair, brown eyes and weigh about 180 pounds. My job required a lot of traveling. Fortunately, when I received my last promotion I negotiated the deal that I would travel first class as part of my compensation. In a moment of weakness my company agreed and henceforth I road in the front of the bus.

The noise of the first class cabin filling was background clutter as I started a new detective escape book. I had bought 5 of them for the thirteen hour flight back to my home in San Francisco. I felt the seat shake as the passenger sat down next to me. “Shit,” I thought. “I was really hoping the seat would stay empty.” I refused to look at my fellow passenger. From past bad experiences if you are too friendly up front and you get a talker, you are in for a miserable, torturous flight.

The cabin door closed in preparation for the push back, and one of the stewardesses went to the front of the cabin for the safety demo. I looked up, not for the demo, but to check out the stewardess, but my eyes never made it there. My fellow passenger was a female, and she was a Ten—not nine point eight or nine point nine, but a Ten! I thought, “You asshole; old Mr. unsociable sitting next to a beautiful woman and not even knowing it. How dumb can you be?”

The Ten was about five feet seven inches tall, short cut blond hair, high cheek bones and slim legs. She had on a pants suit that must have cost in the hundreds. The stewardess had taken her coat as she sat there in a white blouse with the top two buttons undone so just the touch of skin was showing. Her breasts pushed against the silken blouse material and came to a point where a point should be.

She must have sensed my staring as she turned to me…green eyes; beautiful emerald deep green eyes…and said, “I hope we aren’t delayed. I have been in the airport for an hour and it was horrible.”

I answered, “I think we’re in pretty good shape. This airport is really small with only the one main runway, so once they push you back they really want the plane to leave quickly to free up space for incoming planes.”

She nodded her understanding and went back to her magazine. I sat there trying to calculate some way to restart the conversation when the stewardess came up to us to take our drink orders. Looking at her sheet she asked, “Mr. Williams? Would you like a drink after take off?” I answered, “Jack Daniels on the rocks would be great.”

Again checking her sheet she looked and said, “Mrs. MacMillan? What can I get for you?”

Mrs. MacMillan answered, “Just a white wine; whatever you have opened.”

The plane had taxied to the end of the runway and was slowly turning to be in position for takeoff. The engines ran up and after a moment I felt the plane bounce forward as the pilot released the brakes. Regulations state that a runway must be long enough so that when the wheels lift there is still 50 percent of the runway left so that if the plane has engine failure, there still is a place to set it back down. Hong Kong had somehow pulled a pass. From experience I knew we would be using 75 percent of the runway or more before we left the ground. The plane gathered speed and raced down the runway and finally lifted.

I watched the nearby apartments gradually becoming smaller as the 747 made a soft bank to the left. Just as I was about to return to my book, I heard a bump.

‘Heard a bump’ is a strange phrase to use to describe an event in a large jet aircraft. You might feel bumps during a flight, but you do not ‘hear bumps’ when flying in a safe plane. I looked up instantly and saw the nearest stewardess. Her face had turned white. My fellow passenger asked, “What was that noise…is something wrong?”

I answered without taking my eyes off the stewardess, “We heard a bump; I think something blew on takeoff.” Looking outside the window quickly I continued, “And we aren’t going up any more; we should be climbing.”

Just then the pilot came on and said very quickly, “Please be calm everyone. We don’t have a major problem…yet. I will be back to you shortly.”

The ‘yet’ did it. One of the woman passengers started to cry. Then I felt someone grabbing me. I looked at my seat companion and saw absolute, complete terror in her eyes. She was gripping my arm and pulling it and gasped, “I hate flying…I hate it. Why do I ever get on one of these things when they scare the hell out of me? Are we going to crash?

I replied, “I think we are alright so far. The pilot obviously has a problem that he is trying to fix, but the main thing is that we are not going down.” I did not mention that, on the other hand, we were not going up either. My left arm was still inside her right arm and she had not released my hand. I squeezed her hand and said, “I’m guessing we will know what’s up pretty quick.” I could feel her breast against my arm as she held my hand. I knew that there was no way she was going to let go of someone who seemed to be somewhat calm in a situation where she expected to die.

We sat in silence for about three minutes. When a bit of turbulence bumped the plane, she yelped and pressed harder into me—she was terrified. The pilot finally came back on the intercom and said, “Well folks, sorry about that problem. We are safe, but here is the situation. We blew one of our four engines at about three thousand feet. The bump you heard was the engine. We immediately turned it off and reset the plane for flying on three engines which it is fully capable of doing. However, safety regulations and common sense dictate that we return to Hong Kong and repair or replace our engine. Unfortunately, we are fully loaded with fuel. If we landed now there is a good chance the wings would snap off from the weight of the fuel. So the solution is that we will circle for about three hours dropping fuel, and then land back at Hong Kong. Our representatives will meet us on arrival and take care of you from there. So relax and enjoy three hours of circles. Obviously, the no smoking sign will be on until we land.”

I looked at my hand holding seat companion. She finally realized she was still clutching my arm and hand. She let go and said, “I’m sorry to be such a wimp. Flying just scares the hell out of me, and every time I get the courage to fly, I’m petrified. Thanks for being my hand holder. My name is Jill MacMillan.”

I replied, “I’m Dave Williams. I enjoyed holding your hand—feel free to hold it some more if you want to--but can I ask, if flying upsets you so much, why do you fly?”

Jill gave a nervous little grin and answered, “Money…sometimes my job requires flying; if I don’t fly, I don’t make any money.”

I asked, “What job forces you to fly?”

Jill looked at me and said, “I just want to talk. If I talk maybe I won’t think that this plane is going to crash, although I know this plane is going to crash. So tell me to shut up if I talk too much.

“I’m a head hunter that specializes in financial derivatives. Derivatives are the thing right now and every bank has to have a financial derivatives department. The demand for people who really know what they are doing is much bigger than the supply, so salaries keep going up. When I find a good person and they get hired, I receive an amount equal to 30 percent of their starting salary as my compensation.

Actually, that’s not quite true. I have a partner in New York who is the bird dog. He goes to the main banks and becomes friends with the top people in each derivative department. They go drinking, partying whatever, so when an opening comes up, we get the placement. He gets 25 percent of my compensation.”

“Are salaries that high in derivatives?” I asked.

Jill answered, “Five years experience is probably worth $175,000 to $250,000 depending on what kind of experience. Thirty percent of $200,000 is $60,000 which is why I am on this damn plane. We have two openings for one of our clients in New York. I know two traders in Singapore and three in Hong Kong. I came out here to talk to them and see if they might be willing to switch companies. I was lucky this time—three of them agreed to fly to New York for interviews. It could be a big payday for me, if I’m still alive.”

I asked, “How did you ever get into that field?”

“I started as a derivatives trader in a New York Bank right out of college. I was a pretty good trader, but not great. One day I was asked to go to the Ivys to interview the seniors…

“Ivys?” I interrupted.

“Yes, the Ivy League schools—Yale, Dartmouth, Harvard—the bunch. It turns out that I was a good not great trader, but I have a great ability to gauge which person would make a great trader. After a few of my picks were put on the fast track, my company quickly switched me to full time recruiting. After five years recruiting for the company, I went on my own. It was a friendly parting. My old company is one of my best customers.”

Jill stopped talking and looked at me. “I’ve been doing all the talking. What do you do?”

I answered, “Jill, nothing as glamorous as you. I am the chief of operations for a private aircraft maintenance company. We go to various airlines and offer to give complete maintenance to their fleet of planes. And no, my company doesn’t service this airline. Anyway, China has a terrible maintenance problem as their planes have a better chance of crashing than any other country other than Russia. I went with our sales rep to visit my counterpart in China and see if they would give us the contract.”

“Did you get it,” Jill asked.

“Don’t know. The last meeting I had was with the top guy—his name is Mr. Choi. He had no body language and he didn’t speak English so it was impossible for me to read him. Of course, he kept hammering me that our price was too high. Finally I had to go into the heart surgeon routine.”

“Heart surgeon routine?” asked Jill.

“Yes, there are versions of it, but the one I used through the translator was that Mr. Choi was to pretend that he had a very serious heart condition and needed immediate and very delicate surgery. I called ten heart surgeons in Hong Kong and asked them what their price would be for the operation. I chose the cheapest one and he is going to operate on Mr. Choi.

“So the only encouragement I received that we might get the contract was after I told that story, I finally got Mr. Choi to laugh.”

The plane continued to circle and Jill and I continued to talk. After a couple of hours I finally approached a delicate subject when I asked Jill, “Won’t your husband be worried when you don’t get home when you planned?”

Jill hesitated and then said, “MacMillan is my maiden name. My husband and I split about a year ago. He didn’t like my job, my traveling, and my making more money than him. It was probably both our fault, but I finally faced up to it that he had stayed with me for the money, not for love. So I divorced him.

“What about your wife? Won’t she be worried?”

I thought how to answer that question and then decided, head on. “Six months ago I came home from a two week trip one day early. A strange car was in the driveway; a strange man was in my bed. We got a civilized divorce—she got 75 percent of the money and the house.

Jill took my hand and looked at me. She whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

The pilot came on again, “Folks, we finally dropped enough fuel and were going to land in about 15 minutes. Once you get off the plane our representative will tell you what is going to happen. I apologize for this inconvenience.”

The plane landed without incident other than my hand was numb from Jill squeezing it. They had pulled the plane to a maintenance area so we had to exit by going down the outside stairs that had been pushed to the plane. I looked at two mechanics by one of the engines. One of them was on a stepladder and had already opened the cowling. The one on the ground yelled, “What’s it look like?” The one on the ladder yelled back, “This baby ain’t going to be flying soon.”

He was right. All the passengers gathered in a large room where the airline representative said, “Your plane cannot be repaired quickly and we have no spare plane in Hong Kong. All the other airlines that had planes going to the US have already left; so we are flying one of our surplus planes here, but it won’t arrive until tomorrow. The airline has booked rooms for all of you at a nearby hotel, and the shuttle buses will be here in minutes to take you there. Your luggage will arrive at the hotel shortly after you get to the hotel. Of course, your meals will be on us. Are there any questions?”

After a few complaint questions, the shuttle buses arrived and we boarded. Jill and I stayed together…she was still a little shaky and I knew that I sure didn’t want to leave her.

When we arrived at the hotel, another airline representative was there. We went up to him and said our names and he checked a sheet and gave us our room key. They had pre-checked all of us in. Jill and I were both on the sixth floor, but far apart. I was in room 602 and she was in 648.

We were not in a bad section of Hong Kong, and it was mid afternoon with no luggage. I turned to Jill and asked, “We have time to kill. Do you want to take a walk around the neighborhood, window shop and see the locals?”

Jill answered, “Good idea. No luggage and an empty room isn’t too much fun.”

And so we walked up and down the streets of Hong Kong. It’s a funny world. In Russia the business people are friendly and the people on the streets are rude. In China, the business people are rude, but the people on the streets are friendly. Many young adults and children came up to Jill and me and practiced their English—always grinning. It was a fun hour walk seeing the stores and practicing English with the people.

But then our luck changed. Three blocks from our hotel, a mid day shower hit us hard. It was a torrential downpour for 15 minutes, and Jill and I had no protection for five of those minutes—we were soaked.

We ran dripping into the lobby. Suitcases were neatly arranged, and I quickly found mine. Jill wasn’t so lucky. Her suitcase wasn’t there. She went to the airline representative who checked his notes. He told Jill that her suitcase had been misplaced and was still at the Hong Kong airport. He assured her that it would be delivered in an hour or so.

So there we were. Two lost souls in the middle of a lobby dripping wet and getting cold from the air conditioning. I said, “If you want to, come up to my room and take a hot shower. We can wait in my room until your suitcase gets here.”

Jill didn’t hesitate, “I accept. I’m cold, I’m dirty from the flight and the walk, and I just want to be warm.”

We went to the room which turned out to be quite nice. Jill quickly went into the bathroom and shortly afterward I heard the shower start. She was in the shower for at least 15 minutes. Then there was silence for 10 minutes and the bathroom door opened. Jill came out in a long hotel terry cloth robe. She looked at me and blushed, “I couldn’t put on the wet clothes after that shower.”

I knew Jill was nervous so I said, “Just sit down on the couch and relax. I will ply you with a white wine from the mini bar and we will keep checking to see if your suitcase has finally arrived.”

Jill flashed me a grin of relief as she sat down on the couch. We were quiet for a few minutes as she sipped her wine and I sipped a beer. Finally Jill asked, “If this is too personal, just say so, but did you love your wife before you caught her cheating?”

I answered immediately because the same question had come up in my mind many times, “Yes, I don’t make friends easily and when we married, she was my friend—my best friend—and my wife. I guess my job paralyzed my brain, but I never saw it coming. All I remembered were the good times; there were no bad times. And then she cheated. I still don’t know why or what caused it. But I’m a dumb male and maybe that’s what happens to us.

Was it the same with you Jill?”

Jill answered, “Just the opposite. I knew I was stronger than him and I knew he resented it, but the sex was fine and I deliberately ignored all the bad things. It was like a Greek tragedy where you know the ending will be terrible, but you continue on to the tragedy—you can’t help it.

We stopped talking again. The silence was not awkward; it was comfortable. As I sipped my beer I looked at Jill. Her legs had separated and I could see her legs up to her knees before the robe started. She saw me looking but made no effort to change her position. I reached for the phone again and called the lobby: her suitcase had finally arrived and was being taken to her room.

I asked her, “After you get organized, can I take you to dinner?”

Jill answered, “I would like that a lot.”

Jill dressed quickly and left and I called the concierge and asked if there was a nearby Chinese restaurant that would treat tourists nicely. He suggested one about two blocks from the hotel, but warned me that it was a little pricey. I asked him to make a reservation for two at seven o’clock. He also told me that the airline was delivering a memo under each door that the replacement plane would take off at noon tomorrow and that we would be taken to the airport at ten o’clock.

I met Jill in the lobby at the agreed time. She was wearing a striking mandarin dress which was cut somewhat low to show her breasts and the slit up the side showed her leg to mid thigh. The dress was satin or silk with bold designs of dark blue and dark green; the green complimented her eyes perfectly. The open neck of the dress spread to the expanse of her chest highlighting her skin complexion—she was beautiful. I took her hand and we walked to the restaurant.

The restaurant was in a pagoda type building between two large office buildings. We walked into the entrance to water falls and fountains. We were taken to our table which was a booth on one side and a chair facing the booth. Jill sat in the booth facing me.

Jill said, “This is all new to me. Would you order what you think I might like so I don’t have to guess?”

I grinned. “I will order for you, but you have to eat with chopsticks; I will teach you. But if I have to teach you, I have to sit next to you. Is that a problem?”

Jill replied, “Of course not. Please do.”

I had some experience with Chinese food. With the help of the English speaking waiter we ordered shark fin soup, dry egg rolls, wet dumplings, Peking Duck, and shrimp fried rice. The shark fin soup was served with a clumsy, thumb-like spoon and Jill had no trouble eating it. She ran into trouble with the egg rolls and dumplings. I put the chop sticks in her hands and they immediately slipped out. I finally reached my arm around her so that our hands were side by side. I had her pick up the chopsticks and my hand covered her hand as we gripped the dumplings and brought it to her mouth. Sometimes the food made it to her mouth, and sometimes it fell back. It didn’t matter; we were enjoying ourselves.

Finally, the Peking Duck arrived. Jill was surprised that there was so little duck meat. Rather the skin was presented with 10 different side items from onions to thin slices of celery to bitter sweet sauces. I took a piece of skin and asked her what to put in it. She chose 4 or five items. I put them on the skin, rolled them up and with my fingers lifted the roll to her mouth. She took one bite, then another, and finished her first piece. She licked my fingers as the last piece disappeared. Role reversal—she did the same to me. However, when my first piece was done, I licked her fingers, and then turned her hands over and kissed and licked the palms of her hands. I looked up and saw her green eyes staring at me—it was a nice stare.