Balance

With a delicate push he launched the model glider into a gentle breeze, aiming it towards the far corner of the field.   He watched as it looped then stopped in mid-air.   Its nose dropped and it began to fall.  Then as it picked up speed it started to soar once more.   It looped three times before landing undamaged in the tall grass.

“It’s stalling; we need to add more weight to the nose,” said Papa.

Moments later James tried again.   This time the glider nose-dived into the ground crashing harmlessly into the long grass stalks. 
 

“Always do your test flights over long grass, it cushions the landing,” said Papa.

James smiled and ran twenty yards to gather up his glider, a sixth birthday gift from Papa.  He returned proudly clasping it to his chest.

“If you hold it too tightly you will crush it,” Papa warned.

He adjusted his hold on the balsa, doped tissue, and string construction.

“Maybe we added too much weight at the nose.  Possibly the angle of incidence between the wings and fuselage needs adjusting, then there’s a third alternative, we could add a little more weight at the tail to put it in balance.   Should we try that first?” Papa asked.

James smiled and nodded.

Moments later his heart soared as he watched it glide fifty yards, over and beyond the boundary fence and continue on straight and true into the next field. When he turned Papa was kneeling, at his level, and beckoning him. He threw his arms about Papa’s neck and squeezed.

“When I was your age, your Grandpa gave me this medallion.”

 James looked at the disc his father was holding.  It had a cross on one side and a man with a stave, carrying a child on the other.

“It’s St Christopher he is the patron saint of traveller’s.”    He placed it around James’s neck, “It will keep you safe,” he said.

.-…-.

Papa had been a commercial pilot.  Ten years later James was following in his footsteps...
“Wake up Captain, there’s a storm front heading our way.”

    James fingered his St Christopher, remembering that six months after giving it to him Papa had died in a plane crash, and a spark had been extinguished and had never been rekindled.   James often wondered, If he'd refused the medallion, would Papa still be alive?

His co-pilot shook him gently. "Captain?"   
James opened his eyes, “I'm with you Simon,” he gratefully accepted a wake-up mug of tea.
  

“Drink it fast, I've climbed to twenty nine thousand feet but we can’t get above it, and it’s too wide to go around.   So, were going to have to fly through it, unless you’d prefer to head back?”

 James tapped a gauge.  “Not enough fuel for that, guess we go on.”  He put down the empty mug and took over the controls.   “Tell the passengers to fasten their seat belts; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

.-…-.

He peered through the heavy rain clouds as the turbulence increased.  Half an hour later they were in the throe’s of a full blown storm.   Forked lightning, torrential rain, and winds over seventy miles an hour buffeted the small 8 seater twin turbo jet.  It was never built to withstand such punishment.  Multiple lightning strikes took out the port engine and twenty minutes later the starboard engine caught fire and had to be feathered.  The only light now was from the instrument panel and battery powered lights 

His St Christopher hung in front of his face and he realised despite the darkness that they were going down.   They were loosing height rapidly; they were already below ten thousand feet.
  

“We’re going to die Captain,” Simon whispered in a calm matter of fact voice.

“Maybe,” said James.  “Get the passengers to the rear; this crate is a tad nose heavy.   Do it Simon!”   The urgency in his voice galvanized his co-pilot into action.   The plane was still falling but its dive levelled off with the redistribution of weight.   At four thousand feet they dipped beneath the storm.

“Is there anything else I can do,” Simon asked.

“Yes, get to the rear and make sure they are as far back as they can go.”

  The plane, was now a glider.  He levelled off at two thousand feet and set the craft into a shallow glide.   He looked down, there was water below, but their speed was still 200mph.   There was land on the starboard.   He thought quickly, hitting water at over 100 mph would be like hitting a brick wall; they had to go inland find a landing strip or a road.   He edged the craft towards land, trying to recall the area.   Radio communication had been their first casualty, no help there, he thought.

Just five minutes later they were down to five hundred feet but there was land below.   He activated the landing gear.  Nothing happened, all the electrics were out.

“Simon?  He yelled.   “Do you recall which crops were growing along this strip of coast on our trip down?”

“Mostly maize Captain, It’s early September, so it will be near to harvesting,” Simon yelled from the rear of the craft. 
 

 He waggled gently to one side and saw the rolling maize fields below.

“Thank you for showing me the way Papa,” he whispered.   “We’re going down, role into a ball and cover your heads.”

Moments later, he heard scraping on the undercarriage and they slid for ever before coming to rest.   I'm alive, he thought, “We made it!   Is anybody hurt?”

"A few bruises, and a suspected broken arm, but nothing serious, thank God,” said the co-pilot.

 

Suddenly he knew, it wasn't a medallion that had saved their lives, it was knowledge.  He knew then without a doubt, that Papa would be here now if his crash had been avoidable.  James had not been responsible for his death.  He felt all the guilt and uncertainty in his heart lifting, blown away by the storm.  For the first time in twenty years he felt his conscience was clear and his life was in balance.