Through the Fog
by Peggy Hernon
We lost the late morning to fog. While the Aran Islands are known to be windy, we seldom lose flying time to wind conditions. I once heard a pilot say reassuringly to a child, “Wind is your friend if you’re a plane.” I’ve repeated that gem ever since to any passenger who expresses concern to me about wind conditions. I wouldn’t mind a little wind right now, or some heavy rain. The former would shift the fog; the latter would wash it away. Neither is likely. The morning turned unseasonably warm and humid, and the wind fell to flat calm. That combination of conditions allowed a blanket of dense fog to slip in and settle down like some tiresome neighbour stopping by for a chat.
Dense fog doesn’t occur very often, but at Inis Mor Airport, we keep a list of things to do that can’t be done easily when aircraft are landing and departing regularly. The crew decided to trim the new growth on the verge of the 14 runway, got the strimmer and disappeared in the direction of the Jeep. They were swallowed up so immediately and completely by the fog I wondered if I should have kissed them goodbye. Nah.
Inside the phone rang steadily. “Did John get out?” (Yes.) “Did the Vet get in?” (No.) “Did the Post get in/Get out?” (Yes/Yes.) “Will the fog last all day? When will it lift? Will it lift soon?” (Pause) When my brain was rid of Basil Fawlty-ish replies, I told each one that it was hard to tell with fog, but the afternoon flights were still scheduled, and let me take your phone number please, just in case.
I did the filing and checked the stock of office supplies and Aer Arann Islands supplies: brochures, tickets, coloured baggage labels, freight dockets & frequently used forms and made a note of what to re-stock. I reminded myself that on busy days, especially in the summer months, I’d kill for a nice quiet spell like this, but quiet isn’t nice at Inis Mor Airport, quiet is unnatural and rather boring.
Barely 12.30pm. Too early in New Jersey to call my sister Annie, I headed to the kitchen for lunch. I turned on the radio and was immediately rewarded with the bouncy sway of ‘The Great Pretender’ by The Platters, 1956. I abandoned my sandwich to bounce along. I love old rock, especially the songs from the early years. I was six years old in 1956 and my only sibling, my sister Annie, was seven years older than I. I never sang nursery rhymes in my young years; my childhood music was her music and that was Rock & Roll. When Annie was learning to dance for teen parties I was her practise partner. We circled the living room together to ‘The Great Pretender’ until we got it right. Jitterbug practise to ‘Hound Dog’ (Elvis, 1956) landed me in casualty. The cut under my chin required two stitches, but my mother’s shattered Hummel lamp, a present from her family in Philadelphia, was not so easily mended. Dad banned Rock from the house but we didn’t worry much. The song he sang in snatches when he sorted his tool box was ‘I Walk the Line’ (Johnny Cash, 1956).
That spring was warm and still. Dad and Uncle Jimmy put in the window screens in our house on Randall Avenue in May so there’d be a breath of air at my First Communion party. Spring flamed into a summer that was one of the hottest on record. When school let out, Annie & I sprawled on the porch, picked at salads, and took turns hosing down The Boomer, our brainless young spaniel who didn’t have the sense to lie down in the shade. The Boomer’s name had less to do with his bark than his talent for farting. Warnings and welcomes came rapid-fire from both ends of The Boomer.
My father came home late from work one night and announced that without consulting my mother, he had bought a beach house in the Rockaways, sight unseen, from one of the cops in Uncle Jimmy’s precinct. The look of alarm and dismay on my mother’s face was the same one she usually gave to The Boomer. Annie & I were sent to our room where we lay in our beds and listened to the thunderstorms, the one outside our window, and the one going on in the kitchen.
The beach house was more of a beach shack. All the windows were stuck closed and every door hung at a different angle. The two tiny bedrooms had no closets, and while the loo was indoors, the shower was outside at the back and rickety. Dad was delighted. He was a carpenter, worked for Consolidated Edison, the huge supplier of electricity to New York City. That hot, airless year he built miles of scaffolding above and below ground in all five boroughs as Con Ed raced to keep ahead of the growing demand for power. On his own time Dad was more creative: bunk beds, fitted cabinets, bookcases, shelves, “and someday a boat”, he’d say. After all, he was a Galway man. Every weekend that summer, above the hum of electric fans and the blare of radios was the sound of my father’s hammer, often pounding along in time to the beat of ‘Don’t Be Cruel (Elvis, 1956) or ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ (Carl Perkins, 1956). A lot of the timber that went into the beach house was stamped, “Property of The City of New York”. I thought it was a brand name like Black & Decker.
My mother, sister and I spent that summer at the beach. Mom got her hair cut short like Doris Day and even bought a two-piece bathing suit that unlike Doris, she was too shy to wear. The beach was crowded weekdays with women and children, who like us, had a breadwinner working in the city. The moms talked while keeping an eye on the kids in the water. After lunch, we’d settle down for some plane spotting, the prelude to a nap. The holding pattern for Idewild, later Kennedy Airport, was over the Atlantic, south of Rockaway Beach. If ever I can’t get to sleep, I don’t count sheep. In my mind’s eye I watch the planes leave the holding pattern with a stately left-hand turn, one by one, and settle into the final approach to Idewild, five miles east across Jamaica Bay.
The phone woke me with a start. “How is it where you are”, asked Inverin. “Hold on” I said (where am I?) and scrambled out the door. Inis Meain was visible to the east with just a few wisps of fog remaining, like my brain. Then a look south at the cliffs, and one at Kilronan village west of us. Clearing nicely. On my way back inside, I rapped on the hood of the Jeep which woke the crewman with a start. Smiling, I gave my report and was told there will be two aircraft to us at 2.45pm. One aircraft will be departing right away for the smaller islands, and one aircraft will be sitting out for my 3.15pm passengers. We’ll be back on schedule and we should be all right for the rest of the afternoon. There were phone calls to make and things to do before I’d watch two aircraft make stately right-hand turns, one by one, and line up with our 32 runway for landing. But first, I trotted back to the kitchen and turned off the radio that was playing ‘Memories Are Made of This’ (Dean Martin, 1956).
We lost the late morning to fog. While the Aran Islands are known to be windy, we seldom lose flying time to wind conditions. I once heard a pilot say reassuringly to a child, “Wind is your friend if you’re a plane.” I’ve repeated that gem ever since to any passenger who expresses concern to me about wind conditions. I wouldn’t mind a little wind right now, or some heavy rain. The former would shift the fog; the latter would wash it away. Neither is likely. The morning turned unseasonably warm and humid, and the wind fell to flat calm. That combination of conditions allowed a blanket of dense fog to slip in and settle down like some tiresome neighbour stopping by for a chat.
Dense fog doesn’t occur very often, but at Inis Mor Airport, we keep a list of things to do that can’t be done easily when aircraft are landing and departing regularly. The crew decided to trim the new growth on the verge of the 14 runway, got the strimmer and disappeared in the direction of the Jeep. They were swallowed up so immediately and completely by the fog I wondered if I should have kissed them goodbye. Nah.
Inside the phone rang steadily. “Did John get out?” (Yes.) “Did the Vet get in?” (No.) “Did the Post get in/Get out?” (Yes/Yes.) “Will the fog last all day? When will it lift? Will it lift soon?” (Pause) When my brain was rid of Basil Fawlty-ish replies, I told each one that it was hard to tell with fog, but the afternoon flights were still scheduled, and let me take your phone number please, just in case.
I did the filing and checked the stock of office supplies and Aer Arann Islands supplies: brochures, tickets, coloured baggage labels, freight dockets & frequently used forms and made a note of what to re-stock. I reminded myself that on busy days, especially in the summer months, I’d kill for a nice quiet spell like this, but quiet isn’t nice at Inis Mor Airport, quiet is unnatural and rather boring.
Barely 12.30pm. Too early in New Jersey to call my sister Annie, I headed to the kitchen for lunch. I turned on the radio and was immediately rewarded with the bouncy sway of ‘The Great Pretender’ by The Platters, 1956. I abandoned my sandwich to bounce along. I love old rock, especially the songs from the early years. I was six years old in 1956 and my only sibling, my sister Annie, was seven years older than I. I never sang nursery rhymes in my young years; my childhood music was her music and that was Rock & Roll. When Annie was learning to dance for teen parties I was her practise partner. We circled the living room together to ‘The Great Pretender’ until we got it right. Jitterbug practise to ‘Hound Dog’ (Elvis, 1956) landed me in casualty. The cut under my chin required two stitches, but my mother’s shattered Hummel lamp, a present from her family in Philadelphia, was not so easily mended. Dad banned Rock from the house but we didn’t worry much. The song he sang in snatches when he sorted his tool box was ‘I Walk the Line’ (Johnny Cash, 1956).
That spring was warm and still. Dad and Uncle Jimmy put in the window screens in our house on Randall Avenue in May so there’d be a breath of air at my First Communion party. Spring flamed into a summer that was one of the hottest on record. When school let out, Annie & I sprawled on the porch, picked at salads, and took turns hosing down The Boomer, our brainless young spaniel who didn’t have the sense to lie down in the shade. The Boomer’s name had less to do with his bark than his talent for farting. Warnings and welcomes came rapid-fire from both ends of The Boomer.
My father came home late from work one night and announced that without consulting my mother, he had bought a beach house in the Rockaways, sight unseen, from one of the cops in Uncle Jimmy’s precinct. The look of alarm and dismay on my mother’s face was the same one she usually gave to The Boomer. Annie & I were sent to our room where we lay in our beds and listened to the thunderstorms, the one outside our window, and the one going on in the kitchen.
The beach house was more of a beach shack. All the windows were stuck closed and every door hung at a different angle. The two tiny bedrooms had no closets, and while the loo was indoors, the shower was outside at the back and rickety. Dad was delighted. He was a carpenter, worked for Consolidated Edison, the huge supplier of electricity to New York City. That hot, airless year he built miles of scaffolding above and below ground in all five boroughs as Con Ed raced to keep ahead of the growing demand for power. On his own time Dad was more creative: bunk beds, fitted cabinets, bookcases, shelves, “and someday a boat”, he’d say. After all, he was a Galway man. Every weekend that summer, above the hum of electric fans and the blare of radios was the sound of my father’s hammer, often pounding along in time to the beat of ‘Don’t Be Cruel (Elvis, 1956) or ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ (Carl Perkins, 1956). A lot of the timber that went into the beach house was stamped, “Property of The City of New York”. I thought it was a brand name like Black & Decker.
My mother, sister and I spent that summer at the beach. Mom got her hair cut short like Doris Day and even bought a two-piece bathing suit that unlike Doris, she was too shy to wear. The beach was crowded weekdays with women and children, who like us, had a breadwinner working in the city. The moms talked while keeping an eye on the kids in the water. After lunch, we’d settle down for some plane spotting, the prelude to a nap. The holding pattern for Idewild, later Kennedy Airport, was over the Atlantic, south of Rockaway Beach. If ever I can’t get to sleep, I don’t count sheep. In my mind’s eye I watch the planes leave the holding pattern with a stately left-hand turn, one by one, and settle into the final approach to Idewild, five miles east across Jamaica Bay.
The phone woke me with a start. “How is it where you are”, asked Inverin. “Hold on” I said (where am I?) and scrambled out the door. Inis Meain was visible to the east with just a few wisps of fog remaining, like my brain. Then a look south at the cliffs, and one at Kilronan village west of us. Clearing nicely. On my way back inside, I rapped on the hood of the Jeep which woke the crewman with a start. Smiling, I gave my report and was told there will be two aircraft to us at 2.45pm. One aircraft will be departing right away for the smaller islands, and one aircraft will be sitting out for my 3.15pm passengers. We’ll be back on schedule and we should be all right for the rest of the afternoon. There were phone calls to make and things to do before I’d watch two aircraft make stately right-hand turns, one by one, and line up with our 32 runway for landing. But first, I trotted back to the kitchen and turned off the radio that was playing ‘Memories Are Made of This’ (Dean Martin, 1956).
