You Only Land Once

You Only Land Once

The snowflakes confettied Kallie as she conducted her walk-around, scrutinizing the propeller blades for any defects, the engine cowling for any dents, and the tires for any deflation. She had already run through her preflight checks more times than Santa scrolled through his Naughty and Nice lists. But Kallie wasn’t one to sit still. 

Nor was the snow doing anything to calm her jitters. This turboprop needed to be wheels-up before this storm got any worse. And if Mr. Thor Stefansson and his three hefty crates didn’t arrive in the next five minutes, she would have to shift cargo to balance the payload. She huffed a breath that scudded away like a cumulus cloud. Thor? Really? What was he bringing? Three crates of hammers? Not that Kallie had any room to talk when it came to epic names. But what was taking him so—

“Room for one more?” 

Kallie blinked in the churn of the cold December wind. A golden god stood before her: hair blowing blond as a Prairie

wheatfield, eyes shimmering as blue as Lake Louise, and a smile radiating so bright it could charm a princess right out of her crown. Good thing she was only a pilot in a parka, which had just inexplicably overheated despite the subzero temps. She made a point of clocking the time on her Breitling watch, a treasured aviator’s hand-me-down from Papou. “You’re cutting it awfully close, Mr. Stefansson.” 

“I’m fifteen minutes early.”

“Five. Passengers who have not arrived ten minutes prior to departure time are subject to losing their seats.” 

He shrugged shoulders broad as boulders. “So what you’re saying is that five minutes early is late?” 

“In my business.” 

“I guess that makes sense when you work for an airline.”  

She pasted on

a professional smile. “Welcome to Saga Air, Mr. Stefansson.”  

“Thor.” His smile warmed Kallie to her core, her

heart doing a little hammering of its own.  

“Kallie,” she replied reflexively, instinctively, when what she should have said was—  

“Nice to meet you.” 

Her bones melted like saganaki in the twin flames of his gaze. But when he made a move toward the airstairs, she cut him off at the pass. “Please allow me to load your crates.” 

“I can get them,” he protested. 

She was sure he could. The man filled out his down jacket like a flock of Canada geese. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’ll take it from here.”  

He raised two thick-gloved hands in surrender. 

Kallie waved to the ramp agent driving the tug and offloaded the crates from the trolley. The. Very. Heavy. Crates. Holy Forklift! They were full of hammers.  

She carried the crates one-by-one up the airstairs and into

the cabin, carefully stowing them behind the cargo partition wall. Once she’d balanced the load. she hopped down to the tarmac, motioning him in. “Welcome aboard, Mr.—er, Thor. Please take your seat.”  

He gleamed that godlike grin again. “First class?” 

Oh My Gods, she couldn’t help but reflect his radiance. “At Saga Air, all of our seats are First Class.”

“Happy to hear that.” He ascended the airstairs, and she

followed him aboard, lowering her hood in the hopes that

would cool her jets. Or at least her flush.

He jackknifed his tall frame into his seat, gazing past Kallie in the open hatch, and waved a glove at the hat occupying the left seat upfront. “What about the Captain? I guess he’s allowed to be late, eh?”

Kallie gritted back a “she.”

Thor buckled in with an oblivious smile. “Thanks for loading my boxes, by the way.” He really, really, really should have stopped there. “Do you offer drink service, too?” 

She shut that down immediately, closing and securing the door as if in answer. Whoosh. Click. Lock.  

Kallie stowed the captain’s cap, relishing the reindeer-in-the runway-lights look on Thor’s face as realization dawned, and he sank—all the way to the life vest under his seat cushion, coughing and sputtering.  

“All right there?”

“Yes, Captain. I mean, no.”

She arched a brow. “You’ll find a water bottle in the side seat pocket, along with the air sickness bag.” 

“Sorry. It’s not—I don’t feel sick.”

“Happy to hear that.” Because it was far too late for him to deplane if they were going to beat this storm.

“I feel terrible. I mean, of course, I know a woman can be a pilot. I apologize.” 

 “Thank you.” At least he was owning up to his mistake. She took her seat and strapped in. “I have to talk to the tower and await our runway clearance. So I won’t be able to chat until we reach 10,000 feet, except to make brief flight announcements. And please refrain from speaking to me as well.” 

“That will keep me from putting my boot in my mouth again, eh?”   

At least until we reach cruising altitude. She put on her headset. “This is Captain Kallista Konstantis . . .” who absolutely could not resist pausing a beat to let that register before running him through the safety briefing.

She tripped the switch to get the fuel flowing—along with her blood—anticipation and adrenaline surging through her veins. Every flight, every take-off brought a rush of excitement and dream fulfilment. 

Because Kallie Konstantis was put on this Earth for one reason—to soar over it. She shifted the engine lever to the start position, and the electric engines stirred, as quiet as mice. The propeller blades accelerated their spin, her pulse pounding with them, her anticipation roaring like the wind. She sped the aircraft down the runway and pulled up, nosing the plane into the whipped-cream winter sky. Her spirits soared, the lift buoying her heart and both wings. Grounding her troubles like lost luggage, Kallie did what she was born to do: She flew!  

The aircraft ascended, buffeted by wind, and Kallie called air traffic control, receiving the go-ahead to climb to 1-4-0.

She pulled back on the yoke and pushed the throttles forward to take the aircraft to the higher altitude, and the turbulence lessened, taking them on more of a bumpy snowmobile ride than a black diamond ski-run. But they weren’t out of the woods yet. Or past the wall of white clouds that would force an instrument-only approach to the mountain-ringed airport.

“We have now reached our cruising altitude of 14,000 feet,” she announced to her solo passenger, “so you can talk to me now. But please keep your seatbelt fastened as we are in for some turbulence.” 

“Is it going to be this b-b-bumpy all the way?” Thor asked, his voice wavering like the wings she was working hard to level out. 

“This is the optimal altitude, given the conditions.” Kallie put on her best calm-pilot voice. “We are attempting to outfly a major winter event.” She swallowed a lump of dread. It was only going to get worse. “If I don’t answer, please know that I’m not being rude, I just need to focus on the coms and controls.” 

“Whatever you need to do,” he said. “All I want for Christmas is l-l-less t-t-turbulence.” 

“I’m doing my best. All I want for Christmas is Y-U-L.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it’s spelled, Mariah. And I’d like to hear you belt it out.” 

She chuckled.  “I don’t know Y-O-U well enough to do that.”

“Not Y-E-T, Y-E-S?”

Kallie restrained her eyeroll. She certainly wouldn’t mind getting to know him and his blue eyes better. But it was Christmas Eve Eve, and she had less than two days to make a very important Christmas delivery.

“So, Y-U-L?” Thor asked. “Aren’t you missing the ‘e’?”

“N-O-P-E.”

“Then, what’s Y-U-L? Why You Love? Why You Laugh? Why You Look at me like that?” 

She laughed. “Y-U-L, the Montreal Airport code.” 

“You want an airport for Christmas?” 

“More like an airline.” Kallie took a deep breath. “I want to fly for one of the majors.” 

“You want to fly a professional hockey team?” Thor asked.  

 “A major Canadian airline.” She smiled. “Which means being based out of a city like Montreal, at least for training. And YUL is the most Christmassy station code ever. So when you ask what I want for Christmas . . . ” 

“I disagree.” 

“You disagree?” Kallie bit back a groan. This stranger thought he knew what she wanted better than she did? Aargh! She scowled at the snow. She did not need to be having this conversation. In the air. In a storm. With a paying passenger.  

“Sorry,” Thor murmured. “I guess passengers shouldn’t disagree with the captain.” 

“Copy that.” Forget his blue eyes, she was going to be all business from these coordinates on. 

“And you’re right,” he continued. “I certainly don’t know what you want other than what you just told me. But what I meant was that I know a station code that’s well, maybe not more Christmassy than YUL, but just as Christmassy.” 

“Do tell.” 

“Y-O-L.” 

“The Smoli station code?” 

“You do know your airport codes.” 

“I better. Especially as I’m going to be landing us there. But how does that relate to Christmas? 

“YOL, as in ‘Gleðileg jól!’” 

“Glacier-what-now?” 

“Glay-thee-leg-yule.” He sounded out each syllable. “It’s Icelandic for ‘Merry Christmas!’ My great-great-grandparents settled in Smoli when they immigrated, along with many other Icelanders.” 

“Cool. I get it. My Papou—my grandfather—immigrated to Canada from Greece. We say Kala Cristouyenna!”  

“So your name means ‘merry’?” 

Kallie laughed. “More like ‘good.’ ‘Good morning’ is kaliméra, and ‘good afternoon,’ kalispéra.”

“And Kallista?”

Oh, she'd flew herself right into that one. “Beautiful.”

“I’ll say. And good, too. So much better than one of those language apps. I’m going to be fluent by the time we get to YOL—at least in the good Greek words.” He chuckled a warm laugh and ratcheted his tone down a notch. “So how about teaching me some of the naughty ones, Beautiful?”  

A sizzle skittered under Kallie’s collar. “Óchi.” 

“Great,” he said. “Glad you’re up for it.” 

“Ah. Common mistake. Although óchi does sound a bit like “okay,” it means ‘no’ in Greek.” 

“If óchi means ‘no,’ then how do you say ‘yes’?” 

“Nai.” 

“Of course you do!” He laughed. “So you will teach me the naughty words?” 

“Not this flight, I’m afraid. I have to stay on Santa’s Nice list if I want to get to YUL.” 

“How long are you staying in Smoli?”

“I’m not,” said Kallie. “Just touching down.” 

“Too bad.” His voice was laced with disappointment. “We have an epic Christmas celebration.” 

“Sorry to miss it, but I have to head North for one more pick-up, and then to CHOW.”  

“I guess piloting is hungry work.” 

Kallie laughed. “Accurate, but I happen to be making a very special Christmas delivery to the Children’s Hospital of Winnipeg.” 

“Are you telling me that you’re flying from Santa’s Workshop to Winterpeg?” 

“All I can say is that my gift from Santa will be a chance to meet the CEO of the airline I want to fly for.” 

“I thought they were based in Montreal?” 

“They are, but the CEO will be at the hospital representing Care Canada, the airline’s charitable foundation, which is co-sponsoring our flight.” She checked the altimeter. “This is my big chance to impress him.” 

“Along with Santa.” 

“Of course. Always want to impress him. And I will”—she clicked on the anti-ice switches for both engines with one finger—“if I deliver the gifts to the kids on-time.” 

“So you won’t be home with your family for Christmas?” 

“I’ll be home for Greek Christmas. I see my family for our big New Year’s party and stay until our Greek Orthodox Christmas celebration on the 7^th of January, the Epiphany.” 

“Cool. I’m glad you’ll get to see them then.” 

“Me, too. Are you going home to your family?” 

“Yep, can’t wait.” 

“Did you get everything you needed in Thunder Bay?” 

“Yow.” 

“Wow?” 

“Já, spelled ‘j’-‘a’ with an accent over the ‘a,’ is ‘yes’ in Icelandic.’” 

“Good.” 

“I think you mean ‘kali’?” 

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Speaking of good things, we’re on approach to the airport, so I’ll have to ask you to refrain from speaking to me unless it’s an emergency.”  

“Understood.” 

Kallie gripped the yoke. “As you may be aware,” she said, “the approach into Smoli airport is a little unusual”—which was probably the understatement of the Jet Age—“because it is situated in a valley ringed by mountains. So we’re going to have to turn in smaller and smaller circles as we descend like an ice cream cone or upside-down Christmas Tree.” That made the white-knuckle approach sounds so sweet. Some pilots called it the “Five Golden Rings.” Those from the prairies branded it the “Five Lassos.” And those with gallows humour, the “Five Nooses.”  

And though Smoli was technically station code YOL, aviators knew the mountain-ringed airport by another name. Due to the skill required to navigate Smoli’s surrounding peaks and glaciers, and the steep descent required to stick its narrow airstrip, pilots had christened it YOLO—You Only Land Once. And that was in good weather. Gleðileg jól, indeed.  

Snow spackled the cockpit windshield, and Kallie cranked the wipers to high. Sweet Spirit of St. Louis! The storm had overtaken them. She checked the weather radar and tuned to ATIS, the Automated Terminal Information Service, for an update on the conditions. Not good. She ran through the landing checklist. Wind buffeted the plane as she fought to maintain a controlled concentric descent to the airfield. On approach, she called in to the airport, wishing for a Christmas miracle. “Smoli Tower, Saga 1225.” 

“Saga 1225, Smoli Tower,” came the reply. 

“We’re at 7500 feet, 10 miles from the airport.”  

“Saga 1225. Winds 1-4-0, 15 knots. Visibility, quarter mile. Cleared to land, Runway 1-2. Braking action poor.” 

“Understood. Cleared to land, Runway 1-2, Saga 1225.” Cleared to land on an ice rink. In a serious crosswind. After a quick check of the altimeter and airspeed, Kallie lowered the wing flaps from five degrees to full flaps. 

She gave the landing announcement to Thor and levered down the landing gear without taking her eyes from the instrument display. As three green indicator lights illuminated, the nose wheel and two fuselage wheels lowered with a—click—click—click. 

Down through the chimney with good St. Nick.  

Kallie mentally crossed herself and said a prayer. St. Nicholas was one of the most important saints in the Greek Orthodox Church, after all. And definitely knew how to stick a landing.   

They zigged and zagged until the runway came into view, a shiny black ribbon of tarmac, not laid out straight ahead, but angled off to their left.   

The wheels slammed down, cracking the ice with a crunch, and squealing into a slide accompanied by a man’s deep groan of dismay.

Kallie could practically hear Thor unclench his hands from the armrests and unlock his jaw, releasing a loud exhale. She understood. Despite her best efforts, the weather had made for a bumpy ride—and a hard landing. She maneuvered the rudder pedals to straighten the plane without spinning out on the black ice formerly known as tarmac. Then she proceeded to guide the aircraft to the gate. YOL only had the one. She ran the parking checklist, shut down the engines, and snapped off her restraint.

“Welcome to Smoli,” she told Thor. “Or, I guess for you, it’s ‘Welcome back.’”  

The strained look on his face was replaced with an easy smile. “Happy to be here. Thank you for getting me home safely. Or as we say in Icelandic, takk.”

Kallie opened the door and lowered the airstairs. “Anytime.”

Thor’s eyes sparkled with promise. “I hope that time comes sooner rather than later. Although, maybe next time, in better weather.”

The corners of her lips curved up like winglets. “Copy that. Do you want to wait here while I offload your crates?”

“No need,” Thor said. “You can fly them straight to Santa’s workshop. The elves will be elated.”