Night Flight

• Beau Scaddan, Grade 10, Perth Modern School -
• Short Story
• 2019

Excellence Award in the 'Just Keep Writing 2019' competition

The cool, dark water slid smoothly beneath him, the soft rolling of the waves gliding gently below exerting their subconscious calming influence over him. He could almost feel the refreshing night breeze upon his face, although he was breathing the stale atmosphere encased within the glass bubble of the cockpit. Occasionally, the little Cessna lurched in the sudden updrafts that, while unusual, were no doubt due to the unusually heavy rains the region had received lately. Apart from this, however, it was a beautiful, calm, and peaceful summer night, one of those treasured occasions where it was a joy to be flying, the stars shining uninterrupted on the inky-black canvas of the night sky, his eyes grateful to be unburdened by the harsh artificial lighting that so often clogged up his surroundings, flooding him with the peace that the stars in the night sky brought to him.
He gazed up at them, trying to identify the constellations. There was the Big Dipper, directly overhead, its curvature coinciding perfectly with his route. He studied the bright flecks it consisted of intensely, his eyes eventually continuing on to wander over the huge star-studded glowing band of the Milky Way stretching a massive arc across the heavens.
While eagerly absorbing all this, he failed to notice that his body had involuntarily covered itself with goosebumps in reaction to an unknown stimulus, his hairs standing stiffly on end, until he scratched his forearm and felt the rough little upright lumps. Bemused, he wondered why they had appeared all of a sudden. There had been no change of temperature inside the humid cabin, since there was no draft to be felt- he was at too high an altitude to unwind a window, and he was otherwise feeling completely fine.
Or was he? His heart suddenly skipped a beat, fluttering in his chest, then began to race, pounding out each beat with excessive force. He sweated heavily, and began to take in larger and more frequent breaths to fend off the faint feeling overcoming him.
He swallowed hard, concerned. Why was he hyperventilating? This was a tranquil night, a pleasure to be flying, and he was experienced in all sorts of weather, yet he felt as if he was about to have a heart attack.
Was this one of those famed anxiety bouts, the likes of which smote even the most well-weathered pilots at the most unlikely times, and rendered them so panic-stricken that they became paralysed by their irrational fears? He hoped not- there would be no aid for him if that was the case. The closest landing strip was a hundred miles to the east, and he had not notified anyone else that he was heading out tonight. Yes, if he had a stroke or a panic attack out here, he would certainly die alone, and the outside world would have no idea of where to look for him. The ocean would swallow up his craft without trouble, and he would never be seen again.