292: Seaplane πβοΈ
Daily Image created using ChatGPT (Anime AI Art)
π The Last Flight
The sun hung low over the Mediterranean, casting golden streaks across the turquoise waters as the seaplane skimmed the surface, its pontoons slicing through the sea like a blade through silk. Tourists on the cliffs of Gozo paused mid-photo, watching the spectacle unfold below. A seaplane was a rare sight these days, even more so since the old pilot, Anton Camilleri, had retired.
But today was different. Anton, seventy-two and stubborn as the limestone that built the island’s villages, had dusted off his logbook and pulled Belle out from its private hangar. The plane had flown hundreds of “aerial scenic tours” over the Maltese islands, daily 30-minute trips between the Grand Harbour and Gozo’s MΔ‘arr. It had also ferried mail, medicine, and even provided support in diving and search and rescue operations.
Today, it was making a special run. In the passenger seat sat his granddaughter, Marisa, a marine biologist returning from a long research stint in Sicily. She had missed flying with him. Her childhood was filled with memories of Belle, from sitting in the co-pilot’s chair to watching it from the shore, waving as it disappeared into the horizon.
As they approached Gozo’s southern coast, the cliffs of Ta’ ΔenΔ rose like ancient sentinels, and the village of Xlendi shimmered in the distance. Anton banked gently, giving Marisa a view of the cathedral spire piercing the sky above the hilltop town. She gasped at the renewed feeling. The scenery, the wind, the salt, the hum of the engine, it was all coming back now.
They touched down near Ta’ Qassisu, the water turning from sapphire to emerald as they approached Paradise Bay. The plane slowed, leaving a foamy trail in its wake. Anton cut the engine and let the silence settle; just gulls, waves, and the distant chime of church bells. “Once, I brought a wedding ring here. The groom had forgotten it in Valletta,” he said, voice rough with salt and sentiment.
Marisa laughed, then grew quiet. “You never told me that one.” “There’s a lot I never told you,” he said, looking out toward the cliffs. “I always figured it was better to show you.” They opened their packed lunch and sat there for a while, munching and chatting, the plane bobbing gently, the island holding its breath. And in that moment, between sea and sky, past and present, Anton’s last flight became someone’s new beginning.
