The Best Laid Plans Part 16

Even though the Commons sat Friday mornings, Angus was not on House duty nor were there any pressing votes scheduled. So we stayed in c.u.mberland for the day. Const.i.tuent meetings were only scheduled in the afternoon, so Angus and I hung out in his living room, enjoying the morning and the shards of sunlight scattered across the Ottawa River. The view from the front window peaked twice each clear day once in the morning as the sun levitated over the eastern horizon, and again at dusk when it sank beyond the sh.o.r.eline to the west. It was not the actual sunrise or sunset that struck me but, rather, the very incandescence of the light playing on the water. Just as no two snowflakes were identical, the sun's river dance was never the same. Each wave, among millions, was unique.

An Oppenheimer blast of flatulence literally blew me out of my poetic reverie. Just as no two snowflakes were identical, each McLintock fart, among millions, was unique. I know. I was there for all too many of them.

"Oops! Sorry lad. Cabbage rolls at the parliamentary dining room yesterday," Angus confessed. "I knew I was teasin' a tiger, but I couldnae resist them."

Angus waited in the kitchen for the fumes to dissipate before he dropped into the enveloping chair across from me in the room where we'd first met, the chess board between us. Our inaugural encounter seemed like eons ago, not a mere two months and a bit. He looked past me to some distant point.

"Well, I'd not have believed it when this calamity first befell me, but this new life of ours is not nearly the sharp stick in the s.c.r.o.t.u.m for which I'd been bracin'," Angus offered, before tilting a tumbler of orange juice down his hatch.

"I'm relieved to hear you say that. I quite like what we're doing despite the attendant ha.s.sles," I replied. "You're certainly not taking the easy path."

"Aye, 'tis the truth. But I'm counting on it bein' the right path," Angus said. "By the way, I'm nearly finished my speech to the Engineerin' Society for tonight."

Uh-oh. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said I've nearly finished draftin' my wee speech to the Engineerin' Society for tonight. Is yer hearin' givin' you trouble, man?"

"My hearing is fine, thank you very much. But I would have liked to have heard about this speech before the day it's to be delivered. I knew nothing about this," I complained. "I need to be in charge of your schedule. I need to a.s.sess what we're doing to make sure it's in your best interests. An important part of my job is to protect you."

"Ye G.o.ds, Daniel, it's only my faculty mates and some engineerin' students. It's hardly the Ku Klux Klan."

"Angus, it's fine. But I'd just like to know. There could be media there. You're not just an anonymous engineering professor any more. Right now, you're probably the highest profile politician outside of Cabinet, and your popularity's on the rise."

"Aye, that young fella from The Crier'll be there. Andre ... Andre ..." Angus snapped his fingers and looked up as if the name he sought might be stenciled on the ceiling.

"Andre Fontaine," I offered. "How did he find out about this when I didn't even know?"

"I gather the faculty office sends out a notice of some kind to the community and that The Crier's on the circulation list."

"Tell me more about this event. Who and how many will be there?" I asked.

"There's a quarterly dinner of the U of O Engineerin' Society organized alternately by the faculty and then the undergrads. I'd venture that forty or so faculty show, along with perhaps 75 to 100 undergrads. Another 30 graduate students tag along as part of their faculty-ingratiation initiative. We convene in the Faculty Club dinin' room. People dress up a tad, and we gnaw on polymer poultry and sedimentary chocolate cake. And I don't simply mean the cake is layered but use the word sedimentary in its true geological sense."

"Is that just your fancy way of saying the cake is usually stale," I inquired.

"Aye, though stale is a grossly inadequate characterization. We once tested a piece in the lab, and its Brinell Hardness score was quite impressive."

"What's the room setup, and when do you actually speak?"

"If memory serves, we're in round tables of eight with a podium and a microphone that makes yer voice sound like you're talkin' from the command module in lunar orbit," he noted. "As to when I speak, I fear that's beyond my ken, but I reckon it's after dessert when everybody's loosenin' their belt a notch, sharin' a belch, and noddin' off."

"Head table?"

"Nope."

"Risers and a multifeed at the back for reporters?"

"Now, you've left me in the dust, laddie."

"I'll call the faculty office. I expect there might be a few journalists there tonight if your speech has had any kind of community promotion," I suggested. "Now, what were you planning to say in your 'wee speech'?"

"I'll pa.s.s it by you this afternoon when I've got it finished, but in short, it's a dissertation of sorts on a theory I've been workin' on."

I looked at him and elevated my eyebrows, prompting him to continue.

"Well, most people I've met since I naively stepped into yer political snare on October 14 have commented on how far afield politics is from engineerin'. Yet, in the last three weeks, I've found the exact opposite to be true. In fact, it's becomin' increasingly clear to me that the same laws and principles that govern science and engineerin' also preside over politics."

"Now, you've left me in the dust."

"Well, let me give you a few examples of the many I've pondered while observin' the political machinations in and outside the House these past coupla weeks," Angus offered. "Newton's laws of motion dictate much of what we know about our universe. Newton's first law says that an object at rest or in motion will remain in that state unless acted upon by another force. In politics, if a party is at rest stalled in the polls, as it were it will remain there unless it, or some other force, does somethin' to change its fortunes. Newton's third law says that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Well, this plays itself out daily in the Commons. The Government makes an announcement, the Opposition responds, as the name suggests, in an opposin' fas.h.i.+on. When our world-cla.s.s b.o.o.b of a Leader asks a question, the Prime Minister immediately counters with an equal and opposite reaction Newton's laws of motion. When I view it in this wholly familiar and comfortin' context, this game of politics becomes clear and comprehensible to me." Angus sat back, donning the grin of a child who'd just solved the Rubik's cube, something I'd never been able to do.

"So let me get this straight. You're applying the laws of science and engineering to understand and explain politics?"

"Precisely. And it reaches far beyond Newton's laws. I've done plenty of work over the years in materials science, explorin' and understandin' the physical properties of different materials to determine their ideal use in our world. A materials-science staple is load testin'. We apply stress, strain, and direct loadin' to various materials until they fail. Obviously, this has great bearin' on the development of strong and safe construction materials. Well, think about Government for a moment. Think about the Prime Minister a.s.semblin' his Cabinet. As I sit through question period, I've already identified several Ministers the PM clearly did not load test adequately before appointin' them. At some time in the future, under a finite level of Opposition loadin', at least some of these Ministers will fail. It is inevitable."

I was not particularly oriented to the sciences, but I knew enough to grasp this fascinating concept. I'd always a.s.sumed politics was much more art than science. While I refused to accept that the weird and wacky world of politics could ever fit neatly into a theoretical framework, perhaps it could be at least partially explained and, more importantly, predicted and controlled through the prism of science. Fascinating, to a point.

"Very interesting, Angus, but a little inaccessible to the average Canadian, don't you think?" I suggested.

"Daniel, I'm not presentin' this theory at the c.u.mberland Fall Fair between the kids' sheep ridin' and the tractor pull. I'm talkin' to my people engineers, scientists, and the complement of students who don't cap their dauntin' daily workload with a nightly six-pack of Labatt Blue."

"Fair point," I conceded.

"I'd never inflict this on a civilian population, but I do think my colleagues may well be intrigued. Usually, the speakers at these dinners are drier than the cake."

"When can I see the draft?"

"I'm just finis.h.i.+n' off the political applications of Boyle's Law and Bernoulli's Theorem. I'd say you'll have it shortly after we've strapped on the midday feedbag, if that will suffice."

"That'll be fine. I don't think we need to issue a news release and distribute the speech to the media unless you'd like to."

"Agreed. The scribes can come if they wish, but I'll not be panderin' to their needs. I've had quite enough coverage to last me at least till Robbie Burns' Day." Angus sat up and faced me. "Have we time for a quick battle on the board?" he asked.

We played three games and didn't finish for an hour and a half. I'd planned on playing only one game but so disgraced myself with blunder after blunder that I needed two more games to secure elusive redemption. I lost, badly, the first two encounters but pulled off an upset in the third. I employed a neat little knight sacrifice that allowed my bishop to pin and then take his queen. Nice.

We spent the afternoon at the const.i.t office. Both Petes were on hand, under cover, dressed to infiltrate mainstream society. They had adapted quite readily to the normal conventions of greeting and a.s.sisting const.i.tuents as they arrived. They had removed all earrings, tongue studs, nostril pins, and other body piercings and had stored them in two Styrofoam cups, labeled Pete1 and Pete2, on top of the toilet tank in the bathroom. They had hung two similarly labeled dark brown plastic garment bags from the Arnie Bevan Men's Shop innocently in the front closet. I shuddered to think what surreal sartorial wonders lurked inside. The two Petes were heavy into midterms that week, but insisted on doing their Friday afternoon const.i.t s.h.i.+ft.

The afternoon pa.s.sed uneventfully with the typical array of const.i.tuent issues pa.s.sport applications, immigration matters, veterans' pension problems, and two complaints about the murky water attributed to the local aggregate operation. Angus was patient but direct in his dealings with his const.i.tuents and seemed quite at ease with his new role. I reviewed the speech he had drafted. He didn't know much about formatting the spoken word, but I must say, his writing was impeccable despite the esoteric topic. His words brought the subject alive with humour, anecdotes, and examples. I was impressed again.

That night, I sat with Muriel and Andre Fontaine. Beyond the cla.s.s I was teaching, I'd never been immersed in a sea of engineers and wondered if my arts degrees were plastered on my forehead for all to see. Everyone was pleasant, though a few awkward engineers brought to life the socially inept science-nerd stereotype. Angus had badly undershot his attendance projection, obviously thinking he'd draw the same numbers as the dinner usually did. He failed to account for his newfound popularity on campus and beyond. Instead of 15 tables of 8, they were forced to set 25 tables of 10. This meant the last 40 people arriving were relegated to the reception area outside the dining room with an obstructed view of Angus through three sets of double doors. Thanks to my earlier call to the Faculty Club, two risers ran along the back wall and supported three camera crews, CBC, CPAC, and the local cable station. Not bad. I had warned Angus once in the afternoon and again as we'd arrived on campus that his audience was likely to be more heterogeneous than he might have thought. The president of the university was there. Two senior players in the Leader's office showed up along with one from the Prime Minister's Office. We had struck a nerve. I strongly suggested he "dumb down" his remarks somewhat so he could keep the entire audience with him, and not just the engineering types.

I read in the program that the head of the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA) was also an honoured guest. Angus had neglected to tell me that he was being presented with an award for this "enormous humanitarian contribution to the developing world through his breakthrough work in affordable, small-scale water purification." It seemed I was working for a saint. Andre and Muriel were impressed, particularly when I admitted Angus had said nothing to me about the CIDA honour. It occurred to me that he may simply have forgotten this aspect of the evening. His innate modesty separated him further from the pack of conceited, self-absorbed prima donnas with whom he shared the House of Commons.

To his credit, he did tone down some of the more technical aspects of his talk. I was gratified to hear an extemporaneous addition on the university education of engineers. He spoke pa.s.sionately of the need to broaden the curriculum to redress the graduation of engineers who are experts in narrow technical fields but know nothing more about the world around them. He also encouraged the undergraduates in the room to get involved in other aspects of campus life beyond their studies. He even quoted Mark Twain, who once said, "I never let schooling interfere with my education." (Chuckles all around) Well, not all around. Dean Rumplun scowled in a corner, occasionally shaking his head in dismissal, if not contempt.

Innately articulate in everyday conversation, Angus clearly understood that a speech from a podium in front of a large audience required something more. Through consummate and integrated use of voice, gestures, and eye contact, he held us all in the palm of his calloused hand. In unison, the crowd laughed when we were supposed to, nodded when we learned something new, and lamented the end, which seemed to come all too soon. The cameras and sun guns were trained on him the whole time as reporters scribbled furiously. And all this for a speech on how the laws of science also govern politics.

The award presentation followed a moving address by the CIDA head, who described the profound impact of Angus's work in the third world. It was very impressive. We all lapped it up, though Angus looked distinctly uncomfortable with the adulation that verged on idolatry.

Two hours later, I sat alone in the boathouse, watching the glowing and extensive news coverage of the speech as Angus laboured over his hovercraft below me. That night, I finally accepted that I might well be astride a comet.

Over the course of the weekend and into the next week, broader political developments were at play on the Hill and across the country. The economy was tanking, and the decline was happening faster than anyone had predicted. Many seemingly disconnected strands came together to braid what looked to be the early stages of recession. Hurricane Penelope had devastated oil production in the Gulf of Mexico the previous week. Then, OPEC had dithered on whether, how, and when to help out. As a consequence, in the s.p.a.ce of three days, oil prices had soared to over $110 a barrel. The Canadian dollar was growing stronger against the greenback, not because of any inherent strength in our economy but because the U.S. numbers were dropping faster than ours. Our dollar hovered just above the American one, so Canadian exports plummeted, our trade deficit skyrocketed, and our tourism sector suffered. To make matters worse, Stats Can had just released the October numbers. From the first of the month to Halloween, inflation had jumped from 1.9 to 2.8 percent while unemployment grew from 6.9 to 7.4 percent.

This news was not welcome for any federal government. The news was particularly bad for a minority Conservative government that had invested everything in the sound fiscal management and stratospheric popularity of its erstwhile Finance Minister that is, until a poorly maintained air conditioner and flammable curtains turned Eric Cameron into a p.o.r.n star.

It seemed that the chrome shackles found on the Finance Minister's wrists had actually handcuffed the Government as well. To stem the tide of public outrage over Cameron's hobby, the Government had cut him loose in the dying days of the campaign. The problem was, the postelection polls soon confirmed that the Government was still at least a bull whip too close to the scandal. So after the election, as their numbers continued to sink, the Tories went one step farther despite their minority victory. They turned their back not just on Eric Cameron but also on the entire fiscal strategy he'd unveiled in the last budget. They took it right off the table. They threw the baby out with the bath water. They cut off their noses to spite their faces. All those cliches applied. Ultimately, after tossing Eric Cameron overboard, the Government paid a heavy price for abandoning a perfectly reasonable fiscal approach.

To sum it all up, at a time when the economy appeared to be headed for the dumper, the Government no longer stood for any discernible economic policy. The Tories knew they were in deep. We knew it, too. The NDP would catch up eventually, but economic policy was not a particular strength of the third party.

The momentum gathered on the weekend and steadily grew early in the week. Sat.u.r.day and Sunday editorials in most major dailies called on the Government to introduce at least a fiscal statement before the end of the year rather than cling to the traditional February budget cycle. The C. D. Howe Inst.i.tute, the Fraser Inst.i.tute, and the Conference Board of Canada all issued similar pleas on Monday, earning considerable media coverage. After all, it made news when the folks at the C. D. Howe were on the same page with the Fraserites. In a rare display of sound House strategy, every Liberal who rose in Monday's question period hammered the Government on its AWOL fiscal plan. Finally, the President of the United States delivered the fatal blow on Monday night. In a blatant and largely successful attempt to distract Americans from their own domestic travails, the President, in a speech on Wall Street, called Canada's ill-defined fiscal policy a potential threat to the economic stability of the G-8 countries. It was audacious. It was provocative. It was utter nonsense. But it also put the hype in hyperbole and played well on Main Street on both sides of the 49th.

As I watched the tail end of question period on Tuesday afternoon, the message on all fronts was the same. Canadians needed some rea.s.surance that the Government, in the wake of the Cameron affair and the plummeting economy, was operating on a financial plan that ran deeper than "buy low and sell high." The Government was under unprecedented pressure to lay out, in clear, unequivocal terms, the economic plan that would carry the country until the budget in February. But pressure doesn't always have the desired effect. In fact, nothing tends to stiffen a government's spine and harden its resolve like an aggressive and relentless opposition. After all, human nature has always been a driving force in politics. As a species, we really don't like being told what to do.

Picture the nasty and arrogant neighbour you never liked who demands that you stop hanging out your laundry on your backyard clothesline. Your billowing underwear is an eyesore he shouldn't have to look at etcetera, etcetera. Admit it. Even if you'd just purchased a fancy, new Kenmore drier, your first instinct would probably be to hang out every single pair of gotchies you could find, clean or not, and let them swing on the line permanently. In the same vein, Governments hate doing things that the Opposition parties or anyone else, for that matter have told them to do. The more sophisticated lobby groups are very judicious in how they use Opposition parties. If the lobby groups are smart, they realize that if they get the Liberals to demand it, the Government likely won't deliver it.

Sometimes, this phenomenon has far-reaching implications. In 1965, Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson gave a speech in Philadelphia in which he called on President Lyndon Johnson to halt the American bombing of North Vietnam. Legend has it that the President had been, in fact, just about to announce such a ceasefire when our unwitting Prime Minister pulled the pin and tossed in his grenade. As a result, Johnson felt compelled to sustain the bombing for several more weeks to avoid being seen to have acquiesced to the demands of his weak northern neighbour. Privately, the President was outraged, and apparently told Pearson not to "come into my home and p.i.s.s on my carpet."

All of this to say I was quite shocked when the Government caved that very day folded like an origami master. Following question period, Roger Chartrand, the rookie Finance Minister appointed three weeks earlier to fill Eric Cameron's shoes, rose in the House.

"Mr. Speaker, in light of the volatile global economic situation that is undermining the stability of the Canadian economy, I rise today to inform the House that I will table an economic statement on Monday, December 2 at 4:00 PM, following the close of the financial markets. Thank you."

The Opposition benches erupted. The Government's hand had been forced, and a mini-budget, as it came to be known, was on the way. Or we were being played. I couldn't really tell which, but I knew what my gut was telling me.

Later that afternoon, Angus sauntered past my office and into his. He looked downright happy, even though he'd just returned from the first meeting of the Standing Committee on Procedure and House Affairs. Often, coffee and a cattle prod were required to keep committee members engaged. But then again, Angus was not your typical MP.

"How was the meeting?" I opened as I lowered myself onto his couch.

"Fascinatin', utterly fascinatin'," he replied without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

"You were just at Procedure and House Affairs, were you not?" Just checking.

"Yes, of course." He shook his head dismissively. "I'm learnin' that the real power in this place is conferred on those who understand the rules of the House and how to use them. As far as I can tell from this first meetin', my wee study of the standin' orders has left me better informed on the rules than my more experienced committee colleagues," he declared with evident satisfaction. "In a minority situation, it strikes me that the future of this Government may well turn on House procedure."

"It may well," I agreed. "I must say I was a little surprised that the Government succ.u.mbed so quickly on the need for an economic statement. It was just too easy."

"Aye, I thought the Government rolled over and bared its throat without much of a tussle," Angus concurred. "Methinks somethin's afoot."

That night, I stood bundled up on the dock, bathed in the powerful floodlights that hung under the eaves of the boathouse. I'd never noticed the lights before, but they illuminated about 1,000 square metres of the Ottawa River. The day's steady wind had swept the snow clear, leaving the ice solid, smooth, and s.h.i.+ning.

I turned to see the hovercraft, still unpainted on top, roll down the shallow incline of the ramp towards the ice. Two small mover's dollies, one under the bow and the other under the stern, made the craft mobile, while a winch and a steel cable kept the descent under control. As I'd been instructed, I steadied the stern and ensured that the rubber skirt did not catch on the ramp. Angus and I managed to extricate the dollies without incident, beyond my self-diagnosed hernia. Angus just scoffed and called me some obscure Scottish name I decided not to research.

Angus looked tense. He looked more nervous standing on the ice next to the hovercraft than he did standing in the House, challenging the Prime Minister. He gingerly installed himself in the c.o.c.kpit and nodded my way. He hadn't yet installed the electric starter. So my job was to reach into the very scary engine compartment, pull the starter cord, and bring the engine to life while avoiding a triple-twisting face plant into the whirring multi-bladed fan.

"Contact!" I cracked as I leaned in to grab the handle.

"You're a right laugh now, aren't you? Just get the engine goin' and stand clear," Angus instructed.

I pulled, and the engine roared to life. It was loud. It sounded like a cross between a snowmobile and a munic.i.p.al wood chipper. I hastened across the ice and climbed up on the dock. I wasn't really clear on what Angus had in mind. He was fiddling with something in his lap. Then, I watched as he donned a 40-year-old and very goofy-looking skin diving mask. When he looked over at the dock where I stood, I had to turn away. I was in a fit of hysterics, complete with watering eyes and vibrating shoulders. I gathered myself and turned to face him, feigning the denouement of a coughing fit. I waved, and he nodded again very seriously. I a.s.sumed the mask was in lieu of ski goggles, which made some sense in this arctic breeze. As well, if the ice beneath him ever gave way, at least he'd have a crystal-clear view of his plunge to the bottom of the river.

He reached for what I a.s.sumed was the throttle, and the engine roared louder. The black rubber skirt around the craft's perimeter inflated, and I watched as an invisible hand lifted Angus and Baddeck I up off the ice about two feet. It was hovering! The craft looked so much more impressive on the river's ice than on the floor of the boathouse.

Angus tinkered with the throttle, I a.s.sumed, to achieve the desired alt.i.tude. Then, I saw him s.h.i.+ft both his feet and rev the engine a little higher. Very slowly, the hovercraft rotated on the ice, nearly in place. I noticed the vanes in the vents on either side of the craft moving slightly. Then, his feet moved again, and the craft stopped and rotated in the other direction. While obscured by his oversized diving mask, his broad smile was clear. Eventually, Angus pointed the bow towards the middle of the river, s.h.i.+fted his feet yet again, throttled up, and flew across the ice. He carved a long arc over the river, playing with the controls, getting to know his creation. He spent the next 20 minutes flying back and forth in the limited patch of light defined by the floodlights.

I watched from the dock, filled with an emotion I couldn't quite identify. I finally decided I was over-thinking it. I was simply excited, pleased, and happy for Angus. I was proud ofhim. He'd worked long and hard designing and then building his baby. And now, he was flying it, or whatever one does with a hovercraft.

Angus shot towards the sh.o.r.e at a speed that I found disquieting. About 50 metres from sh.o.r.e, his feet s.h.i.+fted, and the nose of the craft dipped slightly. Baddeck I slowed down, though the engine roared at the same level. I now understood. He'd redirected all of the thrust out the front vents in the same way as a jet reverses its engines to brake upon landing. Unfortunately, stopping a speeding hovercraft on a frozen river taxes a commodity Angus had in very short supply that night distance.

On the bright side, we didn't have to winch the hovercraft back up into the boathouse. I followed Angus and Baddeck I as they hurtled up the ramp and smashed into the south wall of the boathouse, narrowly missing the gas furnace. I scrambled up the steps, my heart in my mouth, expecting to find both the hovercraft and Angus in pieces. My heart soon returned to its traditional thoracic position. Angus exhausted his entire lifetime allotment of good fortune that night. I found him still sitting in the c.o.c.kpit. His diving mask had s.h.i.+fted so that it was perfectly positioned over his right ear, the blue rubber strap deforming his nose. He was bent over in laughter, and then, so was I.

The cras.h.i.+ng stop had been cus.h.i.+oned by the inflated skirt surrounding the vessel itself and by a fortuitously placed pile of rubber remnants left over from sewing it. Neither Angus nor his hovercraft seemed to be any the worse for the ride.

Angus removed the mask, stepped from the c.o.c.kpit, and circled the craft in search of less-obvious damage. We found none. He sat back down on the starboard deck of Baddeck I as I closed the bay doors on the frigid night and doused the floodlights. He was clearly ecstatic with his first foray onto the ice, though he kept his emotions in check. Neither of us had yet spoken.

"Well, she works," he whispered. "Aye, she does."

"Angus, you made a thrilling sight out there," I said slowly and quietly. "But I must say, you do need some practice parking. I'm just glad the big doors were still open when you s.h.i.+fted into kamikaze mode."

A sudden thought struck me, and I darted out the door and bounded up the stairs to my apartment. I found it at the bottom of one of my many memorabilia boxes with which I cannot seem to part pieces of my life, kept and cherished to remind me who I am. I slipped back down to the workshop. I took the diving mask from his hand as he took what I proffered.

"I'd like you to have this and use this. It belonged to my greatgrandfather," I said with reverence. "He wore it in the Great War over France. It was sent home to my great-grandmother with his personal effects after he was shot down."

With care, Angus pulled on the faded but soft-as-velvet leather headgear and lowered the flying goggles over his eyes. He said nothing but clasped my right hand in his while his left held my forearm.

DIARY.

Tuesday, November 19

My Love,

Though I'm sitting on my old writing stool, I'm still hovering as high in the air as I was an hour ago. She's done, love, and she works. Oh, does she fly! It seems I've been toiling for so long on her. I never really had time to stop and think through the very moment. I cannot explain it, but I cried like a toddler as I flew over the ice. It was such a release; yet, I had only thoughts of you. My carrying on fogged up the bleeding mask, and I misjudged my stopping distance. The reverse thrust out the front vents worked very well, but I was just too close to the sh.o.r.e. But you lined me up with the ramp, you did, and we came to rest with nothing more than a wee head bash on the steering wheel.

She handles better than I dared dream. The side thrust vents grant remarkable control for a craft that makes no contact with the earth. I must only paint the top decking and the thrust vents now, and she's whole. I'm beside myself. She flies.