Rugby and Romance

Nuns. That’s what we called ourselves. Although some flight attendants had boyfriends at home, the others rarely dated while on the job. There was no way we could. We took military passengers to Vietnam, the cockpit men were too old, and our civilian passengers were traveling in groups, never to be seen again. Despite media rumors, romantic interests seldom blossomed while working on a charter flight.

The only sexual activity for nearly all flight attendants was with boyfriends at home. Even that could be a struggle. Most men did not understand the endless flight adjustments that occurred when their girlfriends worked for a nonscheduled airline.

Dates at base sites were constantly being tested. Several times as I dressed for dinner with Bob, the phone rang. The scheduling department informed me that I had to leave in a couple of hours. I’d be gone for two weeks.

Granted, the places we visited were beautiful and exotic. But if we ever did date on the flight line, it was almost always platonic. All that changed one day when our crew arrived in Hawaii.

“Finally, we’re here,” Dolly declared. “I can’t wait to go swimming.”

She leaned on the railing at the top of the portable stairs, lifting her face to the early morning sun. We had just worked a night flight from the Philippines, where we had had three days of rain. Dolly glanced beyond the terminal building toward the tropical mountains and mist-covered valleys. A cool breeze blew from the ocean.

“I need to work on my tan,” I remarked, standing beside her. “Bob and I are going to a formal dance and my dress is sleeveless.”

After clearing customs, the crew took a limo to the Ilikai, a luxurious hotel on Waikiki Beach. In the lobby we passed a group of rugby players. They were departing for an exhibition match as we were checking in. We stood in our tan and white uniforms at the reception desk and noticed the men staring at us.

The New Zealanders wore striped rugby jerseys and their muscles bulged under the cotton material. As one of the best teams in the world, the handsome boys were on an educational tour for both their country and the sport of rugby.

Later that afternoon, Jenny, Dolly, Jane, and I lay sunbathing on the beach. The eight-hour flight from Clark Air Force Base had exhausted us. All we wanted to do was lie on our towels atop the pearl-white sand and vegetate. We were so tired that we never even picked up our books.

A strapping young man approached us. “Hi. Didn’t we see you in the lobby?”

Before long, four New Zealand men lay beside us. Normally we wouldn’t have encouraged any conversation, talking only enough to be polite. But they were gorgeous.

Laughing and listening, we sat up. I wrapped my arms around my knees and looked out at the ocean as I listened to their New Zealand tales.

“I was raised on the South Island in Christchurch,” Patrick said. “And I love to camp and fly fish.”

He was not very tall, but quite muscular and with remarkably wide shoulders. Now a college student, Patrick supported himself with rugby scholarships. Ray, Mickey, and Al, all lanky athletes, came from the North Island. They also supported themselves with scholarships.

The eight of us body surfed, basked in the sun, and flirted. As the afternoon ended they invited us for dinner. We changed from bathing suits to dresses and met them on the tiled terrace located at the back of the hotel.

As we strolled along the beach to a Japanese restaurant, we began to pair up. Patrick and I walked side by side. Behind us were Dolly and Al. Following them were Jane and Mickey. Trailing quite a ways back were Jenny and Ray, both tall and dark haired. They looked like twins. We were all on tight budgets and agreed to go Dutch treat.

After their daily exhibition matches, they met us on the beach. We swam in the surf and then changed for dinner. The second night we walked the beach to a Hawaiian restaurant, barefoot with our dresses blowing in the wind. As I sat close to Pat, I noticed the smell of citrus fragrance on his neck. He held my hand under the table and occasionally squeezed my fingers.

On our return, the eight of us did all the free things within walking distance of the hotel. We wandered through a local park, window shopped along Ala Moana Boulevard, and visited nearby boat docks.

For our last night in Hawaii, the New Zealanders suggested we join them for pizza and beer in their hotel room. The next day they had to return to Auckland and we had to work a trip to California. They already had beer in their room and ordered pizza from the hotel.

Three of the men were staying in an Ilikai Hotel dorm room with a sliding glass door that opened to the ocean. They had three mini-dressers, three nightstands, and three single beds lined in a row, two feet apart. I thought of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.

Patrick bunked with two other rugby players in another room down the hall. The eight of us sat on the beds as if they were facing couches and talked of our futures. In her exuberant voice, Jane, a former Miss America contestant, added a few airline and modeling tales, spicy and funny.

We drank beer from cans and waited impatiently for the pizza. Dolly played her guitar and serenaded us with songs from The Mamas and the Papas. The sounds of the rolling waves and swaying palm leaves mingled with Dolly’s sweet voice.

Smells of melting cheese and pepperoni arrived before the deliveryman. He handed us five pizzas and departed. In a matter of minutes the rugby players consumed one large pizza each. The last one was divided between Dolly, Jenny, Jane, and me.

“Wow! You guys can eat!” I exclaimed.

After finishing the pizza and drinking more beer, Ray dimmed the overhead light. We continued to talk while a soft breeze from the ocean swept into the room. With much laughter, the three couples collapsed on their parallel beds.

Standing in the corner, Pat wrapped his arms around me. I lifted my chin, and he lowered his lips to mine. In three days, that was our first kiss. I felt his heart beating against my body as he engulfed me in his arms. He bent down and kissed me again. My hands slowly rubbed his biceps.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Pat and I walked out the patio doors and headed toward the beach. The moon rose over the horizon, its light rippling across the waves. He held my hand, and we stopped to kiss numerous times.

I wrapped the hem of my dress around my hips and walked into the warm ocean. Pat was right behind, laughing as he pushed me deeper into the surf. He pulled me back at the last moment to save me from a thorough soaking. Finally we ambled back to the hotel and took the elevator to my room. I flashed on memories of my father teaching me to drive and having The Talk.

At the door, Pat turned me around and gave me a passionate kiss. I didn’t invite him into my room, but we hugged each other in a tight embrace.

“I’ll send you letters,” I said.

“Good-bye, my lovely,” Pat said and he kissed me one last time. “I’ll write when I get home.”

When Jenny returned to our shared room, she told me, in her inebriated stupor, what had happened after I left.

“We did the unthinkable,” she said, lowering her head. “We had sex.”

All three couples in the same room, just two feet from each other. Talk about conduct unbecoming a flight attendant!

Early the next morning, while waiting for the soldiers to arrive at the airport, Dolly and I chatted about the girls’ forbidden night of sin. They were shocked by their lack of discretion. None of them had ever had a sexual date while flying. We really were nuns—at least for the most part.

Two weeks later I received a letter from Pat. We wrote back and forth for almost a year. He told me of his Rugby adventures, and I wrote about my world travels. Eventually the letters slowed and finally stopped.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27