THE OLD MAN had been working on the plane for months. It was his own design. He spent hours sanding its wings in a brick building on the North Fork the locals called the airplane factory. He was like a Newfoundland shipbuilder of old, constructing his own flying machine in that prodigious, determined manner that is common throughout Yankeedom. To test the new aircraft, he had selected me and a red-haired woman, who were to fly it over the Long Island Sound up through Connecticut and Massachusetts and up into Maine. Of course, I said yes. There was nothing better to do.

But why Maine? The old man didn’t say. He was actually a mechanic during the working hours, of solid build, hands like metal dustpans. One day, it was ready. I bought protective outerwear at the local marine supplies store, I made sure to bring my phone charger, some snacks, a good book to read for when we landed. If we landed. It was a misty day, and I wondered how we would even be able to find Maine if we couldn’t see it. And how were we supposed to land? In some farmer’s cornfield? “Don’t worry,” said the red-headed woman. “Leave that part to me.”

She was wearing her flight jacket and a leather cap with goggles. She looked like Lucky Lindbergh. But who would sit in front and who would sit in back? That part was never decided. Who was the pilot of this wooden aircraft, cut from planks of beech and pine? She sat upfront; the wind was puffing her red hair about. We were set to start from the top of Radio Flyer Hill in New Suffolk. And like that, the plane rolled down the hill and smoothly transitioned to the air, gliding swiftly over the whitecapped waves of the sound. The wind took us higher and higher, and soon I could see the dark pines of New England, standing around like old farmers.

The old man sat by his radio, waiting eagerly for our radio transmission from Maine, sipping a celebratory glass of scotch whiskey. What would we do when we landed in Maine, me and the red-headed pilot? Where would we go? We had no place to sleep; no one was waiting for us there. Maybe we could find a barn nearby and dream off the thrill of flight in a warm hayloft.