1969 or 1970, DC-3 bush operation. We were repositioning a load of guys who had been cutting slash on the right-of-way for a hydro-electric powerline in southern Labrador. These men hadn't seen a woman in a couple of months, and to say that our stewardess was buxom was an understatement. Right at the top of descent, the young lady came steaming into the cockpit, spitting nails.
"What's up?"
"There's some dirty
back there jerkin' himself off!!"
"What?? What did he do when you walked by?"
"The dirty
never missed a stroke!"
"Well whaddya want me to do, go back and give him a hand?" Looking back on it, that was probably the wrong thing to say, since I was now informed "I ain't going back there with those
animals. You go back and see if their seat belts are fastened."
The young lady spent the rest of the flight in the cockpit. I saw her years later, after we'd both left that company. She had become a prison guard at a maximum security prison. We shared a laugh about the old days, and she told me that little episode was nothing to what she sees now.