Page 119 of Under Southern Stars
“All the seats are window seats,” Jack says with a ghost of his usual smile. “It’s that kind of plane.”
As we board, I notice how compact the cabin was—barely enough room to crouch, with seats arranged in pairs. I slide into one beside Madison, while Jack and Emma take seats further back.
The pilot, a weathered man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a thick Australian accent, turns to address us. “G’day, folks. Flight time to Milford is about forty-five minutes. It’s a beautiful day for flying, but we’ll have some turbulence over the mountains, and the approach into Milford is…well, let’s call it ‘sporty.’”
“Sporty?” Madison asks.
“It’s one of the most challenging landings in commercial aviation,” Jack explains from behind us. “The airstrip is surrounded by mountains on all sides. We essentially have to drop in.”
My stomach tightens at the thought.
“Don’t worry,” Emma says, noticing my expression. “Harry here has done this run thousands of times. Isn’t that right, Harry?”
“That’s right! Three thousand, four hundred and sixteen,” the pilot confirms cheerfully. “Haven’t crashed one yet.”
Madison giggles nervously. I grip the armrests as the engines roar to life, the small plane vibrating around us.
We climb steeply after takeoff, the earth falling away beneath us. Queenstown’s layout becomes clear—the town nestled between lake and mountains, roads winding like ribbons through valleys. Despite my anxiety, I have to admit the view was spectacular.
As we approach the mountain range, the plane begins to buck and dip in air currents. Madison grabs my hand, her earlier excitement tempered by nervousness.
“It’s okay,” I assure her, though my own knuckles are white on the armrest. “This is normal.”
The mountains rise to meet us, jagged peaks seeming impossibly close to the wingtips. The pilot banks sharply left, following a narrow valley between towering walls of rock. My stomach drops with each air pocket and turn.
“Our father, who art in heaven…” I mutter under my breath as the plane dips particularly violently.
I hear a quiet chuckle from behind me—Jack, recognizing my prayer. Our eyes meet briefly before I turn back to the window, unsettled by how easily we slip into old patterns of shared humor despite everything.
The mountains give way to even more mountains, peak after peak of snow-capped majesty stretching to the horizon. Madison had recovered her excitement, taking photos with her phone and exclaiming at each new vista.
“Look, Mom! Waterfalls!”
Indeed, thin ribbons of white cascade down sheer cliffs, some seeming to fall directly from the clouds.
“That’s just the beginning,” Jack says. “Wait until you see them up close on the cruise.”
The approach to Milford is every bit as “sporty” as promised. The plane descends rapidly between mountain walls that seem impossibly close, the runway appearing at the last possible moment. My breath catches as we drop the final few hundred feet, touching down with a bump that had several passengers—myself included—uttering involuntary gasps.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Milford Sound,” the pilot announces cheerfully. “Local time is 10:47 AM, and the weather is, well, perfect.”
Madison is out of her seat the moment we stop, pressing against the window. “Mom, look! The mountains go straight into the water!”
As we disembark onto the small airstrip, I am struck by the scale of the landscape. Towering peaks rise directly from the dark water, their reflections making perfect mirrors. Waterfallsthunder from cliffs thousands of feet high. The air is cool and impossibly clear, carrying the scent of rain and vegetation.
A small bus transfers us from the airstrip to the harbor, where a sleek tour boat awaits. As we board, I notice Jack hanging back, letting Madison and Emma go ahead.
“Thank you,” I say quietly as we wait our turn. “For arranging this. It was thoughtful to choose the flight instead of driving.”
He looks surprised by the acknowledgment. “I thought it would be…easier. For everyone.”
The unspoken truth hangs between us—that hours trapped in a car together would have been unbearable in our current state.
“It was the right call,” I say simply.
We find seats on the upper deck, Madison and Emma at the rail for the best view, Jack and I in chairs behind them. A buffer of strangers separates us, which feels both a relief and oddly disappointing.
As the boat pulls away from the dock, the true scale of Milford Sound becomes apparent. Towering peaks rise directly from the dark water, their summits disappearing into wisps of cloud. Waterfalls thunder from cliffs thousands of feet high, creating rainbows in the mist where sunlight breaks through.
