The King of Tonga, His Royal Majesty Taufa’ahau Tupou IV, was snoring heavily, drool moistening the collar of his “Aloha shirt.” A grossly overweight man, this last true Monarch of the Pacific, filled his first class seat completely. The King’s wife, his Crown Prince son, and their retinue, had purchased exclusive use of the First Class cabin for our flight from Guam to Tokyo.
Captain D.B., Wild Bill Chowder, and I were the crew flying this royal assemblage to Japan, to attend Emperor Hirohito’s funeral, in January of 1989.
En route, I told D.B. of a story I had read as a kid, one which stuck with me all my life. Jim Thorpe, the American Indian running star, had been sent to Europe at the turn of the century, to represent the United States in the Olympics. Having won a number of gold medals, this young kid, right off the reservation, was on the receiving line being introduced to the King of England. Jim Thorpe said, “Hi, King,” The London Times famous banner headline screamed “H I K I N G” and Jim Thorpe became the toast of Europe.
D.B. raises an eyebrow, he knows this story’s been goin’ somewhere. “Darry,” I ask, “may I?”
“Hey Kesh, not many real Kings left,” D.B. says, granting me his permission, with this bit of wisdom. Before I leave the cockpit, I carefully straighten my tie, put on my pilot’s jacket, and adjust my hat.
“Very pretty.” D.B. says.
“Thanks,” I agree, leaving the cockpit.
Everyone’s asleep in First Class, including His Royal, snoring Majesty. Decision time….Fuck it….I tug gently on his sleeve… nothing. In for a penny in for a career, I pull on his cuff more insistently. His poached egg eyes roll down, focusing on me as he comes awake. Sticking out my hand, I say, “Hi, King.” Graciously, the mountainous Monarch shakes my hand.
As I reenter the cockpit, D.B. looks back at me. Giving him the thumbs-up, I say, “Thanks, D.B.”
“Hey.”