Airplanes, Hamburgers And Heroes

Being a gourmand, I like to have lunch at the Jack In The Box burger place on Sacramento’s Freeport Boulevard, just across the way from Executive Airport, where light planes roost.  The airport was built in the 1930s as one of  Franklin Roosevelt’s Work Projects Administration programs to provide jobs for the unemployed.  Hoover Dam was a WPA creation.  So were a lot of municipal buildings, streets, parks and airports.  Executive Airport served airlines as well as light aircraft until 1967 when an airport big enough accommodate passenger jets was built north of town. 

Exec, as pilots call it, came under a cloud in 1972 when a privately owned Korean War era jet crashed into an ice cream parlor on Freeport Boulevard, just off the end of a runway.  Twelve children attending a birthday party were killed. (The pilot survived.)  The county banned vintage military jets from the airport after that, although modern business jets are allowed.

My Jack In The Box does not have a runway aimed at it, but it does have a swell view of airport comings and goings that I enjoy while munching my Sourdough Jack with artery clogging fries and slurping down a big drink of strawberry flavored chemicals.

You see, I’m an ex-pilot.  Second generation.  The reason I’m an ex-pilot is that I cannot pass the federally required physical exam due to decades of fun but bad habits.  Plus the cost of renting a light airplane nowadays would put me on a Top Ramen diet.  Aircraft I rented for $15 an hour in 1967 now rent for 10 times that amount.

Ah, yes. 1967.  That’s the year I was licensed as a private pilot, paying for my time aloft with two jobs, and later with the G.I. Bill while attending college in Eureka, Caifornia, a coastal town 300 miles north of San Francisco and one of the foggiest locations in the continental U.S.  

The man who licensed me was the late Matt Ward, a former Marine aviator who had served in the Pacific during WW2.  The flight portion of the two part licensing exam was localized.  That is, student pilots had to learn to navigate the twists and turns of the Mad River Canyon to avoid the fog when approaching Eureka, and to do it within the canyon walls.  We also had to learn how to take off and land on hillside air strips that were little more than firebreaks.  

Matt and my other instructors also worked on my thinking. "Fly ahead of the airplane," they counseled.  Anticipate what's ahead; weather, air traffic, trolls and ogres, whatever.  Try not to be surprised.  Be ready in case a surprise pops up anyway.  Start flying mentally at least an hour before getting in the airplane.  Have a preflight checklist and follow it.  Complacency is your enemy, especially if you have trusting passengers on board.  Oh, and rest assured you will be the first to arrive at the scene of an accident. 

Then Matt was killed in a crash when approaching North Bend, Oregon, along with three passengers.  The feds determined that he'd had a heart attack, slumping forward on the control yoke and throttles of a twin engine Cessna Skymaster at an altitude of 500 feet.  The largest piece of the wreckage was a tire.  Matt was 52-years-old.

My parents drove up from Los Angeles that day. I did not tell them about the wreck.  My dad, who had flown commercially for 40 years, was not happy that I was learning to fly and my mom hated flying anyway.   They'd lost too many friends to accidents over the years.

Yet there were moments aloft when I felt like I'd been slapped with an epiphany.  No, God did not smite me with a bolt of lightning, but whenever I ascended above the clouds through a hole in the overcast, where the sky was a cerulean blue above a dazzling white layer of frosted clouds, well, I could almost hear the final chorus of Beethoven's Ode To Joy.  

Another time I was flying over coastal waters with just enough altitude to reach the shore if the engine quit.  I looked down and saw two humpbacked whales just below the surface, lazing their way from the Bering Sea to Scammon's Lagoon in Baja California. I didn't hear any ode to anything, but the sight remains with me to this day.

So do thoughts of Matt Ward, Captain, United States Marine Corps, and, of course Nat Browne, Lieutenant, Aviation Section, United States Army Signal Corps, WW1.

I'll probably observe the holiday with a Sourdough Jack, fries, and a red chemical drink at Jack In The Box, watching airplanes come and go, and thinking of my two heroes.

That will be my Memorial Day.

Comments, critiques, letter bombs?

Beautiful Michael. I'll never forget the time you flew my mother and me from Sac to Redding in the middle of a storm after my dad died. I've never been so scared in my life. My mother was speechless with fear. But, we made it unscathed. As I remember you weren't too thrilled about making the trip yourself. It's sobering to hear how many people have died in light plane crashes. I guess it just wasn't our time. Thanks for getting us safely to my grandfather's house. Love you. -- Annie

Aww, it was just the tail end of a thunderstorm.  More sound than fury.  It was a little bumpy, but that's about it.

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Mike- Your prose soars heavenward like a homesick angel. -- Ron
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Great writing, I enjoy reading all your observations,stories and thoughts. Have a great holiday. -- Bsrs

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Wonderful story, Mike. You were very lucky to have been taught by a pilot like that. And it does bring Memorial Day to mind. Thanks -- Wht
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Thanks. That was a nice memory for this Memorial Day weekend.  Several years ago, I was sitting in a passenger arrival/departure area at National, now Ronald Reagan National, Airport, waiting for my husband's plane to land --this was way back when when airports actually allowed non-passengers to wait in the seating areas. There were four of us sitting there, myself, two men, and an obviously well-traveled, worldly woman. The other three had been talking about their flying experiences. The woman told them about a time she had to laugh when she had gotten onto a flight to discover the cockpit door open and the pilots so inexperienced they needed to use a cheat sheet to ensure they were doing things correctly.
This woman, who had spent two years working in an Air Force flying squadron, just rolled her eyes, bit her tongue and, surprisingly, said nothing. It wasn't worth the effort.   – Brat

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I like it. You have this relaxed style that makes easy to read. Smooth .  – Renado

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 Wonderful as always!  -- Juli

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Great writing, I enjoy reading all your observations,stories and thoughts. Have a great holiday. It's been too long, sir.  I love what you have been writing and have meant to tell you much sooner. – Brett

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Nice, Mike.  You make storytelling seem so effortless. I know better, so thank you for the labor you've done in putting this story together and sharing it with us.  -- Karen

John Steinbeck counseled "writing for the ear," reading sentences aloud, especially dialogue, to determine mental veracity.  Including fragments.  People don't.  Think in.  Complete sentences. 

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Thanks for sending this. Happy Memorial Day and weekend. -- Angel

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Your writing is always a nice surprise to receive, and a great time to read, so I really appreciate the vivid, clear images you paint and share with words. Thanks so much..  -- Zoey

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Excellent, Mike. I lived off of Fruitridge Road between Freeport & 24th Street Road and I'm very familiar with the airport. Thanks for the stroll down memory lane. --   Rusty
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Nice writing Pilot Mike.  Thanks.  -- Smirks

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Keep them coming Mr. Mike. I have been to so many wonderful places when I read your Times.  -- Carol

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One of your absolute best. I wish I could join you and hear more.

Linda

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Thanks everyone for your kind responses.  If I could, I'l treat you all to a Sourdough Jack, some coronary fries and free refills of strawberry flavored chemicals.  We could do Plane Spotting across the road from Executive Airport