By Bernie Willis
Part 1 of 2
It's been said that to fly was the dream of man since time began. Watching the birds fly has made us envious for centuries. A good friend from Poland has recently begun dating a gal in Paris from the Montgolfier family, (the paper makers who created the first man-carrying balloon). He still isn't interested in becoming a pilot. So, what's happened to some of us? Here's my story.
I hate to admit it, but I grew up in Glendale, CA. That was just after the golden days of aviation. My dad's family had come upon hard times in Texas. He first moved to Galveston to work for an uncle as a mechanic’s helper. He supported the family from about 15 on. Somewhere along there he got a ride from a barnstormer and learned about the aviation scene in Southern California. He took a chance, moved, and got hired at Lockheed. After WWII, he married and I came along. He started on the flight line with plywood Vegas, Monique Electra's, P-38's, to SR 71's and as I recall retired with carrier-based P-3's. He was always the go-to-guy, troubleshooting problems at the end of the assembly line. He hated to fly but loved to fix. Some days he would board the company DC-3 to work at Palmdale on some military problem. Other days he would be very quiet and perhaps angry because he couldn't talk about what he had been doing. The Skunk Works were not happy days for us.
In high school I liked science and math, at first. Then came a strong urge for the "outdoor" life and mountain climbing. That desire eventually took me to the NW, a boarding school and climbing in the Cascades. I had not even thought of flying. Never been in a flying airplane. The brain files strange things.
College started in Walla Walla, WA. One day there was a Cessna parked on the grass in front of the administration building. A friend noticed me looking at it and invited me for an airplane ride. He was from Dillingham, AK and had flown his Piper Clipper to school. It didn't take 30 min. to determine that I was smitten. I could do this and was determined to proceed. That afternoon at the local airport I bought a book on learning to fly.
The Cessna disappeared from the college grounds, but a sign was posted about a Private ground school course. A month later, with my written results in hand, I returned to the airport to determine the cost of flight instruction. If everything went as planned, I could get that license for $660. My dorm room mate got me a job at a local lumber mill stacking 2X4's for about a dollar an hour. If I wasn't in class, studying, or sleeping I was at the mill. When Spring came, lessons began. I figured that with money in hand only weather would delay me.
In those days a student pilot certificate required parental permission for those under 21.
My dad said NO! He had seen too many friends crash in a fiery ball at work. Engineers did aviation safely, pilots did not. Mechanics and assemblers were safe, pilots took risks. I needed reorientation, he thought. I went ahead without permission. So, my first incentive was because it was FORBIDDEN.
My Ag pilot instructor had me flying over fences and under wires before solo and let me go in 6hr. There were a couple Ag operators in the valley. Competitors to be sure but cooperators too. There was an exchange of parts. I volunteered to fly them as needed.
Soon I was offered a job pumping fuel at the airport. Then the shop needed someone to install tank baffling in new Ag planes. Next came removing engines for overhaul and prepping for painting. Everything was related, cause and effect. The instruction made sense and applied to staying safe while near the ground. It seemed more valuable than the focused lessons at school. Flying appealed to me because it seemed PRACTICAL.
At 40 hr., the last of my savings were exchanged for the private certificate. If somehow, I could become an instructor, I could continue flying and get paid $6 per hr. While the shop work was higher paid than the lumber mill, flight instruction would be the best of both worlds, I thought. But, how to get another 160 hr.? (200 hr. were required in those days for the commercial/instructor certificates) Moving parts around only accounted for a couple hrs. a week. Then a cousin came to me asking about learning to fly. He had just gotten an insurance settlement for $450 from a motorcycle accident. I had heard of a Taylor-craft for sale for $900. So, I proposed that if he would go partners with me on the T-craft I would teach him to fly it as soon as I was certified and then he could have it. If he ever sold it, he would owe me half. Flying could be LUCRATIVE. (a few years later he sent me a check for $3500)
There always seemed to be some flying in exchange for work. I can recall cleaning many a dirty belly and, after a thorough washing, a drying flight around the pattern. People just trusted me to fly their airplanes. It was EXCITING. You know the four stages of an aviation career. First you pay to fly, then you fly for free, then you get paid to fly and finally you retire and you're paid not to fly. I was in the second and most exciting stage already.
Then the day came when one of the partners in the Ag business didn't bring his AG Cat home. His was the first-ever fatality in that type of airplane. The other partner stopped flying Ag and concentrated on his automatic flag-man business. He needed a draftsman. That turned out to be me. The charter business was growing and just newly qualified I began skipping college classes to fly. We flew the area in his C-310 promoting the new device. There were charters for construction companies and gamblers to Nevada. Then one night he hit the Bonneville Dam power lines near LaGrand, OR with his Aerostar. My mentors were gone. My jobs disappeared. This was SOBERING.
In the meantime, my dad had come to terms with my flying and particularly the T-craft. One day at work he talked to Tony LaVier about my airplane, the famous P-38 test pilot said, “why, Tex, it lands at only 28 mph how can he get hurt.” I think that was an understatement on LaVier's part but it worked for me. Dad became a partner in my flying. He flew with me and helped me develop a maintenance philosophy that continues today.
I changed airports and companies. The smaller but closer airport to the college was private. The owner was strict but instructive. In the shop we wore white coveralls. When the floor was clean I could “help” the mechanics. He didn't believe “Fate was the Hunter.” He believed carelessness was the victim. I was no longer the take apart after hours guy. I got in on annual inspections and was shown the difference between airworthy parts and not. I saw the worn-out seat rails on the crumpled fuselage of the Cessna 185. I learned how long it took to replace the fabric on a Super Cub. I was getting the “Why” to questions I didn't even know to ask. Then one summer day the boss sent me to the best school in the country.
He said, “I need you to go to the Piper factory in Florida and bring back a new Arrow for a customer.”
To be Continued…