"Flight 704 to hell, now boarding at gate 13"

During our college years, my buddy Rob and I spent the majority of our free time (and a fair amount of our classroom time) daydreaming about the excellent fishing and hunting trips we’d take when we’d earned our degrees and were making fat salaries. By the time I graduated, I had hunted elephants in Africa, caribou in Canada, and caught salmon & halibut off the coast of Alaska. All without leaving the comforts of the back row of the university’s Economics lecture hall. While my knowledge of even rudimentary economics didn’t exactly flourish, I did become a well-respected hunting and fishing guide. I might even go so far as to say I became a legend… in my own mind.

In April of 1991, I was riding my dirt bike out in the desert. I got to showing off a little bit while taking a jump and I ended up riding off a small cliff. Fortunately, there were some sharp rocks below to cushion my fall and I only suffered a broken collar bone, 6 broken ribs, a cracked sternum, a lacerated kidney, a punctured lung, road rash, and a collection of bruises. Since my injuries prevented me from working my usual job as a furniture mover, I spent the next nine months suckling on the government’s State Disability Insurance teat. The excruciating pain aside, it was a pretty sweet gig. I had plenty of time for screwing around and I got a tax-free payment in the mail every two weeks. That’s a good setup if you can get it. Since Rob was a child of privilege and didn’t need to work, we spent the better part of that summer lounging in the shade of some large oak trees while fishing a local lake.

Rob is number five in a family of eight kids. The whole family is like something you’d see on a Hallmark made-for-tv movie. Rob’s dad, Russ, is a retired commercial airline pilot. His mother is the classic homemaker, right down to the frilly apron she wears around the house. Each of the children is making a mark on this world as a banker, business executive, pilot, or some other respectable profession. They’re all a great bunch of people, although they welcomed me with open arms right into their family so they’ve obviously got some issues. But I like ‘em.

At the end of June, Rob received a call from a friend. Roger had been Rob’s next door neighbor for several years but he picked up his wife and two daughters and moved them to Las Vegas the year prior. We were plenty disappointed to see Roger go, and it wasn’t because he had a 26-foot SeaRay cabin cruiser on which we had many great fishing trips. It was because Roger was a good guy and… he… always… oh, forget it. It was because of the boat. Anyway, Roger called and said that he had been taking his boat out into Lake Mead pretty regularly and had become a pretty accomplished striped bass fisherman. He invited us to come out on the 4th of July and spend a few days fishing with him. We eagerly accepted his offer and told him we needed to find a way to get there since both of us drove belchfire cars but, one way or another, we’d be there. We were just about ready to lower ourselves to riding a Greyhound bus when Russ volunteered to fly us out to Vegas on his airplane (the one in the picture). Before we knew it, Butch (Rob’s younger brother who is also a pilot) invited himself along. Roger graciously told us, “the more the merrier” and that he’d meet us at the airport at 6:00 on July 4th.

On the day of the 4th the rest of Rob’s family was bbqing and eating watermelon while we loaded our gear into the car. Both Russ and Butch had instructed us to be mindful of what we were taking because there are strict weight limits on small craft and exceeding the limits can be extremely dangerous. Rob’s mom, ever the doting hen, fretted that we would be hungry on our flight so she made each of us a couple chili dogs. These were some gooood chili-dogs. Loaded with cheese & onions, they were a work of art. We pounded the chili dogs and hit the road. Thirty minutes or so later, we arrived at Camarillo airport. With our luggage and fishing gear in a very large pile outside the airplane, Butch began hoisting each item attempting to assess its weight. He recorded the weight of each item in a small spiral notebook. He crunched the numbers in his head and determined that the total weight put us just “below gross” and pronounced us safe to fly. After performing the pre-flight routine, we were soon in the air and headed toward Vegas.

The airplane we were riding in was a vintage Beechcraft Bonanza. The plane had been meticulously maintained and upgraded with new electronics. A new, oil-cooled powerplant was capable of generating a steady cruise of 210 mph. In short, she was the envy of just about any small-craft pilot who laid eyes on her. She did have one failing, though. The craft was not equipped with any sort of air conditioning or vent to the outside which meant hot, dead air inside the cabin. To make matters worse, the Bonanza is not a top-wing aircraft, which means there is virtually no shade from direct sunlight. This didn’t usually pose a problem, however, because Russ ordinarily flew in cooler climates, such as up and down the coast. And if a desert flight was necessary, a significant gain in altitude was usually sufficient to lower the cabin temperature dramatically.

However… on this particular day the stars aligned and we hit the trifecta. Our flight took place in the middle of a hot summer day while the sun burned with full intensity. Our journey took us directly across the desert. And Butch, our boneheaded co-pilot, had failed to include the weight of his passengers in his load calculation. Each of the four passengers was within a biscuit of 250 lbs. On the whole, we were about half a ton “over gross”. The effects would soon make themselves clear.

We had been in the air for perhaps 30 minutes when the excitement began wearing off and I became aware of the interior temperature. Another 30 minutes passed and things became downright uncomfortable. A dial thermometer in the center of the cabin read a toasty 112 degrees. To this day, when I walk through Costco’s meat section and see the rotisserie chickens I have flashbacks. Each of us was sweating so profusely that I thought it probable we’d flood the cabin and short the avionics. Russ attempted to gain altitude to cool things off but with each attempt the engine’s oil temperature climbed. As if the conditions on the inside of the cabin weren’t miserable enough, we noticed thunderclouds forming across the horizon. And with the thunderheads came some pretty severe turbulence. A discussion was had where we weighed the options of forging ahead or finding a local airport and waiting for the unstable air to pass. We finally decided to press on. We made it to about 20 miles outside Vegas and we could go no further. The horizon looked like something out of the movie “Twister”. Thick, black clouds. Driving rain. And lightning bolts cracking through the sky. The control tower at the Vegas airport picked us up on their radar. Russ conversed with the traffic controllers via radio about the weather and was told that the storm looked like it was going to hang around for awhile. We could either “fly the pattern” and try to wait it out or we could head back. Russ and Butch started making some fuel consumption calculations and they quickly determined that flying the pattern was not an option. In addition, the engine’s oil temperature began to tickle the red line. It was not a good situation. I glanced over at Rob and he was making the sign of the cross and he appeared to be mumbling the Rosary. I found this especially disconcerting because Rob is not, nor has he ever been, a Catholic. I suppose he wanted all his bases covered. While Butch took over the controls of the plane, Russ pored over a map of the area, searching for any airport with a strip long enough for us to land. There was an abandoned airport about 20 miles east of our location but it had no gas pumps and no telephones. Assuming the strip was in a condition that permitted a safe landing, we might be stuck there for a couple days before being found. The next possibility was Daggett airport in Barstow. It was considerably further but at least there were phones, gas pumps, and live humans. Russ and Butch argued over the wisdom of each choice. Russ, being the senior pilot, commanded that we would forge ahead to Daggett. As we banked around we hit a sheer wind that sucked about 200 feet of altitude from us. The craft shook violently and then we were weightless. . I screamed, I wailed. My life flashed before my eyes. I knew at that moment that I was going to die. I was going to die and my last meal was a plate of chili-dogs. Oh yes, the chili-dogs. Like nuclear waste they sat at the back of my throat threatening to burn right through my skin and contaminate the entire plane. I turned to Rob just in time to see him yank a “sick-sack” out of the back of the seat in front of him and empty the contents of his stomach into it. I stayed strong until I caught a whiff of the purge and then I folded like a house of cards. I retrieved a sick-sack of my own and promptly began filling it. “Hey, look! There’s the chili-dogs! Hey, look! There’s my dinner from last night! Hey, look! There’s an Abba-Zabba candy bar I had when I was a kid!” It was ten minutes of violent wretching like I’ve never experienced, before or since. I evacuated my entire abdominal workings, from my sphincter to the back of my throat. And then an absolute serenity enveloped me. I knew I was going to die. I accepted it. I embraced it. I even prayed for it. I began to dream, for how long I do not know. “Perhaps I’ll go to heaven and be greeted by my Maker. That will be so wonderful! Or perhaps I’ll go to hell where I can at least cool off! Either way, it will be glorious!” Russ rudely interrupted my nirvana. “Hang on, boys, we’re taking her in for a landing,” and a couple minutes later we were safely on the ground at Daggett airport.

As the craft rolled to a stop, Butch flipped open the door. Although the outside temperature hovered well above 90 degrees, it felt like we had stepped into a blast freezer. We emerged from the plane and it was as though we were being born again. We were covered in an afterbirth of sweat, tears, and vomit. Immediately, we peeled our soaking shirts and began to wring the considerable amount of sweat from them. We made good use of a nearby hose bib to cool ourselves. It was paradise.

The small airport, which on a busy day wouldn’t exactly be described as a booming metropolis, was eerily quiet. The 4th of July holiday had transformed the place into a ghost town. We tested every door of every building on the grounds and found a single unlocked door. It happened to be the entrance to an employee lounge of some sort and the room sported a nice selection of vending machines full of ice-cold, refreshing beverages. A quick inventory of our finances revealed that nobody had any coins for the machines. Butch finally reached his limit and picked up a chair, raised it over his head, and prepared to smash a hole in one of the appliances. I stopped him before he could do any damage, not because I felt any particular moral responsibility to the owner of the equipment but because I knew that the way our luck was running he'd somehow end up injuring himself and we’d be down one pilot. We wandered out of the building, cursing our luck, when we noticed a telephone booth. A placard displayed the name and telephone number of the airport’s FBO (that’s pilot talk for Fixed Base Operations, the guy that refuels your airplane). We put in a call and, surprisingly, a gentleman said he’d be there shortly to refuel us. True to his word, the man arrived a couple minutes later and began fueling our craft. A few checks of the engine, a top-off of the oil, and we were soon climbing back into the cockpit. The sun was setting, the air was cooling slightly, and we all had a renewed excitement. Vegas, here we come and pity the striped bass population because we’re taking no prisoners! The engine roared to life, we taxied from the fuel stop, and we were soon rolling down the runway. Our demons must have been “flying the pattern” around the airport waiting for us because we were scarcely in the air when the needle on the engine oil temp gauge began to noticeably move toward the red line. Russ and Butch traded looks of concern while I feverishly searched the corners of my mind for my “happy place”. Each attempt to gain altitude increased the oil temperature a couple degrees and it wasn’t long before we were sitting on the red line again. We circled the airport for nearly an hour, attempting to “step climb”, a process where small altitude increases are achieved followed by a resting of the engine to allow a modicum of cooling to occur. We were mildly successful, but Russ was still concerned. At length he concluded that we should turn back and head for home. His conclusion was met with generous shrieks of protest and anguish. Had we endured such suffering for nothing? How could he so cowardly throw in the towel? He finally tossed the map onto the dash and stated that he’s, “not going to burn up my engine and crash my plane so that you two idgits can fish!” With the plane pointed back toward Camarillo, Rob and I sat back into our seats, arms folded, wearing scowls of disappointment and anger. Looking back, it was shameful. How any man’s priorities can get so out of whack is beyond me. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand a man who places an airplane above fishing, but he’s the one who has to live with himself. The remainder of the ride was fairly uneventful and was made in total silence. That is, until we were just a few minutes from landing. Butch suddenly exclaimed, “We’re over gross! That’s why we’re running so hot, we’re over gross! We didn’t take the weight of the passengers into account! We’re over gross!” He said it with incredible glee, as though he’d just found the cure for cancer. It didn’t go unnoticed that he said, “We didn’t take the weight of the passengers into account!” Russ, Rob and I discussed the idea of jettisoning Butch and all his gear on the spot, and then making another run for Vegas. We were sure that things would improve dramatically without the dead weight. However, Russ was concerned that while falling from the plane, Butch and his belongings might tangle in the ailerons or the rudder and damage the craft. It was a risk that Rob and I were willing to take if it meant that we might still get to fish, but Russ overruled us. I’m telling you, the guy is obsessed with that airplane. It’s just not healthy.

Back on the ground and with the plane safely tucked away in its hangar, we hit a local greasy spoon for some pizza and a couple pitchers of beer. We remained there until the wee hours, attempting to convince Butch that, for the safety of travelers everywhere, he ought to give up on his hope of becoming a commercial airline pilot. The entirety of his rebuttal to our arguments consisted of this little gem: “Commercial pilots don’t even have to do load calculations.” I’d like to tell you that we were successful in our attempts to convince Butch to abandon his dreams but, alas, we were not. His dream has become a reality and he is now a pilot with a major U.S. carrier. I’m sure he’s perfectly safe and I’m sure that “Commercial pilots don’t even have to do load calculations.” So if you’re flying from Burbank to San Francisco on a Monday through Friday on a certain well-known southwestern U.S. airline, I’m sure you’ll be fine. On the other hand, I hear Amtrak is running a special… $99 from LA to San Francisco. I understand it’s a beautiful trip and you get to see a lot of breathtaking country that you’d miss if you were 10,000 feet in the air. And I know for a fact that the train engineers don’t have to do load calculations.