Back on the Job

Joyce and I got the air carrier started about 1985, more or less. Getting started is tough. When do you actually get started? When you sign the necessary (and many) papers? When the bank puts the money in your account? When that first paying charter shows up? When...? You get the idea.

Anyway you get the idea. We were off and running. Well maybe stumbling along might be a better term. We started off with two airplanes, neither of which was a King Air. We did have a Cessna 182 and a Beech Baron. Neither was luxury equipped, but both were IFR capable. But then again, neither was set up for flight into known icing conditions. We had one part time employee pilot. Very part time. He wasn't needed a whole lot at first.

And I had (still have) a tattoo on my back, "Will you kiss me before I die Johnny?" Joyce never asked about it, and I've never talked about it either. I'll know it's there every day until I die.

ENOUGH!!

All that was a long time ago now. This is today.

I picked up my charter in Laconia New Hampshire after doing the weekly Baltimore run. Are you familiar with Laconia? It used to be the site of a famous bike race and weekend in general Now it's more organized and respectable.

Back when Harrison and I raced the sidecar rig there things were a little wild and wooly I guess. Party like H... all night and ride the same way during the day. When you're young you can do that I guess.

I'm off the ground and you can see the gear just before they tuck away for the two hour flight to Washington NC.

My charter is a motorcycle collector and hobbyist. Yes, he's one of those tech multi-millionaires and likes the old time bikes. Not the bikes from my days in the 60's & 70's, but way back in the really old days. Think teens, twenties, and thirties.

He's on the way south to check out one of those semi-mystical "barn finds". You know what I mean, the car (or bike) that was pushed aside when the owner moves on, grows up, dies or something. Barn finds do exist and finds are still being made almost weekly. This one is supposed to be a Flying Merkel motorcycle. You can find some excellent images of the Flying Merkel here.

In the shot above we're just clearing the extreme southern tip of what is known as the Delmarva Peninsula. Delaware/Maryland/virginia that is. We're over VA in the shot.

In this one, taken a minute or so later, we're over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel connecting the Hampton Roads/Norfolk area to Eastern Shore. Another fun ride by bike or car.

Another shot of the Norfolk/ Hampton Roads area. There is a definite Navy presence here and we in Eastern WV often find fighters practicing contour flying over the Greenbrier River and surrounding countryside.

Ahh, here we are. 500ft annunciator has just sounded. Full flaps and start pulling back on the throttles. If I time this just right I'll be at the throttle stops a very few seconds before touching down.

I gotta smile on this one. It came out nicely thank you very much.

My charter is on his way to check out the hoped for toy. If things work out I'll have the charter back north too. And some awkwardly shaped packing and stowing to take care of.

Where We Came From. Who We Are. Part V

This flight is from Marble Canyon AZ to Mesquite NV and was flown back in 1985 or so. I just found the picture folder from that time.

Back in something like 1985 I was working for a small charter service in Albuquerque New Mexico. I had done a few flights for some jack leg lawyer named Saul Goodman--if you lived out that way back then you couldn't miss his really tacky TV commercials--and about that time I got to thinking about hanging up the high & wild life. Marla was gone, she was three or four, well maybe five or six, women back. My first wife had left and we'd gotten a reasonably amiable divorce and I'd met a woman named Joyce, who was..well...different from the others.

I'd been down the road with flying drugs and whatever else the cartel group I would later find out was a CIA front wanted flown to (?).

Along with El Segundo I'd crash landed a DC-3 loaded with 4 1/2 tons of prime Colombian marijuana in the New Mexico desert and watched in amazement as El Segundo doused the whole thing with avgas and set fire to it.

I've still got a limp and a metal plate (or two) in my left leg from that adventure. I can forecast the weather by the way that leg feels at times. Winters are sometimes uncomfortable and as I get older it seems to get worse.

I'd even sat helplessly and watched a guy take a dive from 200 feet above the ocean so that the wounded Cessna 182 I was flying would limp along long enough to get his crying and nearly hysterically family to safety.

He was a political prisoner of an extremely corrupt Central American government who had escaped and who the CIA wanted transported to safety. Didn't quite work out like the CIA wanted.

I'd even found myself flying in Southeast Asia for a while and still try to forget a lot of what went on there around the time of Khmer Rouge.

When I drink too much I remember the woman who said "will you kiss me before I die Johnny?" Or maybe I drink too much when I remember her. Joyce helps me then.

I'd made a nice pile of money. I didn't spend it all either, unlike most of the guys I flew with. Because of the way our payments were set up, most of it was clean and clear with the IRS. For some reason a lot of the ways that money gets burned up never appealed to me. Believe it or not, I was known as a quiet and homebody type guy, not the one to invite to all the weekends that are better off forgotten about.

I flew airplanes. For better or worse, that's what I did--fly airplanes.

One thing about West Virginians, they all want to go home. There's a joke about St Peter showing a new arrival around Heaven and they come to a gated and fenced area. The gate is heavily locked. When asked why, St Peter says "that's where we keep the West Virginians. The new arrival asks why and St Peter replies "if we don't lock them in, they all go back home."

I guess I was getting older and now I wanted to go home. And I got to thinking about starting a little flying service of my own.

The shot above shows me starting my downwind leg at Mesquite for a visual landing. This is a view of the long taxi in. Below is a shot just prior to shutting down.

I think I was ready to head home to West Virginia. Now all I have to do is sell Joyce on the idea.

Where We Came From. Who We Are. Part IV.I

The pictured flight was from KGCN (Grand Canyon Nat'l Park) to KHND (Henderson Exec Las Vegas NV) and featured a vicious and gusty X-wind at the landing. The OAT at HND at landing was 36*C. For the uninitiated that converts to about 98*F. The Cessna is un-airconditioned.

This is a continuation of my post begun below. Here's a link.

I was left at _________ airport, 250 miles from Miami and told "we may be in touch". What I didn't mention was that it was 3:50a.m. and raining. And every door I could find was locked. I crawled under the wing of a waiting Cessna 310, folded my jacket into something resembling a pillow and went promptly to sleep. About 6:30 I rolled over, the rain had stopped, and an alligator was coming slowly my way and was only about 20 feet away. It seemed closer at the time. I found my way to the perimeter fence and climbed over--remember, in the late 60's airport security was not like it is now--and was on my way back to Miami, riding my thumb.

I got back to town by late afternoon, needing a shave and shower. Marla wasn't too impressed by the "whoevers" I was flying for.

I got cleaned up and about the time I sat down for supper the phone rang and the voice said "Senor, we would like you to fly for us a package." "I'm tired and need some time off to recover. In case you didn't notice, you or your employees left me a long way from home in the rain at night without the offer of a ride home. "I'm very sorry for that Senor, but that is to be expected at times. We need a pilot to fly a package and we need him now. Are you interested in the job Senor?" "...Yeah, I'm interested. Where and when? "_______ Airport and in two hours. "See you then.

I looked at Marla and gave that kinda hang-dog grin I get sometimes.

"Ya basta!! You leave and I will not be here whenever you bother to get back!!

She was there when I got back.

So, long story shortened a little, I popped a little chemical stay awake help and off I went. By this time I was pretty sure I knew where this was heading but so far I hadn't done anything illegal so I figured I was still OK in the eyes of the rest of the world and I could get out anytime I wanted. Ain't that always the way.

I got to the ________ Airport as scheduled and was met by the guy I only knew as El Segundo, who handed me a package. The package weighed 44lbs, exactly. I know this because it was weighed carefully, twice, before being opened when I got to my destination and in my presence.

I guess I knew what was in the package right from the start but didn't think too much about it. A two hour flight, all domestic, and only state borders to cross. No customs.

So off I went in the regular King Air, just me and this 44lb package.

Two hours later I was on the ground at _______. I was met by an unsmiling and muscular guy with the usual gun slightly visible under the sport jacket. And the first thing out of his mouth was "you have opened the package mi amigo and are in very serious trouble indeed. (I hadn't) "No...I haven't. You are wrong. And I don't think I'm really your amigo hombre.

Well, long story shortened here, I got punched a couple of times. I'm not a hero and I'm not much of a fighter. Even less so when the guy opposite is 50 lbs heavier than me and very very fit.

I got my breath back slowly and when I could stand up fairly straight (it would be three more days before I stood really straight) I put my hands up and in plain sight and told the guy I was going to reach in my back pocket, get out my wallet and hand him a phone number I had been given along with the instructions: "You may need this number soon. Keep it and give it to whoever gives you concern. Give him the paper, do not just tell him the number. It would do you no good in that case."

The guy took (snatched more like) the paper, took me into a waiting office area and made his call. I wasn't offered a seat so I stood--rather more of a slump against the door frame I guess.

"He is here Jefe. The package has not been opened. Si Jefe. I will show him. No, he did not weaken. Thank you Jefe, I think so as well"

And the guy hung up the phone and turned to me, but this time with a smile and offered handshake. Oh and by the way, the offer of a healthy belt of Glenfiddich Scotch.

"Come Senor, let us see your delivery.

So we opened the 44lb package and I got a laugh when my muscular friend showed me the contents. 44lbs of the best Colombian...Criollo Chocolate.

"We may be in touch Senor, with a job offer this time. Congratulations, you passed the tests.

"What would have happened if I had opened the package? Armand (I later found out his name) sighed and said "Alas, then your time at this place would have been short and unhappy.

I flew the King Air back to Miami, got home before Marla left for work (see, I knew she wouldn't leave), got some sleep and then waited.

Several days later I got a call to be at ___________ airport at ________ p.m. This was where I got my job offer.

$5000 dollars U.S. every week, whether you fly or not. You will fly for no one else, no matter how much they offer. You will be ready to fly within two hours of our contacting you, day or night, seven days a week. If you are arrested make your phone call to this lawyer. Be sure you understand that, this lawyer only. You are ours until we release you or you die, and you can take that however you wish.

There were a few other provisos, but those are the main ones I guess. Like I said, the whole drug flying business started over a Gin game in Miami I guess.

Where We Came From. Who We Are. Part IV

The flight pictured here was from Big Bear City CA to Grand Canyon National Park AZ.

This log entry is part of an ongoing but irregularly posted series concerning the fictional foundations of GVA and my fictionalized past.

How do you get to be a drug pilot? It certainly isn't something you see advertized on a match book cover.

Are you even old enough to remember when a generous supply of paper book matches could be found on the counter of any convenience store or other place that sold cigarettes and cigars? The covers always contained printed advertising that usually said something like "earn big pay as an over the road truck driver" or "earn big pay as a certified underwater marine welder". The jobs were always blue collar and required some level of specialized training. The match book cover always included a phone number to call in order to "sign up right away and start earning".

A real world aside here: I have always been a compulsive collector. My collections have included maps (back when they were free), matchbooks and advertising buttons and badges like those you see every day at HARDEES and MacDonalds. My matchbook collection, taken from places I had visited on my bike and always displaying the name and address of the location where I had collected them once occupied several 8X12X6 deep plastic containers and weighed over three pounds.

I suppose my drug flying days started over a Gin Rummy game in Miami Florida...

At the time I was a free lance charter pilot, flying for whoever and wherever I could find an airplane for which I was qualified, and quite a few for which I wasn't.

The flying jobs were usually brief. The charter services often had their airplanes seized for non-payment of debt, or the owner would disappear just before payday with all the cash, or once in a while the DEA would move in, seize everything in sight and the hired help would be left stranded where they stood. In those cases we were glad to get off with what little cash we had saved and the clothes on our backs.

I was on the ground for quite some time in south Florida and managed to make an uneven but profitable living playing money Bridge, Gin Rummy or even moderately high stakes poker. In a few circles I was kind of the "go to guy" when a fourth was needed for money Bridge or Gin Rummy.

And truth to tell, if some of the middle aged matrons (those in the 40-60 age group) were in need of an escort or companion for the afternoon, we could usually make an arrangement satisfactory to both parties. You would be shocked by the number of "respectable" ladies who felt that membership in the Mile High Club was not only fun but absolutely mandatory.

I had gotten involved in a regular Gin game with a group of Mexican gentlemen at a club in downtown Miami and happened to hear two players talking about needing to fly from here to there and that their regular pilot had quit his job. I also knew their pilot from my time at Miami Exec and even the King Air the Mexicans used regularly.

So, long story shortened a bit, I waited until one of the gentlemen excused himself to go the necessary facilities. I excused myself briefly from my game and headed for the same room.

After performing the necessary functions I introduced myself and offered my pilotage services if and when needed. I also mentioned that many at Miami Exec could offer their commentary as to my flying qualifications and fitness.

I was given a long stare and the brief comment "We shall see".

The next day I received a brief phone message, "Be at Miami exec at 9:50 a.m. ready to fly", followed by the dial tone.

I hustled up, got cleaned up and arrived at Miami Exec as directed. I was met by another Mexican who came to be known to me only as "El Segundo" (number two). We ended up doing a lot of flying together in the coming days & months. It would be several years before I learned that he (and most of the people I would be working for) were actually a front for an illegal program the CIA was using to finance some of their own highly illegal operations using drug cartel money. In other words, the CIA was involved in drug smuggling and sales as a profit making scheme.

I was told we would be flying from "here to there" and were to leave right away. And that's where we hit our first snag-- I thought.

"Wait a moment my friend, this airplane isn't going anywhere with me on board until we do a proper walk around, I personally check the mechanical reports file and make sure all other paper work in in order. With all due respect sir, I don't know anything about you or this airplane."

My Mexican employer drew himself up, took a deep breath and said "good, you have passed your first test. My employers are important people, muy importante indeed and no one, no one flies for us unless he is an expert and careful pilot."

So, we did our flight. I was paid in cash on the spot and told "we may be in touch". And that was it for a week.

Then I began receiving calls at crazy hours "be at ____ airport ready to fly", followed by a dial tone. I suppose this was a testing period of sorts, and evidently I was passing my tests. I was always paid in cash, more cash than just simple flying would normally bring and told "we may be in touch".

I had begun to get the idea that what we were doing was not strictly legal and I suppose I could have pulled the plug on the whole thing at any time by simply saying "ya know, I don't like where this is going" and not accepting any more flights. But ya know, the money was good, I was a long way from home, and I was young.

When we got to the low flight I fully understood where this was heading.

The low flight. Ahh yes, the final exam I suppose. Maybe in more ways than one. I received the by now usual call "be at ____ airport at 1:27 a.m. ready to fly". So I turned up at the airport in question at the hour in question and was again met by El Segundo and off we went in the by now familiar King Air.

Except I was then given the instructions "fly heading _____, descend to within 50 feet of the sea, turn off all lights, radios, and transponders and fly until directed otherwise". And it was the dark of the moon.

I have to say one thing, El Segundo had nerves of steel. He never flinched once. I sure did. We skimmed the surface for 45 minutes. I saw us flash over the coast and head over the Everglades. Finally I was told, climb to 150 feet, fly heading ________ and in 27 minutes return all lights etc to normal position, call for landing clearance at ________airport but do not land there. Land on the coastal road instead.

So I climbed, lit up the aircraft, made my radio call, landed and was told "we may be in touch". And was left to hitch a ride back to Miami, 250 miles away.

To be continued

Where We Came From. Who We Are. Part III

I picked up my charter in Sault Ste Marie MI bound for Cairo IL, a ling leg to the south.

Sometimes engineers don't talk much, and marine engineers even less. Buried in lap tops, hard copies and tables their flight passes quickly. Mine less so.

Time to think.

A long time back I mentioned that I had won a Cub J-3 from a guy in a poker game. And I mentioned, actually issued a warning would be closer, not to play cards against me for money. Before I even knew the term, I had a gambler in Las Vegas (yeah, I won there too, but not against the house) that I had less "tells' than anyone she had ever seen, except herself.

Anyway, I had won the Cub only to find out it wasn't flyable. It had a blown engine and would have to be disassembled, trucked to some site for repairs and then have a new certificate of airworthiness issued. Harrison (my motorcycle racing buddy) and I went down to Stanaford and picked up the airplane after taking it apart over a few weekends, loaded it onto a hay wagon and off we went to the Skelton Airport near Beckley WV.

Skelton was a true coal camp. The tipple was just off to one side of the town and the overhead transfer for the loaded coal jimmies ran right over the houses and the highway. The entire 1/2 mile run for the loaded jimmies was over a crude but heavy steel net, designed to stop slate, coal and the rare jimmy from falling onto a house or the highway, killing anyone unlucky enough to be underneath at the time. This was West Virginia coal country at it's grim and gritty worst. All that is gone now, replaced by a shopping mall, cheap junk food eateries and a movie theater or two.

The airport was for there for the use and enjoyment of anyone lucky, and rich, enough to be able to actually own--or at least rent--an airplane. I was neither lucky enough or rich enough by a long shot.

During my junior year in Woodrow Wilson High, Beckley, I had landed a part time job at the Skelton Airport doing whatever scut work that was needed. Wash airplanes, help push them wherever needed, drive the Jeep donkey, haul trash, grease and oil. You name it. But I did have a job at an airport and now I had an airplane. Or more properly Harrison & I had an airplane, and all we had to do was to make it work again.

Harrison was a pretty good wrench when it came to bike engines. We a 250cc Puch (Pook) and a 200cc Zundapp that could outrace the usual Harleys in woods runs, especially in mud or on tight turns. The Harley guys hated it. Harrison wrenched. Hard. I rode. Fast.

Harrison took a close look at the 65 hp Continental and pronounced it as nothing more than a larger bike engine and would "see what he could do" to get a little more power out of it while he was working it over. You need to understand here. Our corner of the coal fields was not exactly mainstream America when it came to things like FAA inspectors, certified flight instructors and authorized airframe & engine mechanics. If you could get it into the air and you didn't kill any one (except yourself) you were pretty much on your own back then. This was 1963 remember.

I had gotten hold a copy of Stick & Rudder. I guess I kind of "liberated" it from the local library but it hadn't been checked out in nearly 5 years. I needed it worse than the library and everybody else at the airport already knew how to fly and didn't need it at all. I memorized every page of that book and actually still have it, oil and blood stains included.

Harrison wrenched while I was working on and around airplanes. We raced bikes on the weekends and when there was time I went to classes at West Virginia Tech, Montgomery WV, the (then) best civil/mining engineering school mom, dad, and I could afford.

It took us about a year to get the Cub ready and checked out. Then came the day we needed to find a flight instructor.

I mentioned above that things were a little different back then in southwest WV. No one looked too closely at things like certificates, printed authorizations and the like. If you didn't kill anyone except yourself, whatever you did was pretty much alright.

Do you remember--or have you ever heard of--a thing called the GI Bill of Rights? By 1965 the "GI Bill" was responsible for the tremendous lead the US had in the any number fields. We turned out engineers, scientists, doctors, you name it, almost by the ton, all largely paid for by the US Government. All you need to qualify was to have been a member of our armed forces and you could go to college almost for free. Doctor Ben Hillman had been a P-51 fighter pilot during WW II. He was now a DVM--a veterinary doctor--and the owner of a brand new Mooney M20A. And he agreed to be our flight instructor.

Dr. Ben had a fairly dramatic take off procedure he used whenever anyone was watching. He'd line up on the runway center line, set the parking brake and run the engine up to just short of the redline. He'd then release the brakes, hold a fair amount of down elevator to keep the airplane firmly nailed to the ground and run down the strip until well over the minimum takeoff speed, simultaneously neutralize the elevators and retract the gear. The airplane would scream down the strip about 4 feet above the ground, riding on the compressed cushion of air under the wings and then pull up into as a steep a climb as the Mooney could muster. Doc said this was how you got off the ground as quickly as possible when the Messerschmidts were breathing down your neck with guns blazing. I guess he knew whereof he spoke too.

Anyway, to make things shorter, Doc taught me to fly. I had read "Stick & Rudder" so thoroughly that I was almost ready to solo after only three or four lessons. I just needed to learn close coordination of the controls and spend hours (and hours) on navigation--the math part--and I soloed after only a few lessons. Harrison? Doc tried. He really tried. I tried. And Harrison tried too. But any time he got into the cockpit he got deathly air sick whenever he was more than 10 feet off the ground. He was OK as a passenger, but never got a pilots ticket, and never would.

I was on my way, for better or worse. And sometimes the worse was a lot worse. I never went back to college. My feet had grown wings.

Where We Came From. Who We Are. Part II

Saranac Lake NY to Potomac Field, Friendly MD.

Funny, what can remind you of the past. Walk into some room and hear a tune and you're back in high school. Fly into an airport and you're back to the day you made an important hire...

GVA was going pretty well by now. Joyce and I had been running the charter service more or less on our own--only two part time pilots and one full timer who also wrenched things when necessary--and things were necessary a lot at times. We had a Beech Baron and a different Cessna Skylane from before. The "Skylame" had been replaced by a more trustworthy Skylane. I had even begun to wonder how a used (very used) King Air might fit our flying service.

We still lived in the 35ft travel trailer on our 15 acres of land near Renick, 12 miles from the airport. But we had started construction on a real home. Brick ranch, 3 bedrooms and a basement. We even had a computer (Commodore 64 and MSDOS operating system) and dial-up internet so we could connect to needed FAA and other aviation sites. And there were dang few of those. We had kept our old Chevy Suburban (towed the travel trailer over 100K miles) as a crew car and now had a large monthly payment on a used Mercedes. We were making it even if I still had to stay at the office at LWB a lot of nights just to keep up with things there. Joyce wanted to quit working at the office and so we began our search for a "Girl Friday". A Jill of all Trades so to speak.

Do you know how hard it is to find people who are genuinely interested in any job? We ran through the entire list. One woman said she knew how to type, turns out she was taking the forms and files home at night for her (high school) daughter to type. We still have our old IBM Selectric typewriter somewhere in the dead storage space we rent I think.

Then there was "Tattoo Sally". I don't remember if that was her actual name, but that's what we all called her. No, she wasn't a former circus tattoo'ed lady, but that's what she looked like. Now-a-days every second person is covered with "tats", back then not so much. Definitely not the image a respectable charter service wanted to portray.

Then we ran through the ones who drank, wanted to sleep (why do they call in sleep, no one actually sleeps) with the entire town of Lewisburg, the ones who simply showed up for work, found out the job actually was work, and a lot of it, and just never came back and...well, you get the idea.

And just when we were beginning to think we would never find a good, trustworthy employee we received a phone call. "Hi, I'm in Friendly MD and just saw your ad in "Flying Magazine". Is the job still open?" 'Yes, it is. Can you give me some of your qualifications?' "Do you mind if we discuss that face to face? I can be there in under two hours if you would like, what's the weather at LWB look like?' So, in a nut shell, I gave her a wx briefing and told her where the GVA FBO was located.

"Super, see you shortly. Please have a line marshal waiting. I'll be in the red Mooney 201." And she hung up the phone. At first I was a little surprised at the way the lady handled the phone conversation. Not a lot of asking and hesitancy and no uncertainty at all. Odd.

An hour and a half later a red Mooney 201 lands, I do the marshaling duties and out climbs a woman who introduces herself as Rosalind MacReady. We go inside the office and begin the interview. Which seems to turn out more of a her interviewing me session. One thing I did come away with was that she used to fly KC-135 tankers for the U.S. Government. Not the USAF, the U.S. Government. I didn't ask further. She didn't volunteer further.

And work? Damn woman seemed to do everything and be everywhere. The papers were up to date, the forms always ready. The flight plans always filed. Joyce was able to stay home and take care of things there. I was able to concentrate on my part of the job and even do some of the charter flights. Suddenly it seemed we were moving forward instead of just trying to keep our heads above water.

Oh, and one more thing. Rosalind didn't like to be called Rosalind, she preferred "Bunny". I'm sure you remember Bunny.

Where We Came From. Who We Are. Part I

Everything old is new again. Humm..words from a song that fit here. It was just a routine flight today, up to Saranac Lake NY, way up in the Adirondacks for a software developer and team. A routine ride from Franklin VA in one of our King Airs. But not too long ago it was anything but routine for me--and GVA...

In 1983 Joyce & I had gathered up what courage we could muster, held our collective breaths (and noses), signed for an absolutely huge bank loan and incorporated a small (very small) charter air carrier service called Greenbrier Virtual Aviation. Home base at the new Greenbrier Valley Airport--the old field near the Greenbrier Resort finally had been closed, replaced by a badly needed new facility. Think DC-3's weaving down between hills in fog & rain to land at the old field.

We couldn't mortgage the house as part of the loan collateral, we didn't have a house. We were living in a rather small (35') travel trailer parked on property we had bought in Renick, about 12 miles from the airport. We did manage to secure part of the loan using the land as collateral. I had some money from other sources (more on that later) and so we were off. We had a pretty good Beech Baron and a tired Cessna 182 Skylane that we usually referred to as "the Skylame. Most of our charters --and at first there were darn few charters--were hunters, fisherman and the occasional farmer wanting an aerial photograph of his acreage.

Joyce took care of the office paperwork, phone calls, scheduling, and heading off the FAA. Oh yes, and trying to find the money to pay the fuel bills and repair costs, there were a lot of those. I was the "highly trained and courteous" flight staff.

We had gotten a charter for some guy selling something called a lap top computer. He had been at a show/demo at the Greenbrier Resort and needed to be in Franklin VA for a demo for the Department of the Navy. So I fueled up the Baron and off we went to Franklin VA. And there my part in things should have ended.

I was cooling my heels at Franklin Muni and almost ready to head home empty--no pax, no cargo, no nuthin' when the guy called the FBO and asked if I was still around. The nice FBO lady said I was just getting ready to leave, handed me the phone and walked away politely. The guy needed to go to Saranac Lake NY (never been there in my life) and was I interested in the charter? His planned carrier had cancelled his flight, they found a job that paid more and left the salesman high & dry. Another small, one or two plane operation like GVA, I suppose.

Was I ready to go to NY? You bet I was!! I called Joyce, told her to cancel plans for supper and I'd be home tomorrow unless something more turned up. I bought charts, maps, and approach plates on my bent and bloody credit card, filed a flight plan for upstate NY, convinced the ground service crew to waive the landing fee and fueled up the Baron.

We were off!! At least my charter was, if not GVA itself. We were off as filed for a routine flight up to the Adirondacks, making a little money and hopefully I'd be able to find a charter of some nature back to WV or somewhere close. I spent the next two nights hanging out at Saranac Lake. They let me sleep in the back of the FBO a couple of days (things were different back then) before I found some freight going in my general direction. But GVA had been there when needed, and delivered the goods.

My salesman friend? He stayed with Gavilan for a time, always using GVA for his charter carrier. As he rose in the business he directed that GVA be his division's carrier of choice. He later moved to another computer manufacturer and took us along as his East Coast Carrier. His new employer was an up & coming outfit known as Apple. Humm...it doesn't seem all that long as I remember it, but was 1983, 32 years ago. Today GVA flew a routine charter. Up to Saranac Lake for a team from Apple in a reasonably recent King Air with full luxury cabin and the latest panel. Everything old is new again I guess.