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