Flying With Faber - January 2014
The Rubber Chicken
By Stuart J. Faber
When a self-made, fabulously wealthy business person is asked to reveal the secrets of his or her success, at or near the top of the list is invariably the following: “I always associated myself with people who were smarter than I in their specialized field. I always tried to hire those folks as part of my team.”
Well, I’m not one of those business icons. Nor am I one of those smart guys they pursued to be part of their team. However, to elevate my proficiency as a pilot, I have always attempted to follow that business philosophy. I consistently sought out pilots with flying skills superior to mine. With a healthy population of flight instructors, professional pilots and folks who are just naturals in an airplane, meeting outstanding pilots has never been too difficult. Some of these men and women became my friends as well as my flying buddies.
Of course, for our acquaintances to blossom into friendships, these folks had to possess other qualities. The person had to be endowed with decency, integrity, affability and kindheartedness – plus our personalities had to be compatible.
For example, one guy, Arnie, a former airline pilot, did not make the cut. At first his skills impressed me – until I discovered that he was fired from a major airline for what I will only describe as inappropriate, dangerous pilot behavior. He had great airplane skills but horrendous people skills. As time progressed, he revealed a pattern of invidious behavior and a level of bigotry the likes of which I had never witnessed. He was constantly hurling loathsome and/or vulgar remarks about any person whose color, accent, religion or ethnicity was anything other than his.
Essentially, this story is about the irrelevance of ethnicity. All of the folks I am about to describe sprung from a variety of cultures and life styles. What attracted us to one another and what kept us in a near inseparable bond was that we were a group of decent folks with an insatiable love and respect for aviation. Kind, humane people – devotees of aviation – nothing else mattered.
Mike and His Pet Rubber Chicken
Let’s start with Mike whose instrument ground school I was attending. I had never met an instructor who made aviation concepts seem so clear and easy. For example, warm fronts, cold fronts, high and low pressure systems were an enigma to me until Mike deciphered them. He broke airspace down into logical and understandable blocks and carefully explained the purpose and function of each. If you were selected to answer a question, heaven help you if your answer was wrong. He would respond by hurling a rubber chicken at you. Not only would the class explode with laughter, you never again forgot the right answer.
I was so impressed with Mike, I asked him if I could purchase a few hours of instruction in the airplane. I was having great difficulty with ILS approaches. He initially declined, stating that he did not have sufficient time for individual instruction. As I continued to implore, he asked me a few questions about corporate law. I gave him the best answers that my years as a lawyer could provide.
Eventually, he relented. We met at the airport, I was poised to leap into the plane. “Where are you going,” he inquired? “An airplane is the last place to learn how to fly.” We sat under the wing as he inquired about my ILS difficulties. I described my problem and he offered several remedies.
We finally jumped into the airplane. My first ILS approach was miraculously the best I had executed to date! With a twinkle in his eye, he suggested an NDB approach – a procedure beyond my capability. That was during the 1970s. When was the last time anyone in this century has performed an NDB approach?
We climbed to altitude and I ineptly commenced, and immediately doomed the NDB approach. I immediately felt an object strike the top of my head. It was the rubber chicken!
Bill and His J-3
The first time I laid eyes on Bill, he was washing his bright yellow J-3 Cub. The airplane was entirely original – 65 horsepower Continental engine, wooden propeller, no radios. At the time, I owned a Piper Aztec.
I took half of my private instruction in a J-3. (The other half was in a Taylorcraft BC-12-D). During the check ride in the Cub, I was required to perform a spin and an off-field landing to a grass field. To this day, the J-3 is dear to my heart.
“How about letting me fly your J-3?” I flippantly asked.
“How about letting me fly your Aztec?” he responded.
Bill, a CFII, was an engineer at a major southern California aerospace company. We spent many fun-filled hours flying one another’s airplane. As a bonus, I maintained my instrument currency.
Super intelligent and highly educated, Bill was a down-to-earth guy – almost too down-to-earth. One day, I was with a business acquaintance, a charming fellow but rather arrogant and snooty. I was trying to impress the guy with my legal and worldly skills. Bill was with us and the subject turned to his frequent aerospace-related business trips to Paris.
“Paris is all right, but you can’t get a decent meal in that town.” Mr. Snooty was aghast. I was mortified –but today, I fondly recall the story as one of the funniest in my memory. Sadly, Bill is gone. He was one of the warmest and most genuine people I’ve ever met, and a superb pilot.
Liz – A Stupendous Aviatrix
Liz is an exceptional aviator and a person of profound character. She aced a 100 on the instrument written exam! She is facile with airplane-snap rolls, hammerheads, loops – you name it. During a period when a bunch of us would hang out at the airport all day, go to lunch and perhaps dinner, she was always one of the gang, except we curtailed our saucy language around her. Whenever she touched down at Chino Airport, we could always count on her to bring back one of those delicious pies from Flo’s Restaurant.
Eugene-My Mentor and Hero
When I first met Eugene, I was 15 and he was in his 20s. He flew historic aircraft such as BT-13s, Howard DGAs, Ryans, Mooney Mites and Culver Darts – many younger aviators today have probably never heard of some of those airplanes, most of which were quite challenging to fly – but Eugene seemed almost in unison with his aircraft.
Gene would strap me into the BT-13, open the canopy and perform slow rolls. I was sure that I would tumble out of the aircraft. Although I had been interested in aviation since my first flight in a Ford Tri-Motor at age 5, Gene further sparked and intensified my enthusiasm. Although he was not an instructor, he patiently taught me a great deal.
Dean – He Flew until he Died
Dean was in his 60s when I met him. We flew together until he was well into his 80s. A commercial artist and a CFII, Dean was dexterous with any aircraft he was piloting. We also shared an interest in culinary arts. I recall the first time he took the controls of my C-210 and later my Aztec. He handled each as smoothly as if he had been born in them. He accompanied me on many long cross-country trips. He always knew where we were and what was required to successfully complete each mission. He could explain virtually any principle of aerodynamics, instrument flying or weather from memory. At times I would argue with him, but he was always right.
Kevin – A Great Pilot, Lovable, but a Little Crazy
Kevin, another CFII, shared my profound love of aviation. He maintained the rating just so that he could have the opportunity to fly a variety of airplanes. I doubt that he ever charged anyone for his instruction. He had absolutely no fear of any weather or other flying conditions. Perhaps that was his major fault. If we were caught in severe turbulence, I would relinquish the controls and he flew the airplane as if he were gliding a boat on calm water, even if the wings seemed to be close to separation from the fuselage.
On more than one occasion, in the middle of the night, he would call me, or I would call him. “Hey, it’s raining cats and dogs, let’s go up and get some actual.” We would meet at the airport, dash from the cars to the airplane; soaking wet, hop in the plane and off we would go.
Ted-The Professor of Aviation
Ted was another one of these guys who could mount a barn door and make it fly. He flew P-51s and B-25s with the ease of flying a Cessna 150. A CFII, he was a walking aviation encyclopedia. Whatever question he was asked, be it the most esoteric element of aviation, he knew the answer. We would deliberately look up remote subjects just to see if we could trick him. We were never successful.
Hank – Doctor of Aviation
Hank, a medical doctor, specializes in radiology. But you would never know it. I was in Wisconsin for a few weeks, met him through Eugene, and joined their group on daily breakfast flights. I did not become aware of his line of work until three breakfasts later. He was just an unpretentious Midwestern guy who rarely spoke about his work. His airplane of choice, a Stinson 108-2, was the subject that dominated his conversation.
I announced my return to California in my T-210. Hank gleefully bellowed: “I’ll go with you.” I met him at the hospital where he worked. He ripped off his white coat, donned his flight jacket and away we went. I was astounded with his map reading skills. He could detect microscopic spots on aviation maps and then point to them on the ground. “There’s an abandoned well,” he would proclaim as if reading a detailed x-ray. During a stop in Amarillo, the crosswinds were so severe, it took both of us to yank the wheel to the stops and stomp on the rudder pedals with dear life until the aircraft finally came to a safe halt. We eventually landed in Burbank, Hank hopped on an airliner and flew back to attend to his patients.
Last year, for my 80th birthday, I threw myself a huge party. I trained for, and performed 100 near-perfect push-ups. Hank, with his wife, flew his Mooney, (alas, he sold his Stinson), to Los Angeles to attend the party. That is a devoted friend.
Ken – Great Pilot, Questionable IFR Spotter
Ken was another Stinson 108-2 driver. He owned and coveted this airplane for more than 25 years. Ken could gracefully land that bird in a fierce crosswind or on a precarious table-top mountain strip. He executed impeccable cross-wind, three pointer or main wheels landings. One could barely hear the wheels as they kissed the runway.
Ken housed his Stinson in a tornado-proof hangar. One day, some guy landed an airplane on the runway parallel to Ken’s row of hangars. The airplane veered off the runway, crashed into a solitary hangar along the row and destroyed everything within, including the airplane. Guess who had the unlucky hangar? Ken was never the same, like a parent who lost a child.
Another not-so-funny-at-the-time story: I was practicing IFR procedures under the hood. Ken was my spotter. “See any aircraft,” I called out? No answer – just heavy snoring.
Art – Clean as a Whistle
Then there was Art, a snazzy dresser – a jovial, vivacious guy who owned a classic Cessna 180. The airplane was as snazzy as Art and as immaculate as the day it left the factory. Art could three-point that machine almost with his eyes shut.
Zack – Sartorially Challenged, But a Good Instructor
Zack was a CFII. We would often fly IFR from Van Nuys Airport to Torrance Airport, then sprint across the street to Del Monte’s – at the time, the best steak house in Los Angeles County.
In addition to his mismatched attire, Zack wore a ridiculous toupee. He must have paid 5 bucks for it. I harbored an occasional fantasy of flying with him in a BT-13, opening the canopy and watching his wig fly off. One day, Zack abruptly stopped speaking to me. I would say hello and he would strut by without looking me in the eye. I finally asked him why the cold shoulder. He responded that he saw me flying with other instructors. I was sorry he felt that way – I really liked him. I was unaware that a relationship with a flight instructor required exclusivity.
Some of these folks have moved away. Sadly, too many of them are no longer with us. For years, we were a close-knit assemblage of pilots. We had much in common, yet we were a diverse group of individuals. Some were financially well-to-do. Others were barely making a living. Our lives and ethnicities were diverse as well. One guy was an African American. Another was a Middle Eastern Muslim. Two were Jewish. One guy was gay. One guy was Slovakian – one was Italian. Scattered within the group were a few Catholics, a few Angle Saxon Protestants, one Mormon and a rubber chicken of unknown origin.
Betcha can’t guess the ethnicity, faith or life style of any of the folks. Of course not – it never mattered. It was irrelevant. What mattered was their integrity, their loyalty, their humor and their trustworthiness. What counted most was how we treated one another, and our level of devotion to, and respect for, aviation, and how each could repel the onslaught of a rubber chicken. That’s all that should matter.
In every walk of life in this country, all that should matter is a person’s decency, honor, and compassion, plus their devotion to the people they love and to the worthy endeavors they pursue.
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