Day 43 - Surf's Up

So I saw one of the stranger things that I've witnessed in my brief, fledgling aviation career last night: the shameless desecration of an automobile. I don't understand who would do such a thing to a vehicle. I really don't. Or worse than that, who would willingly allow, and to an extent, force, others to drive such an abomination. We didn't really have a choice in the matter. It's not like we chose the thing. We had flown there from Birmingham. If we wanted to go anywhere, we basically had to take this car. It was the only one they had. Thus, we were held hostage by cliche' and poor taste. I mean yeah, it's Panama City, but what kind of idiot bolts a surfboard to the roof a car???

"That's just not right." I said, shaking my head. I stared blankly at the automotive disgrace before me.

"What?" was my instructor's chuckling response.

"That's not funny. It's sad. We ain't the Beach Boys, and I sure ain't Brian Wilson." I stared in disbelief at the car, a Chrysler PT Cruiser, complete with a surfboard permanently mounted to the roof. It looked like something out of a Captain D's commercial. My disbelief was so overwhelming that I actually took a picture of my instructor pilot, with the "thing" that they laughingly refer to as a crew car. They preach to us about professionalism. "Professionals in a professional environment!" Pilots! Symbols of strength and security! Men amongst men! The very definition of dignity! And here we are in a sawed-off station wagon with shark bait tied to the roof.

"Get in the car, Lloyd," he said. His laughter continued, and had even gotten worse. I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and shook my head.

"God, please don't let anyone see us."

And so we set off across Panama City. Two twenty-something pilots, in Panama City, Florida, at 9 o'clock at night, in a purple PT Cruiser with a surfboard on top. Oh. Yeah, I thought. If this isn't a chick magnet I dunno what is. On top of that, I was entering what I believed to be a delirious, hypoxic state from the overwhelmingly pungent gasoline fumes that filled the cab of the mobile atrocity. One spark and this thing's gonna be an A-bomb on wheels. Apparently, some cro-magnon had decided, for some reason known but to him and God, to haul gasoline in the car. And in the course of that haul, it had, of course, spilled from it's container according to the airport staff. Based on the strength of the lingering fumes, I surmised that it had not spilled from a container; in fact I believed that there never was a container. The unholy smell could only be caused by an attempt to use the cab of the car itself to contain the liquid. "Ah let's just pump it in the floorboards. It'll ride. Here, hold my beer!" And in their infinite benevolence, the staff had tried to mask the odor with several stout air fresheners, all of different flavors. So between blasts of "Country Fresh," "Citrus Grove," and "Mango Melon," we were treated to the fabulous aroma, "Essence of Exxon." It smelled like we were refining oil in a Glade factory.

Did I mention the surfboard on the roof?

And where did we drive the Valdez II to go eat? Of all places in the world? That's right friends. You guessed it. Applebee's. The one, established restaurant chain that McMinnville DOES actually have, and I flew two states away to eat it again. Go me.

The good news is that the approach to runway 14 at Panama City is absolutely gorgeous. The runway actually juts out into the bay, so seeing the reflections in the water was beautiful. I had a ball flying in and out. Smooth air. The lights of the city. The glow of the "Miracle Mile." The Air Force boys out flying, using callsigns like "Viper 29" and "Rattler 36." The bay. The Gulf. This, my friends, is what flying is all about.

I apologize for the length between updates. The Boss has had me doing projects in the midst of my education. Today, for example, I've been working on his web page and various other things. I've been extremely busy, and that seems to help keep my mind off of things. When I stop during my climb to look up at the mountain above me, I still get nauseous and dizzy, but I keep trucking. Nobody's found a way to kill me yet. And I don't intend for this to be the bunch that does. In the words of the great Bear Bryant, "I ain't never been nothing but a winner."

Oh, and in conclusion, pushing an airplane around a ramp with a lawn mower is not as easy as you'd think. Ponder on that one.

Joey

Author's Note: Special congratulations go out to my dear friend Hailey Dishman. She'll be graduating with her Bachelor's degree in nursing in a matter of weeks, and has been hired at Cookeville Regional Medical Center. I'm extremely proud of her, and if she becomes as snooty and stuck-up as the rest of the entire staff at CRMC and PCEMS, I will firmly plant my right foot into an unmentionable part of her anatomy. Carry on.