"Do y'all mind if I bless the food?"
"Not at all," and various statements of the sort, were the simultaneous responses. Tripp, myself, and John, had gone to eat with the designated pilot examiner and Cracker Barrel for lunch, and he was the one asking our cooperation in his returning thanks for the meal.
"Lord, we thank you for this day," he began. Head bowed, I listened intently as he continued on with the list of his grattitudes. The meal. Our safety. Fellowship. It was a brief and concise acknowledgement for the blessings he'd received. In short order, he wrapped up with one final thank-you to the big man. "And we thank you for Joey's checkride this morning, and for allowing him to pass."
I shot a tremendous grin towards the table. Amen, I thought. Err... I mean, ROGEE!!!
Yep, yesterday I couldn't spell commercial pilot and today I are one. I passed my commerical multi-engine checkride this morning, and the final checkride that I have to complete for this school, my commercial-single add-on, is slated to take place at 9:30 in the morning.
I apologize for the recent silence; I promise that I have not forgotten about y'all. Cross-countries turned out to be a rather grueling experience, and each night I mainly just crashed from the tiring experience. The great news is that assuming I pass tomorrow's checkride, I'm done!!!! Well, at least with this school. The lingering question is, what next? I'm unable to get in contact with several people to whom I need to speak in order to formulate my next plans, but despite that frustration I'm feeling great. Thank y'all so much for sticking with me, and I'll get you an update on the final checkride ASAP.
One last river to cross!!! (For now, at least.)
Joey
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Day 150 - Ridin' The Storm Out
Position Report: Tulsa, Oklahoma
Status: Full of pizza that, despite its place of purchase, tastes suspiciously like it came from the Wal-Mart freezer section.
Mood: Marginal (Redneck colloquialism: “fair to middlin’”)
The delays abound, my friends. Our route yesterday was Concord, North Carolina, to Richmond, Virginia, continuing on to Knoxville, Tennessee, and finally terminating back in Bowling Green last night. Obviously we flew much of the day, stopping only in Knoxville to wait out a thunderstorm for a few hours.
Today was much the same tune, departing from Bowling Green late for weather delay, and then having to wait several hours on a storm in Springfield, Missouri. That storm passed long enough for us to depart, only to have to divert to Tulsa instead of the original planned stop in Dallas. We’re ferrying an aircraft to maintenance, so the flight will continue, most likely in the morning. The show must go on.
During one of our detours around a line of storms today, a song popped into my head; REO Speedwagon’s “Riding the Storm Out.” I watched the cell pass out my window on the left side of the aircraft and hummed the chords, thinking about how that had not only illustrated my last few days’ events, but was also a figurative representation of my current status; imagery befitting my attempts to weather this period of time long enough to get back where I want to be.
Question is, where do I want to be? Home? Back on an ambulance and pursuing my flying on my my off days? Or somewhere else? I’m considering going back to Jasper when I finish here, perhaps on a longer term basis. Obviously it will be outside of school and therefore not subject to their rules, regulations, whims, lies, and general insanity. This will be just as me; Joey. The Lloyd. El conquistador. Scourge of the skies. Conqueror of limousines. There of my own free will and doing what I want to do; all the while surrounded by people I respect, in a place that I love. What do y’all think about this? It has its ups and downs, obviously, as does everything. The great thing is that I’ll gain free experience and flight time there, as well as make great connections! The financial side of it is still “up in the air” (no pun intended), but hopefully that will get hammered down somewhat tomorrow.
Until then, there’s just about 20 more hours to go on cross-countries. It finally feels like I’m getting somewhere (slowly but surely). I have no idea what tomorrow will hold, both figuratively and literally. I’m just hoping for the best, thinking that good things are bound to continue since this is obviously what I’m supposed to do. I’m just trying my best to focus on one thing…
Ridin’ the storm out.
Joey
Status: Full of pizza that, despite its place of purchase, tastes suspiciously like it came from the Wal-Mart freezer section.
Mood: Marginal (Redneck colloquialism: “fair to middlin’”)
The delays abound, my friends. Our route yesterday was Concord, North Carolina, to Richmond, Virginia, continuing on to Knoxville, Tennessee, and finally terminating back in Bowling Green last night. Obviously we flew much of the day, stopping only in Knoxville to wait out a thunderstorm for a few hours.
Today was much the same tune, departing from Bowling Green late for weather delay, and then having to wait several hours on a storm in Springfield, Missouri. That storm passed long enough for us to depart, only to have to divert to Tulsa instead of the original planned stop in Dallas. We’re ferrying an aircraft to maintenance, so the flight will continue, most likely in the morning. The show must go on.
During one of our detours around a line of storms today, a song popped into my head; REO Speedwagon’s “Riding the Storm Out.” I watched the cell pass out my window on the left side of the aircraft and hummed the chords, thinking about how that had not only illustrated my last few days’ events, but was also a figurative representation of my current status; imagery befitting my attempts to weather this period of time long enough to get back where I want to be.
Question is, where do I want to be? Home? Back on an ambulance and pursuing my flying on my my off days? Or somewhere else? I’m considering going back to Jasper when I finish here, perhaps on a longer term basis. Obviously it will be outside of school and therefore not subject to their rules, regulations, whims, lies, and general insanity. This will be just as me; Joey. The Lloyd. El conquistador. Scourge of the skies. Conqueror of limousines. There of my own free will and doing what I want to do; all the while surrounded by people I respect, in a place that I love. What do y’all think about this? It has its ups and downs, obviously, as does everything. The great thing is that I’ll gain free experience and flight time there, as well as make great connections! The financial side of it is still “up in the air” (no pun intended), but hopefully that will get hammered down somewhat tomorrow.
Until then, there’s just about 20 more hours to go on cross-countries. It finally feels like I’m getting somewhere (slowly but surely). I have no idea what tomorrow will hold, both figuratively and literally. I’m just hoping for the best, thinking that good things are bound to continue since this is obviously what I’m supposed to do. I’m just trying my best to focus on one thing…
Ridin’ the storm out.
Joey
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Day 148 - Sweet Home Alabama... Part II
Position Report: Concord, North Carolina
Status: Slightly further progressed, most still delayed
Mood: Remains debatable
Ok you non-commenting bunch of slugs, short and sweet tonight. The issue of the waste of my time becomes paramount as the days progress. As was expected, yesterday was a total waste of oxygen and energy as I basically watched the walls of a company apartment settle into the Jacksonville soil, although I did find great enjoyment in feeding a flock of geese that had visited the complex’s pond. Such beautiful creatures, they truly are. Hunkered down on my heels in the grass, I watched the gorgeous birds peck mere inches from me at the bits of bread that I had offered them. It was funny to me that they could fly anytime they so chose while I had to wait on a pencil-pusher to give the ok. No bother though, they were magnificent animals and having them surrounding me at a range of mere inches truly brightened my day. The only other glimmer of hope came at 1 pm with the notification by the company dispatch office that I would be flying to my beloved Jasper the following day (today).
Naturally I accepted their aeronautical olive branch, and by 9 am this morning we were rocketing toward Alabama. I got the privilege of seeing many of the folks that I have come to love like cherished members of an extended family, and I can’t describe how good that felt. I basically went crazy; like a kid in a candy store. Seeing The Boss and Ed again was like a lifeline in the midst of my frustration; a reason to believe. Two of my staunchest new supporters had come out to see me, and it meant wonders to me. When the Boss pulled his tired old Cadillac up to our aircraft and extended unto me his hand, coupled with one of the most genuine smiles in the history of mankind, my soul warmed while my heart simultaneously shattered in a deeply interesting dichotomy of human emotion. My hero had missed me, and I had surely missed him. I have got to get back here, period.
It has been said that all good things come to an end, and so it happened today. My time in aviation heaven came to a premature close, and I now write you from the confines of yet another non-descript apartment in another equally non-descript city. Concord, North Carolina, to be exact (I did see Jack Roush today, though). It was our next leg after Jasper. We had intended to continue to Richmond, but after a sufficiently nauseating company mix-up, we find ourselves stuck here tonight. Without delving too deeply into the issue of my internal angers and frustrations, we’ll just say that it’s getting harder and harder not to pull the handles and bail out altogether. I’m so tired of having my time wasted by these people that words completely escape me. Exactly how long I will last without having a patented Joey come-apart is anyone's guess. I’m just praying for a swift end to this interminable period of mobile imprisonment, and an agreeable resolution to my internal plight; specifically one that places me back in my…
Sweet home Alabama.
On deck for tomorrow: Richmond, Virginia. It they let us go, that is.
Joey
Status: Slightly further progressed, most still delayed
Mood: Remains debatable
Ok you non-commenting bunch of slugs, short and sweet tonight. The issue of the waste of my time becomes paramount as the days progress. As was expected, yesterday was a total waste of oxygen and energy as I basically watched the walls of a company apartment settle into the Jacksonville soil, although I did find great enjoyment in feeding a flock of geese that had visited the complex’s pond. Such beautiful creatures, they truly are. Hunkered down on my heels in the grass, I watched the gorgeous birds peck mere inches from me at the bits of bread that I had offered them. It was funny to me that they could fly anytime they so chose while I had to wait on a pencil-pusher to give the ok. No bother though, they were magnificent animals and having them surrounding me at a range of mere inches truly brightened my day. The only other glimmer of hope came at 1 pm with the notification by the company dispatch office that I would be flying to my beloved Jasper the following day (today).
Naturally I accepted their aeronautical olive branch, and by 9 am this morning we were rocketing toward Alabama. I got the privilege of seeing many of the folks that I have come to love like cherished members of an extended family, and I can’t describe how good that felt. I basically went crazy; like a kid in a candy store. Seeing The Boss and Ed again was like a lifeline in the midst of my frustration; a reason to believe. Two of my staunchest new supporters had come out to see me, and it meant wonders to me. When the Boss pulled his tired old Cadillac up to our aircraft and extended unto me his hand, coupled with one of the most genuine smiles in the history of mankind, my soul warmed while my heart simultaneously shattered in a deeply interesting dichotomy of human emotion. My hero had missed me, and I had surely missed him. I have got to get back here, period.
It has been said that all good things come to an end, and so it happened today. My time in aviation heaven came to a premature close, and I now write you from the confines of yet another non-descript apartment in another equally non-descript city. Concord, North Carolina, to be exact (I did see Jack Roush today, though). It was our next leg after Jasper. We had intended to continue to Richmond, but after a sufficiently nauseating company mix-up, we find ourselves stuck here tonight. Without delving too deeply into the issue of my internal angers and frustrations, we’ll just say that it’s getting harder and harder not to pull the handles and bail out altogether. I’m so tired of having my time wasted by these people that words completely escape me. Exactly how long I will last without having a patented Joey come-apart is anyone's guess. I’m just praying for a swift end to this interminable period of mobile imprisonment, and an agreeable resolution to my internal plight; specifically one that places me back in my…
Sweet home Alabama.
On deck for tomorrow: Richmond, Virginia. It they let us go, that is.
Joey
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Day 146 - Vic
Position Report: Jacksonville, Florida
Status: Delayed/Neglected
Mood: Debatable
Today was the first day of cross-countries. I’m flying with a pretty cool dude named Tripp, and our flight(s) today consisted of a morning departure from Bowling Green to Charlotte, North Carolina; we then continued on to Jacksonville, Florida, the termination of our day’s routing.
I find myself particularly irritated, because I once again find myself in the fabled position of “hurry up and wait.” You see, I was notified that the Tripp will be flying with another fellow tomorrow while your’s truly will be… Uh…. Well… Let’s just say that it’s a good thing that I have a few movies on my laptop.
Company dispatch was kind enough to advise me of this fact after we had landed, which managed to spin me into a dimension of irritation that we’ll not discuss here. I’m having some major issues here, and I freely admit that they are largely attributable to homesickness. In fact, the desire to be out of here is overwhelming. The issue now is that I’m homesick twice; homesick for my actual home, and homesick for my beloved Jasper. Compounding these issues is the continued (and expected) ration of crap that the company feeds me, thereby prolonging my stay and exacerbating my sadness.
By 6 p.m. I was pacing outside some random apartment complex in which the company had stuck us for the night, spitting nails and breathing fire. All I want to do is finish this mess and go home. A reasonable request, I think. Questions bounced around in my head furiously as I pondered the future. Is this ever going to end? Is there not a better way? And just then I remembered a statement that Mr. Page had once made: “You’re not married to any one flight school.” In a flash my trusty PDA phone was in action, scrolling through the speed dials with fervor and intensity rivaling any bookworm with a slide rule. I scrolled until I found Sara’s number, an instructor/friend from Jasper. After an enriching conversation with her, in which I inquired about returning there to complete all subsequent ratings after I finish this cross-country “training,” I felt somewhat better.
I felt even better when a striped Crown Victoria rounded the corner and halted. Black and white checkers adorned the side, and the word “TAXI” glowed like a beacon from the roof. A mustachioed New Yorker sat behind the wheel; a seemingly blunt and brash fellow named Vic. Vic is an independent contractor that works 7 days a week, and is the exclusive cab driver for the company, so he is directly contacted via cell phone anytime a flight crew needs a ride. He had driven us from the airport to the apartment, and had now returned to take us to supper. The 55-year-old chauffeured us through greater Jacksonville at what seemed like the speed of light, speaking endlessly about a little bit of everything. He was an approachable fellow with one of those natural personalities that you can’t help but like; outwardly gruff but easily approachable and extremely outgoing, despite the frequent, heavily-accented vulgarities that flew from behind his silver mustache. The quintessential Brooklyn native he definitely was.
In fact, he was so pleasant that we invited him to eat with us, and we bought his supper for being so kind and helpful to us. He took us to a hole-in-the-wall sports bar & grill, where we enjoyed shrimp, chicken, and laughter until we were literally in tears. Vic loved every minute of it, putting on a comedy routine that belonged on a stage somewhere.
But there was a distinct sadness about Vic; a hidden loneliness that was apparent to me by the way in which he latched onto people. These suspicions were confirmed as we pulled back into the apartment complex, and Vic began to speak.
“Thank you guys,” he said. “No, really, thank you. You guys have made my day, my week, my month! I’ve had a really #$%^ty week and you guys made me feel good. I was just sitting at home by myself watching 60 Minutes when you guys called. Most of the pilots aren’t nice to me, like they think they’re better than me or something. Like they lost their #$%^ing personality when they learned to fly. You guys are really cool. Thank you for everything.”
My heart melted. I could see that Vic wore no wedding band, and I had the mental image of him spending countless nights alone at his house, watching television, hoping the telephone would summon him to a cab fare, if for no other reason than to give him someone to talk to. I hope I’m incorrect, but the way that it touched him for us to show friendship to him suggested to me that I probably wasn’t.
Sometimes it takes little things like that to remind you of certain blessings in life that other people may not enjoy, something as simple as a friendship. The encounter certainly made me think. It made me think about y’all, my friends that don’t read, and my friends in Jasper; specifically how much I want to see each one of you again. The longing for the presence of my friends and family was made even worse by the realization of Vic’s plight, but it also made me think that sometimes, maybe it’s good to be homesick...
It means that you have a home to go home to.
Until next time,
Joey
Status: Delayed/Neglected
Mood: Debatable
Today was the first day of cross-countries. I’m flying with a pretty cool dude named Tripp, and our flight(s) today consisted of a morning departure from Bowling Green to Charlotte, North Carolina; we then continued on to Jacksonville, Florida, the termination of our day’s routing.
I find myself particularly irritated, because I once again find myself in the fabled position of “hurry up and wait.” You see, I was notified that the Tripp will be flying with another fellow tomorrow while your’s truly will be… Uh…. Well… Let’s just say that it’s a good thing that I have a few movies on my laptop.
Company dispatch was kind enough to advise me of this fact after we had landed, which managed to spin me into a dimension of irritation that we’ll not discuss here. I’m having some major issues here, and I freely admit that they are largely attributable to homesickness. In fact, the desire to be out of here is overwhelming. The issue now is that I’m homesick twice; homesick for my actual home, and homesick for my beloved Jasper. Compounding these issues is the continued (and expected) ration of crap that the company feeds me, thereby prolonging my stay and exacerbating my sadness.
By 6 p.m. I was pacing outside some random apartment complex in which the company had stuck us for the night, spitting nails and breathing fire. All I want to do is finish this mess and go home. A reasonable request, I think. Questions bounced around in my head furiously as I pondered the future. Is this ever going to end? Is there not a better way? And just then I remembered a statement that Mr. Page had once made: “You’re not married to any one flight school.” In a flash my trusty PDA phone was in action, scrolling through the speed dials with fervor and intensity rivaling any bookworm with a slide rule. I scrolled until I found Sara’s number, an instructor/friend from Jasper. After an enriching conversation with her, in which I inquired about returning there to complete all subsequent ratings after I finish this cross-country “training,” I felt somewhat better.
I felt even better when a striped Crown Victoria rounded the corner and halted. Black and white checkers adorned the side, and the word “TAXI” glowed like a beacon from the roof. A mustachioed New Yorker sat behind the wheel; a seemingly blunt and brash fellow named Vic. Vic is an independent contractor that works 7 days a week, and is the exclusive cab driver for the company, so he is directly contacted via cell phone anytime a flight crew needs a ride. He had driven us from the airport to the apartment, and had now returned to take us to supper. The 55-year-old chauffeured us through greater Jacksonville at what seemed like the speed of light, speaking endlessly about a little bit of everything. He was an approachable fellow with one of those natural personalities that you can’t help but like; outwardly gruff but easily approachable and extremely outgoing, despite the frequent, heavily-accented vulgarities that flew from behind his silver mustache. The quintessential Brooklyn native he definitely was.
In fact, he was so pleasant that we invited him to eat with us, and we bought his supper for being so kind and helpful to us. He took us to a hole-in-the-wall sports bar & grill, where we enjoyed shrimp, chicken, and laughter until we were literally in tears. Vic loved every minute of it, putting on a comedy routine that belonged on a stage somewhere.
But there was a distinct sadness about Vic; a hidden loneliness that was apparent to me by the way in which he latched onto people. These suspicions were confirmed as we pulled back into the apartment complex, and Vic began to speak.
“Thank you guys,” he said. “No, really, thank you. You guys have made my day, my week, my month! I’ve had a really #$%^ty week and you guys made me feel good. I was just sitting at home by myself watching 60 Minutes when you guys called. Most of the pilots aren’t nice to me, like they think they’re better than me or something. Like they lost their #$%^ing personality when they learned to fly. You guys are really cool. Thank you for everything.”
My heart melted. I could see that Vic wore no wedding band, and I had the mental image of him spending countless nights alone at his house, watching television, hoping the telephone would summon him to a cab fare, if for no other reason than to give him someone to talk to. I hope I’m incorrect, but the way that it touched him for us to show friendship to him suggested to me that I probably wasn’t.
Sometimes it takes little things like that to remind you of certain blessings in life that other people may not enjoy, something as simple as a friendship. The encounter certainly made me think. It made me think about y’all, my friends that don’t read, and my friends in Jasper; specifically how much I want to see each one of you again. The longing for the presence of my friends and family was made even worse by the realization of Vic’s plight, but it also made me think that sometimes, maybe it’s good to be homesick...
It means that you have a home to go home to.
Until next time,
Joey
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Day 143 - Geeeeear Stop!
Mission accomplished, checkride passed. I had to go fly the exact same off-the-wall approach, but I got it this time. I’m now officially a dually-designated, consummated, consecrated, blessed, and totally insane, multi-engine instrument pilot. Rogee! And as promised, to celebrate the passing of the ride, as well as to commemorate my last flight into Walker County, one final low approach was conducted, as well as one last call of “gear stop” over the radio, with a natural stretching of the “e” sound. And we’re still not exactly sure what “gear stop” even means!
Following my arrival back in Walker County, freshly-minted instrument ticket in hand, I went to lunch with the great Dan “Nasty” McClung to celebrate my ride and discuss future business ventures that he and I have in the works (mostly he). Dan treated me to a meal at the country club, as well as my second major moving experience, when he presented me with my very own Red Eagle Air Sports (Dan’s air show team) challenge coin. I didn’t even know they existed, as I’ve never seen anyone else with one, nor had I seen him present one to anyone else. I honestly don't know of anyone else to whom he has given one, and I would know, considering the fit that everyone else through over my autographed Red Eagle poster. Should another pilot have been given one, I would have seen it right beside the taunting display of an accompanying middle finger of said pilot. Regardless, the glistening half-dollar-sized silver medallion, bearing the Red Eagle logo on front and team motto on back, now has a permanent place in my wallet as the very intent of a challenge coin is that it is to be carried with you at all times. For those unaware, the legend of the challenge coin goes something like this:
“Air warfare was a new phenomenon during World War I. When the army created flying squadrons they were manned with volunteer pilots from every walk of civilian life. While some of the early pilots came from working class or rural backgrounds, many were wealthy Ivy League students who withdrew from classes in the middle of the year, drawn by the adventure and romance of the new form of warfare.
As the legend goes, one such Ivy Leaguer, a wealthy lieutenant, ordered small, solid-bronze medallions (or coins) struck, which he then presented to the other pilots in his squadron as mementos of their service together. The coin was gold-plated, bore the squadron’s insignia, and was quite valuable. One of the pilots in the squadron, who had never owned anything like the coin, placed it in a leather pouch he wore around his neck for safekeeping. A short while later, this pilot’s aircraft was heavily damaged by ground fire (other sources claim it was an aerial dogfight), forcing him to land behind enemy lines and allowing him to be captured by the Germans. The Germans confiscated the personal belongings from his pockets, but they didn’t catch the leather pouch around his neck. On his way to a permanent prisoner of war facility, he was held overnight in a small German-held French village near the front. During the night, the town was bombarded by the British, creating enough confusion to allow the pilot to escape.
The pilot avoided German patrols by donning civilian attire, but all of his identification had been confiscated so he had no way to prove his identity. With great difficulty, he crept across no-man’s land and made contact with a French patrol. Unfortunately for him, the French had been on the lookout for German saboteurs dressed as civilians. The French mistook the American pilot for a German saboteur and immediately prepared to execute him.
This challenge coin commemorates the imminent promotion of Marine Colonel Yurovich to CAG of CVW-9.
Desperate to prove his allegiance and without any identification, the pilot pulled out the coin from his leather pouch and showed it to his French captors. One of the Frenchmen recognized the unit insignia on the coin and delayed the execution long enough to confirm the pilot’s identity.
Once the pilot safely returned to his squadron, it became a tradition for all members to carry their coin at all times. To ensure compliance, the pilots would challenge each other to produce the coin. If the challenged couldn’t produce the coin, he was required to buy a drink of choice for the challenger; if the challenged could produce the coin, the challenger would purchase the drink.”
Thank God for Wikipedia.
Being a former fighter pilot himself, this bit of aviation folklore/military tradition is right up Dan's alley. He made it very clear to me that the presentation of my own Red Eagle coin, unavailable for purchase at any price, symbolized my acceptance into an elite brotherhood of airmen. In fact, he flat refused to simply hand it to me; it had to be palmed from one aviator to the next in the form of a handshake. Folks, he might as well have handed me a million dollars! In fact, the money would have meant less than this token of kinship. When someone of that caliber acknowledges that you are of the same fabric as he, and extends that hand of brotherhood, it's absolutely earth-shaking. No amount of money can purchase that approval. The coin is a symbol of that fellowship which I am so fortunate to enjoy. It is absolutely priceless to me, and will go everywhere with me.
My levity was to be short-lived though, as the day was bittersweet. The afternoon and evening saw the arrival of many of my local friends at the hangar; Pratt, Al, Glenn, etc. Unfortunately, they had come with a melancholy purpose: to say goodbye to me. The company is wanting me out of here and on my way to Bowling Green by tomorrow. I don't know if that will actually happen on their schedule or not, but either way, I'm not happy about it. In fact, I'm downright distraught. The only upside is that I carry with me, now and forever, the support of some of the finest people I've ever met. I don't want to leave them, don't get me wrong, but in a way I feel like they're with me for the rest of my life. Each of them has invested a part of themselves into me, so I never really have to leave them. The friendship and support that has been shown to me, a total stranger, is unlike anything I've ever known. These last few months would have been so different if it weren't for them (and you all as well, but your time for acknowledgement comes later). So it is with infinite love, respect, gratitude and admiration that I acknowledge the cherished members of my Alabama family:
Well, as Porky would say, "Ehh... Th-th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks!" I'll check in with you tomorrow and let you know how and when the final goodbye to Jasper will take place, as well as the plans for my invasion of the Bluegrass State. If history has taught us anything, they're screwed.
Look out Kentucky, the Lloyd's a' comin'.
Joey
Following my arrival back in Walker County, freshly-minted instrument ticket in hand, I went to lunch with the great Dan “Nasty” McClung to celebrate my ride and discuss future business ventures that he and I have in the works (mostly he). Dan treated me to a meal at the country club, as well as my second major moving experience, when he presented me with my very own Red Eagle Air Sports (Dan’s air show team) challenge coin. I didn’t even know they existed, as I’ve never seen anyone else with one, nor had I seen him present one to anyone else. I honestly don't know of anyone else to whom he has given one, and I would know, considering the fit that everyone else through over my autographed Red Eagle poster. Should another pilot have been given one, I would have seen it right beside the taunting display of an accompanying middle finger of said pilot. Regardless, the glistening half-dollar-sized silver medallion, bearing the Red Eagle logo on front and team motto on back, now has a permanent place in my wallet as the very intent of a challenge coin is that it is to be carried with you at all times. For those unaware, the legend of the challenge coin goes something like this:
“Air warfare was a new phenomenon during World War I. When the army created flying squadrons they were manned with volunteer pilots from every walk of civilian life. While some of the early pilots came from working class or rural backgrounds, many were wealthy Ivy League students who withdrew from classes in the middle of the year, drawn by the adventure and romance of the new form of warfare.
As the legend goes, one such Ivy Leaguer, a wealthy lieutenant, ordered small, solid-bronze medallions (or coins) struck, which he then presented to the other pilots in his squadron as mementos of their service together. The coin was gold-plated, bore the squadron’s insignia, and was quite valuable. One of the pilots in the squadron, who had never owned anything like the coin, placed it in a leather pouch he wore around his neck for safekeeping. A short while later, this pilot’s aircraft was heavily damaged by ground fire (other sources claim it was an aerial dogfight), forcing him to land behind enemy lines and allowing him to be captured by the Germans. The Germans confiscated the personal belongings from his pockets, but they didn’t catch the leather pouch around his neck. On his way to a permanent prisoner of war facility, he was held overnight in a small German-held French village near the front. During the night, the town was bombarded by the British, creating enough confusion to allow the pilot to escape.
The pilot avoided German patrols by donning civilian attire, but all of his identification had been confiscated so he had no way to prove his identity. With great difficulty, he crept across no-man’s land and made contact with a French patrol. Unfortunately for him, the French had been on the lookout for German saboteurs dressed as civilians. The French mistook the American pilot for a German saboteur and immediately prepared to execute him.
This challenge coin commemorates the imminent promotion of Marine Colonel Yurovich to CAG of CVW-9.
Desperate to prove his allegiance and without any identification, the pilot pulled out the coin from his leather pouch and showed it to his French captors. One of the Frenchmen recognized the unit insignia on the coin and delayed the execution long enough to confirm the pilot’s identity.
Once the pilot safely returned to his squadron, it became a tradition for all members to carry their coin at all times. To ensure compliance, the pilots would challenge each other to produce the coin. If the challenged couldn’t produce the coin, he was required to buy a drink of choice for the challenger; if the challenged could produce the coin, the challenger would purchase the drink.”
Thank God for Wikipedia.
Being a former fighter pilot himself, this bit of aviation folklore/military tradition is right up Dan's alley. He made it very clear to me that the presentation of my own Red Eagle coin, unavailable for purchase at any price, symbolized my acceptance into an elite brotherhood of airmen. In fact, he flat refused to simply hand it to me; it had to be palmed from one aviator to the next in the form of a handshake. Folks, he might as well have handed me a million dollars! In fact, the money would have meant less than this token of kinship. When someone of that caliber acknowledges that you are of the same fabric as he, and extends that hand of brotherhood, it's absolutely earth-shaking. No amount of money can purchase that approval. The coin is a symbol of that fellowship which I am so fortunate to enjoy. It is absolutely priceless to me, and will go everywhere with me.
My levity was to be short-lived though, as the day was bittersweet. The afternoon and evening saw the arrival of many of my local friends at the hangar; Pratt, Al, Glenn, etc. Unfortunately, they had come with a melancholy purpose: to say goodbye to me. The company is wanting me out of here and on my way to Bowling Green by tomorrow. I don't know if that will actually happen on their schedule or not, but either way, I'm not happy about it. In fact, I'm downright distraught. The only upside is that I carry with me, now and forever, the support of some of the finest people I've ever met. I don't want to leave them, don't get me wrong, but in a way I feel like they're with me for the rest of my life. Each of them has invested a part of themselves into me, so I never really have to leave them. The friendship and support that has been shown to me, a total stranger, is unlike anything I've ever known. These last few months would have been so different if it weren't for them (and you all as well, but your time for acknowledgement comes later). So it is with infinite love, respect, gratitude and admiration that I acknowledge the cherished members of my Alabama family:
Captain Ed Banks
Captain Al Brown
Captain Dan "Nasty" McClung
Captain Glenn Rutland
Sara Rutland
Captain Pratt Sherer
Dennis Smith
Ryan Sox
And, of course, my hero and chief mentor...
Captain Joey "Gordo" Sanders
Well, as Porky would say, "Ehh... Th-th-th-th-th-th-that's all folks!" I'll check in with you tomorrow and let you know how and when the final goodbye to Jasper will take place, as well as the plans for my invasion of the Bluegrass State. If history has taught us anything, they're screwed.
Look out Kentucky, the Lloyd's a' comin'.
Joey
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Day 142 - Countin' On A Miracle
Since I named my last post after a song by Bruce Springsteen (whom happens to be nearly tied for the honor of my favorite singer, running an extremely close second to Elvis Presley), I think I’ll continue that by naming tonight’s after another one that also adequately illustrates what’s going on today. After nearly six weeks of anticipation, agony, and teeth-gnashing, my recheck for the flight that I failed is tomorrow at 9 a.m. And, lucky me, I get to go fly with the same examiner that busted me last time. I have to fly the same approach that got me last time, and since this one is for all the marbles, I basically have to pass or that’s all she wrote. Needless to say, I’m countin' on a miracle.
I spent much of the day talking to Glenn, who was kind enough to go over the approach with me (even he was a bit lost, admitting that in more than four decades of professional aviation he’s never even shot one), and take me down memory lane from his days as a 747 Captain. A little inspiration never hurts, and neither does insight from an obviously experienced pilot. Glenn says that I’m going to be “fine” tomorrow, and I really hope he’s right. Everyone I’ve talked to says that for the DPE to fail me on this approach is a really low blow, but that doesn’t alleviate his right to do so. The fact of the matter is that I should be able to fly the approach, no matter how ignorant and antiquated it is or to what degree the examiner over-complicates it.
I spent much of the day talking to Glenn, who was kind enough to go over the approach with me (even he was a bit lost, admitting that in more than four decades of professional aviation he’s never even shot one), and take me down memory lane from his days as a 747 Captain. A little inspiration never hurts, and neither does insight from an obviously experienced pilot. Glenn says that I’m going to be “fine” tomorrow, and I really hope he’s right. Everyone I’ve talked to says that for the DPE to fail me on this approach is a really low blow, but that doesn’t alleviate his right to do so. The fact of the matter is that I should be able to fly the approach, no matter how ignorant and antiquated it is or to what degree the examiner over-complicates it.
Me and Gordo
And in other news, I had a tremendously moving experience yesterday that I’ll share with you fine folks tonight. As we have previously discussed ad nauseum, I’ve wanted to be an airline pilot for literally as long as I can remember, deciding at a very early age that I wanted to be a FedEx pilot. As I recall I was about eight years young when I made the earth-shattering proclamation. I'll never forget standing at the approach end of Memphis International's runway 27, watching the endless stream of widebodies scream mere feet over my head, deciding then and there that I deserved a purple tail. One day, I thought, that will be me. That dream never faded. As such, whereas most young boys had NFL stars and baseball players for heroes, my heroes wore blue ties and had four-striped Captain’s epaulets on their shoulders. Their's drove racecars, mine flew DC-10s. It worked out nicely.
That admiration has not faded over the years; if anything it has grown now having a true realization and appreciation of that all that accomplishment requires. So needless to say, when the Boss returned from a FedEx trip yesterday, still wearing the coveted uniform, the skies parted and the angels sang. One day, that will be me. What really amazes me is that despite the fact that he is an amazingly successful aviator, he is just one of the guys. He is the nicest, most unpretentious person you will ever meet. He takes outstanding care of me, more-so than he has to, and has become my mentor. I have the deepest respect and admiration for the guy; as much as I've ever had for anyone. His presence has been invaluable to me, and truly given me a reason to believe over the last few months.
The Boss (Joey is his name, better known as "Gordo"), his assistant (Misty), and I (Joey is my name, better known as "Lloyd") were having a conversation yesterday when he was called away on family business. I call Misty his assistant because I really don’t know what her title is, but she handles the operation of Gordo’s non-aviation business ventures on a daily basis and has the opportunity to spend a lot of time with him as a result. Following his departure, Misty and I were discussing the general state of things, as people are apt to do. We discussed my career ambitions, my love for commercial aviation and FedEx, as well as the great things that Gordo has done for me. The conversation moved to the immediate future, specifically my departure, as she was previously unaware that the school had pulled out and that I was being forced to leave.
“Leave?!?” She asked. “But you can’t leave!”
“I know. I don’t want to. I love it here, and I really enjoy working for Gordo.”
“You know he loves you, right?”
Her question elicited a response of laughter from me, but the look on her face was deadly serious. She interrupted me mid-chuckle.
“No, you don’t understand, Lloyd,” she began, her eyes locked on mine. “He talks about you… a lot. I don’t know if he sees himself in you or what, but he doesn’t talk about any of the other guys the way he talks about you, or nearly as often. He mentions them from time to time, but we’ve never had a single conversation where your name didn’t come up. Ever. He loves his two daughters dearly, but I think he sees you as sorta like the son he never had. He knows about all the work you do around here, and he knows how much you care. He believes in you. I don’t know what he’s gonna do without you. He thinks you hung the moon.”
The room was silent. I felt my throat swelling a bit. To have such tremendous approval from someone whom I so deeply admire had left me completely stunned. After a few seconds, I was finally able to force out some semi-intelligible sound. My voice cracked as I managed a single-word response. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Listen, if he says it’s gonna be alright, then trust me it’s gonna be alright. I know you’re having a tough time right now with all this, and it really upsets him to see you get treated this way. But if you can get through it, he’s told me that you are going to be taken care of.”
The Boss had already told me that he would gladly sponsor me at FedEx when the time came, years down the road, to apply for a job there, but I had no idea that he believed in me so much. I was moved literally almost to the point of tears. You can pass all the checkrides you want and have all the alphabet soup you want behind your name, but when Superman stamps you with the seal of approval, then suddenly the other issues seem to shrink considerably. It felt great.
Well folks, bedtime. The return flight from my checkride tomorrow will be my last flight into this airport; at least in one of the company’s aircraft. I’m sure that will be a sad experience for me regardless, but the results of my checkride will greatly determine how exactly I fly the final landing. If I fail, it’ll be a non-descript, low-key arrival. I'll taxi to the ramp and try to figure out where to go next. Passing the ride, on the other hand, will obviously be cause for celebration, and worthy of one last radio call of “geeeeeeeeeear stop!” A requisite pass down the runway will be in order also. I’ll let y’all know which one happens.
Wish me luck!
Joey
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