Paul The Pilot

This is an eBook short story about a teenaged pilot’s harrowing experience flying a small airplane as a swordfish spotter over shark-infested waters off the La Jolla, San Diego, CA coast in the 1970’s.

IN THE EVENT OF A WATER LANDING
A short story by Paul Mac Copright 2009 twitter.com/PaulThePilot
www.PaulThePilot.com

CHAPTER 1 – IF IT’S A GLIDER MEET, IT MUST BE SATURDAY

The engine sputtered and almost quit. I was still a mile high, over open ocean, and there were sharks everywhere. I knew about the sharks because it was my job to differentiate them from the swordfish I spotted for fishing boats. I saw sharks every day – hundreds of them – and many close to shore. I tried to keep them out of my mind when I was surfing.

The tall Torrey Pines sped past my cockpit window at maybe 70 mph when I should have been going 55 maximum. I was way too high and fast. The postage-stamp-sized strip of dirt was about two football fields long. It was about one ball field wide, and lined with cars and spectators on both edges. I could see the gliders and people near the cliff’s edge blocking the runway end. Were I to overshoot the far end, and somehow bounce over the obstacles, there were still 400 foot shear cliffs plummeting to the famous nude beach below.

What a horrible day. I was seventeen years old, living the carefree Southern California lifestyle, and about to die. At least there would be no fire, because I had run out of fuel. And, my parents could claim my body. I wouldn’t be forever lost at sea fifty-miles out and five miles beneath the Pacific Ocean. Nor would there be grotesque floating pieces of wreckage to wash ashore days later.

The tremendous noise scared me as I crashed along the ground. It sounded as if I were inside a trash can which was dropped from a hundred feet. The landing gear slammed against its limits. Dirt flew up in front and to the sides of me. I felt the clods hit my face, and smelled the dust in my lungs.

CHAPTER 2 – I SAW HER IN THE CLOUDS – WE TALKED EVERY DAY

“Mary? Hi Mary!” I loved it here in the clouds, away from my life on earth. I did what I wanted, and went where I wanted to go. There were no limits. I flew on my own wings, in and out of the tunnels made for me. I saw faces, and people I had known, who were on their own wings of many colors. Rooms in the heavens took shape then swallowed me up, sending chills over my being. I went so fast, then so slow. I chased them, caught them, and they exploded around me as I penetrated their cool, soft, unknown.

“How are you doing today? ” My sister’s face changed and disappeared.
“I miss you. We all miss you. What do I do now?” A huge gap opened before me and there she was right in front of me. I flew right through her, so fast, it frightened me. It was like crashing into a mountain. I was afraid to hurt her.
“You know what to do. Follow what you know in your heart to be true.”
“I will do my best. Will I see you tomorrow? Mary… When will I see you again? Mary… M – M – Mary?…”

CHAPTER 3 – DEAD RECKONING AND PILOTAGE

The bright light before me flashed and shocked me to life. It filled the cockpit as I gently descended through the base of the clouds. The Pacific ocean appeared beneath my wings. I looked around in awe at the beauty I was experiencing today. I looked everywhere for the boat. I could see nothing but the barren expanse of ocean in all directions. I was now completely trapped between the clouds and the frigid, lonely sea. I was so low and far from shore that I was out of communications and navigation radio range. If I couldn’t find the boat, the only way home was to dead reckon an easterly course, eventually finding land. Or, I could climb through the clouds high enough to gaze over them and fly towards some mountains in the distance.

The ocean was calm and glassy. I was all alone with my little plane, five-hundred feet in the air, a hundred miles from land, and nobody in sight. I rechecked my notes for today’s location. My time and distance should put me right over the boat, and I was right on schedule.

In the 1970’s, planes didn’t use GPS (Global Positioning Systems), so we pilots had to rely on older methods to find our boats. Boats could call landline telephones using their marine radios, but everyone else with a radio could listen in. These sailors were very secretive about their location. There were only so many fish to go around. Also, a couple of boats with planes too close could be dangerous. Nobody wanted a mid-air collision. When pilots were circling fish, avoiding other aircraft became almost impossible. These fish were worth a lot of money to the whole crew. When planes got too close to one another, there could be a dogfight. And, if we survived that, there could still be trouble back at the airport. There was a pecking order amongst the boats. The more prestigious boats had first crack at the good spots. The weekenders got in the way. So, too, the bigger the pilot, the better the spot.

When the boat called me on the phone each morning, they gave me a series of codes. We each had notes on how to decipher the codes for their location. Say, the first letter would be A for ten miles, B for twenty, C for thirty, etc. The second letter would be for the bearing from an pre-arranged point, such as San Diego’s Mission Bay, The third would be another distance, and the fourth would be a bearing from another point on land, say, Santa Catalina Island. Using triangulation, I would know where to meet them. I went to the airport, got into the plane, plotted my course, and flew for a specific time. It usually worked pretty good. Today it took a few more minutes to find them in the haze, but there they were, dwarflike against the immense blue sea. You get to know the look of your boat after a while – especially this one – it was a sleek yacht. It wasn’t a real, stout, fishing boat like the pros. Today, we had company out there. I wondered if our code had been broken. As a pilot I never knew what went on through the night out there amongst the skippers.

CHAPTER 4 – ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL DAY IN PARADISE

Cigarette smoke always tasted different over open ocean – not as appealing. But smoking was in, and I was cool. It was a great day to be flying. I liked to fly, or for that matter, do anything, with as few clothes on as possible. Instead of the usual baggy 501 blue jeans and t-shirt, today I wore shorts. Especially stimulating for me then as a teenager was that in this plane, the windows were enormous and they could be opened, allowing for a nice warm breeeze. Today, was a summer sizzler, and even up here at a thousand feet, it was at least 80 degrees. It was “severe clear” as we pilots say. Of course, I was still a teenager, so I had a lot to learn. But, being an Aries, I was arrogant, and I knew everything. When I didn’t fly, I was miserable. So, I would fly anything.

And this was about the time of John Travolta, Night Rider, Starsky and Hutch. I was 5′9″ and 155 pounds, wore the long hair, stayed out with friends, played to all hours, and drank underage – my salad days. I hiked hundreds of miles in Boy Scouts and had attained Eagle Scout, with the endless help from my dad. I was a lifeguard and I usually caused no trouble, just mischief. I minded my own business. And, if my friends were being done wrong, I would speak up. Sicilian, German, and Irish, I felt pretty good about my life so far.

“I got one!”, I yelled into the marine radio to my boat. Then I tossed a dye marker out of the window. I would not take my eyes off the fish until I could see the green dye in the water and it’s relation to the fish.
“OK, we see you. We’re on our way.” The boat could see me circling, and headed in the general area until I could give them specific information.

I didn’t own the boat, rather they owned me and the plane. I was out there spotting as many swordfish as I could find, and that they could harpoon. We weren’t the only game in town, by far. There were many more, and better boats, skippers, planes, and pilots. I was a young “airport bum”. An airport bum is one who is always hanging around the airport wanting to fix or fly planes for a chance to fly in one – any plane – for any price, or no price at all. And, we all must pay our dues. I was known to fly “anything”. That’s how you get the experience to get the better flying job. When I ditched high school, I drove to the airport instead of screwing off. I remember driving by the punks wasting their time, smoking pot behind the football bleachers. I never partook.
This fish would be an easy one. He was swimming down-glare from the boat. And, the ocean swell wasn’t big enough to be a nuisance.

“OK, he’s tacking just to your right and about 200 yards.” I was putting the boat on the fish via 2-way radio. Near the end of the pursuit, the pilot does all the talking. Besides the skipper with his radio in the wheelhouse, there is a loudspeaker on the foredeck aimed at the bow for the “stickman”. I wondered where they got this new stickman. His huge stomach hung over his shorts as he waddled out to the tip of the plank. His bearded fat red face stood out against his dirty white tank top. He was ludicrously heavy, and looked like a grizzly bear, with huge, leathery cherry red shoulders, baked by the sun.

He can hear the pilot guiding them to where the fish is and it’s movement. The plank is an enormous twenty foot long contraption made of welded tubular steel. It is mounted on the bow and has a 2 x 6 board bolted to it so the stickman can shuffle out to the very end. There, he wedges his body in place, and holding the harpoon at the ready, thrusts it into the water, spearing the fish. This is a dangerous job, for if he falls, he can get run over by the boat. If he gets entangled in the rope, he can die, being dragged down to the depths, as the fish dives out of fear.

Swordfish are the only known species of fish to be able to dive from the surface to the ocean floor without pausing. This would kill other species. They feed anywhere from the very deepest parts of the oceans to the surface. They are about 6 – 10 feet long and can weigh up to about 800 pounds. They have no natural enemies. I have watched a swordfish spear a shark from underneath, launching both completely out of the water, and ferociously hacking the shark into pieces before falling back to feed. They prefer “dirty” brown looking water, not clear and blue. Their swimming movements are unlike any other fish. They don’t have backbones. Their entire body bends as their swords make huge fanning motions left to right. Most other fish wiggle. And “Billfish” or “Billies”, as they are also known, change color, from dark purple to fluorescent lavender. Once you have seen a swordfish from the air, you’ll never forget it. Sometimes you can spot them just from their movement – other times, just from their color.

“He’s tacking the same direction at about one o’clock now. If he keeps this course you should alter yours about 20 degrees to intercept. He’s at 100 yards and tipping.” I could see the boat instantly change course. Now it looked like they had a good heading. We use the clock with reference to the boats bow. One o’clock is slightly right, eleven o’clock is slightly left, etc. Tipping is when the tip of the fishes dorsal fin breaks the surface. Pilots can see the wake it leaves. It also helps the crew to see the fish. Also, since the fish can go faster than the boat, it’s better to intercept it rather than chase it.

“Your course is looking good and he’s about ten boat-lengths.”

“OK, OK, we see him!” The skipper sounded elated. This would be another thousand dollars. But, they had to stick it, go back and find it, then get it into the hold.

“Nine boats, eight boats, tacking slightly right”. The boat adjusted course again. “Five boats, four, three, two. Hit him, hit him!” I couldn’t contain my excitement. The harpoon flew from the stickman’s enormous body. From my vantage, it seemed as easy as flicking a toothpick. By its bubble trails, I could see the harpoon slice into the water. It pierced the flesh, went right through the middle of the fish, and stuck out the other side! A buttonhole! After the dart, grew a huge trail of blood in the water. This stickman was awesome. The fish immediately twitched in agony, and sounded out of instinct. It took the dart and the rope which in turn took the gear overboard. The harpoon remained tied to the boat as intended, so it pulled out of the fish when the dart had set in it’s flesh. What a great sensation it was to help stick a fish. I also felt sad for the unfortunate death of this magnificent creature. The buoys not only identified where the fish was, but the boat it belonged to. Some fish are stronger than others and sometimes one fish lives longer than others. In this situation, the crew attaches more rope and buoys to increase the drag, exhaust the fish, and keep the dart from pulling out.

I had lost lots of altitude by now. My circles grew tighter during the excitement. It was like a climax. I leveled the wings and climbed back up for another fish. Swordfish travel as mated pairs. Where one was, there would likely be another nearby.

Usually this boat couldn’t hit a fish. I was having problems paying my bills. I had my ears open for another boat who needed a pilot. Hopefully, they would have a boat built specifically for this type of fishing – not a weekender yacht like this one. This one only had a bowsprint – a 3-foot plank for sport fishing. And, the skipper was a vice-president for a major corporation. He did this on weekends and didn’t really need the money. The plane was a piece of crap, and not one built for this purpose. And, I was honestly embarrassed to fly it. But I needed to build flight time to get the next better job. I am not one to like changing things, contrary to an Aries being known to thrive on change. But, I mean not in a way to destroy the original intention of the creator, like the designer of this airplane. Some dumb ass took the tail-wheel off it and put a nose-wheel on it and moved the main wheels back so it wouldn’t fall on it’s ass. So, now instead of being a 1940’s vintage Piper Champ, a perfectly good airplane, it was turned into a bastardized homely looking awkward piece of crap. The paint had long since lost it’s luster, greasy, faded, chalky blue and white, having been neglected in the sun and weather all it’s life. Fabric airplanes are living beings, things of beauty, of nature, to be cared for and watched over – not hacked-at and neglected.

CHAPTER 5 – IMPOSSIBLE

The coffin was stark white, gleaming in the bright California sun. There was a light breeze. I could smell the sod. I was uncomfortably hot in this suit. I couldn’t look at the grave. I couldn’t look at anyone. I just stared at nothing and listened. There was dreadful sobbing, and I was feeling things I couldn’t have imagined. Two years my junior, she died at sixteen of cancer – in a way I can’t even describe – except – in misery. Let me spare you the details, dear reader, so as not to shock your conscience, and to protect the privacy of my family. I was now the only child, plus adopted. Everything was changing, and in ways I never could have imagined. And now my parents’ only bio-child was dead.

My folks didn’t deserve this, nevermind me. “I would make it through this, as tough as I was”, I thought. But I guess I didn’t deserve this either. All I had was my youth to deal with – my mom and dad had an incomprehensible weight. “Oh, God – this is so awful,” I thought.

She was my little sister, and now she was gone. I had teased her, and made fun of her, like most brothers do I guess. I was relentless, and she was a good sport. We were just now coming of age and I could feel our relationship changing. I was starting to drive her to her friends’ houses, and help her with errands. I was jealous, or whatever you call it, of her boyfriends. I think we were really going to become great siblings. She would have lots of kids, thank god, because I hated the thought of kids – I was such a bad one. And what if mine would die like this? Screw this now. Now I’m eager to die for her and be with her. Was I plumb crazy? Next time I was flying low to the water, way out to sea, I could just push the controls forward and hit the water in an instant. Nobody would ever know – Not a trace would remain.

Vietnam was pulling America apart. I wasn’t drafted. Had they called, would I have pulled the sole-surviving-son card? I didn’t want to abandon my folks now! But, I wanted to fly and the best way to do so was to join the military. They would train me at no personal cost. I could leave after a few years as a Captain and join the airlines. I could be a millionaire in a few more years. I would be so cool. What if I died in combat? What would be left of my family then? Nothing. Was I smug in thinking that my loss would leave nothing? What if I never married and never had kids. What would become of my family name? I couldn’t be a cop. What if I got shot and died? What then? Nothing? What the hell do I do now? Nothing. I would simply wear the deep guilt forever.

“Hey Paul? HEY PAUL!”

“Yeah?”

“Where are you?”

“Uhhh, a couple miles away.” Shit, I didn’t know where the boat was.

“Well? Whaddya see?”

Shit. I lost the boat in the haze. I was miles away now. “Uh, the water looks too clear here. Lemme drop down and see if you get me on radar. There are a couple other boats out here and I can’t tell you apart.” I was totally bullshitting. I had been flying aimlessly. If you can get the plane down just above the waves, they can pick you up on their radar and guide you back to the boat. I mean reeeeal low. So low that the plane gets wet from the ocean spray. But, if the engine quits, you don’t have the luxury of setting up for ditching. You go into the drink in about ten seconds, and very likely die.

“What’s your heading Paul?”

“West.”

“OK we got you – shit! You’re ten miles west of us!”

“Well, I was just lookin’ around. I’ll be right there.” It still wasn’t noon yet so the glare looking east was just enough to make seeing a small boat pretty much impossible. I turned around and was nearby soon enough.

CHAPTER 6 – THREE OF A PILOTS WORST FEARS

1. Altitude above you; 2. Runway behind you; 3. Fuel in the fuel truck! Some of these planes have sight glasses instead of electric or mechanical fuel gauges. That is, a main tank is in each wing at the root, where the wing joins the fuselage. There is a little hose connected to a vertical glass tube inside the cockpit, just above the pilot’s head on each side. There are hash marks every inch or so to indicate roughly how many gallons are in each tank. They are very accurate in that you can actually see the fuel in the tube. You can watch it slosh around if it’s bumpy or you rock the wings or wag the tail. The quantity markings are just general guides.

After getting used to a particular plane, the pilot can get pretty good at estimating the remaining amount of fuel. He calculates fuel burn based on power setting, aircraft weight, altitude, temperature, and a bunch of other factors. Then he can arrive at an estimated time before fuel exhaustion. It’s ideal to arrange fuel exhaustion to occur after a planned landing, and well after you taxi back to the fuel pumps. The FAA has rules about this too. Sometimes “The Fuzz” had some good ideas.

So, these fish spotter planes have extra tanks, to stay out for eight to ten hours non stop. You need enough fuel for an hour or two each way to the boat and back, plus reserve. Plus, you need to catch fish. That can take some time. The farther away the boat is from the airport, the less fuel is available to make money. Farther out, less profit. Closer in, more profit.

This one had an extra tank strapped down where the back seat had been removed. There were about forty gallons in there. This gas and the main tanks would give me about six to eight hours in the air total. There was no way for the engine to get the fuel except by gravity. The wing tanks are above the engine in these planes. Gravity makes the fuel flow down into the engine with no help from a pump. So, how do you get fuel from the auxiliary tank to the engine? Pump it into the wing tanks. If you wait too long and find out the pump doesn’t work, you could be left with not enough fuel in the wing tanks to get back home. Wouldn’t that be the shits? To run out of gas, crash and burn in a fire from the fuel tank ramming into the back of your head when you hit the ground.

There are many aspects to Fuel Management and this is an important one. When there is enough available space in the wing tanks to accept fuel and not spill it overboard, start the pump. Do this with enough fuel in the wings to get home if the pump doesn’t work. So, I flip the fuel pump switch, and twenty minutes later, the wing tanks are… full. Good job.

CHAPTER 7 – JUST ONE MORE FISH

Well, this is screwed. I’ve been out here all day and gotten just one fish. If it isn’t me, it’s the boat, the fish, or whatever. But a guy can’t make a living with this kinda crap. Let’s see, turn on the fuel pump, and that will give me the last of the auxiliary fuel, then I have about two hours plus or minus left. Hmm. A hundred miles out, with a tailwind, a hundred miles per hour, that’s about an hour to shore. Then, fifteen minutes to the airport and that would leave me with about a half hour reserve. And, I have a Mae West life vest and an inflatable raft if I screw this up. Like I was going to screw this up or something. Shit, I’ve been flying this plane for about a month now.

About an hour went by and I hadn’t seen a fish, nor barely a shark, or a whale, or a sunfish for christsake! The place just dried up. Barren as a desert. But you never know. You just can’t give up five minutes before the miracle. Any moment, and there it could be. Rent money! And, I couldn’t depend on the roommate I lived with.

OK, so I had better head home now because my reserve has dwindled to about thirty minutes. And if I am off, I could have a tough time assuring my destination. OK, in ten minutes, I’ll head back. That’s it.

Let’s see. Wag the tail and watch the glass fuel gauge tubes and let the plane settle. Then watch the fuel stop sloshing. Holy shit. I whipped it around and headed due east.

“Guys, I need to go NOW. Call me in the morning. And, keep your radio on this frequency for a while, so I can contact you if I need you. She isn’t running quite right.”

“OK Paul, we’ll listen up. Call ya in the morning.”

Oh, shit, do I have a problem… I think this time, I really do.

CHAPTER 8 – ENGINES ALWAYS SEEM TO RUN A LITTLE ROUGHER OVER THE OCEAN

The boats always wanted the plane to sink beyond the 9 mile bank, if I had to ditch. “And make sure it sinks!” they would chuckle. That way, nobody could find it, to place any blame as to how it fell from the sky. Here off of San Diego, California, about nine miles out, the shallow shelf drops straight down to the depths of the Pacific. The plane would sink, miles down, unreachable, forever hidden beneath a wave. And, around ten or twenty miles out, there are enough boats to pluck you from the sea. Just fly in front of a boat and land across it’s bow. The plane is a drop in the ocean, so it’s important to be seen ditching, and with a little luck, the pilot would be home for lunch the next day.

I had more urgent things to think about. First – fly the most direct course to my airport; Second – prepare for ditching, should that occur. I needed altitude for several reasons. The higher I was, the sooner I could spot familiar landmarks and close in on my target. Also, radio navigation aids were easier to receive at altitude. And, were I to have to ditch, I would be able to spot a boat and have more of a chance reaching it, praying they saw my splashdown. Plus, altitude buys a pilot time. Time to prepare his machine, his approach, his mind, his demise. And, one last thing… it allows the last few drops of fuel from the tanks to be available. Since the tanks are in the wings, and these wings are thicker in the front, the last bit of fuel will collect in the front. This is where the fuel pickup pipes are. Normal landings and better glide rates are accomplished with the nose of the plane being slightly up. But, this moves the fuel back in the tanks, away from the pickups. This is not a good thing where the fuel situation is critical. Pilots are taught to not keep the nose up when out of fuel, but to ease it forward, ever so slightly, to keep the engine running. Problem is, if you are too close to the ground, easing it forward results in a hasty landing – not necessarily the desired effect. Anyway, back to the problem at hand…

Obviously, dead reckoning easterly is a good start. A climb to five-thousand feet would give me the best vantage for the extra fuel burned to get up there. So, up we go. The air feels thinner, and it is colder up here. And, this stuation was so grim, all I could think of was the land. The boats were barely dots on the sea. I could begin to pick out some islands and started seeing some indication from the junk radios that they might be picking up some reliable signals soon. Nevertheless, ditching was still a possibility and I needed to get ready. I donned my inflatable Mae West lifejacket and helmet, and readied my inflatable one-man life-raft nearby. I set my aircraft communications radio to the emergency frequency and kept looking for land. The engine started running rough. I adjusted the fuel mixture but it didn’t get any better. Was it my mind? I could still see fuel in the sight gauges, but it took considerable more work to slosh it around. God, oh God, what have I done? This is not good at all.

CHAPTER 9 – YOU CAN’T LAND HERE!

The sun shone on the white cliffs in the distance. I headed right for them. There was no chance, I figured, that I could make it home, so if I could get to land, where would I rather be? And, I didn’t need the attention from the media or the Fed’s (FAA). I could choose Fiesta Island, but it was farther away and it was rare to see a plane land there. I chose La Jolla Shores, and if I were lucky enough, I could reach the glider strip on top of the cliffs. It wasn’t open for landings, so that would mean it would be pretty much deserted – just a few lovers and hikers. I knew this land well – There was a lot happening on those cliffs, much of it out of plain sight.

…

continued in a few days…