Where Did This Come From?
The Making of “The Lucky One”
After seven years as an outlaw biker in Southern California, which some have compared it to a full-time combat tour of duty, I decided to make a change. The call of Alaska brought me to a more normal life, if you can call Alaska normal.
Chronicling that new life and my burning desire to be a pilot formed the basis of last month’s blog, explaining the writing of Better Lucky Than Good
I was afraid this new book would not have as many exciting stories as in Better Lucky Than Good. It didn’t have the hair-raising blunders of my trip through the wilds of British Columbia.
Back in California, all my flight training was done the hard way, and the cheapest. The Lucky One explores the beginning of my aviation career, starting with my first job as a flight instructor.
I was surprised to find I liked it. Perhaps because I was good at it, I have no death-defying stories of students trying to kill me. They were all great, except one, who I had to forcibly take the controls away from after she seemed to panic. She never flew after that, at least not with me. The flight instructor stint was fun, and I learned more than I ever expected. It also introduced me to my next job.
The Piper Tomahawk
After surviving that first job, my next one was more fun and challenging. I was lucky to get hired to fly a spotter plane on the fires in Northern California... My risky lifestyle was back. There were close calls and unfortunately, some of my new friends didn’t make it out alive.
We were frequently in the news and people thanked us for our work. It was rewarding saving lives and homes. I wanted to continue to do it for a living, but my career took a different path. I still greatly admire the people who do that job. They risk their lives daily for the people on the ground, the fire fighters, the residents and the homes in danger.
Flying for the Department of Forestry
My boss probably saved my life by not putting me in a fire bomber, a more dangerous job. He would tell me, “A young guy like you needs to get a real job.”
So, I did. I borrowed money from a bank to get my ATP or Airline Transport Pilot rating. Soon I was hired by Imperial Airlines. It sounds good, but Imperial was a short haul carrier in Southern California, paying $628 per month before taxes. That is assuming you worked 100 hours per month. So, it was actually $6.28 per hour with no benefits. Retired people on social security made more than a new copilot did.
But it was good experience. With Southern California being right on the ocean, we flew frequently bad weather. There were eight to ten takeoffs and landings a day with no autopilot. We had no flight attendants to deal with passengers as we went in and out of busy Los Angeles International.
The 18-seat turboprop handled like a five-ton truck. You had to shape up or ship out. It shaped me up. At least, in this job, there was no body count.
The Embraer Bandeirante
After two years of this hard labor, first as copilot, then as captain my pay doubled. It wasn’t as bad as digging ditches, but I don’t think it paid as well.
There was light at the end of the tunnel and this time it wasn’t a freight train.
Some of the guys I knew from Imperial had gone to work for an outfit in Burbank that flew cargo in Learjets. I believed I could reach up and grab that next higher rung on the ladder. Looking around, nobody told me I couldn’t, so, I did.
I thought it would be my dream job, as far as I could go in aviation and I’d never have to look for another. I would be happy.
My dream job
It took a while before they needed more people, so I continued to fly as a commuter captain. Eventually an opening came up and I was brought in for an interview.
The entry level job was to fly the King Air 200 as a single pilot. After Imperial it was a piece of cake. My pay went up and the workload went down. We usually flew at night when there was less traffic. Delivering bank checks and small package cargo was easy. No passengers, no flight attendants, and the boxes didn’t complain. We only had to worry about scaring ourselves.
Soon I was a copilot on the jets; the France Falcon 10s and 20s and the iconic Learjet. My dream job. I’d never expected I would be there. I felt like Leonardo Decaprio on the bow of the Titanic; “I’m king of the world.”
After a year I upgraded to captain and I felt my life was complete, as long as I could keep from killing myself in that hotrod.
But that contentment didn’t last. My peaceful high-speed world was invaded by more desire. I tried to shut it out, I tried not to listen to the voices in my head telling me to go higher. No, I didn’t want to go higher. I’d made it higher than I’d ever imagined. I wanted to stay where I was. I wanted to relax.
That taunting voice would not let up. “You’re a liar,” I said, “I can’t go that far, it’s impossible.”
“You’ll never know until you try,” the voice urged.
I said, “Shut up!”
I knew I couldn’t do it, but I set my sights higher anyway.
Stand by for the next installment of my book series “From Outlaw Biker to Airline Pilot.”