Airplanes 'Round the World

An improbable collection of yarns about airplanes and flying.

By JOHN

The Oldest and Newest

A Boeing Model 40, Boeing's first airliner, flying in formation with a 787

Grumman Widgeon chartered for an Alaska fishing trip
On a remote Alaskan lake. Circa 1970.It looks different because it has Cessna 310 power packs
with Continental engines.
TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION
MY FIRST FLIGHT
WINGS OVER THE PACIFIC
MY FIRST COMMERCIAL FLIGHT
THE NOSE WHEEL GAME
ALASKA BUSH FLYING
NELSON LAGOON
THE NORTH SLOPE
BARBECUED BEEF
THE BACKSIDE OF THE MOON
WEST INDIES ADVENTURES
INTRODUCTION
MAUREEN O’HARA
SPY STORIES
A WILD AND CRAZY BUSINESS TRIP
ROYAL AIR NEVIS
WEST INDIES VACATIONS
WEST INDIES ADVENTURE
ANOTHER WEST INDIES TALE
TALES FROM SOUTHEAST ASIA
ARIZONA ADVENTURE
BEST AND WORST AIRPLANES
MISCELLANEOUS MUSINGS

BOEING'S PLANT 2
FINALE


INTRODUCTION

In my 50 or so years around airplanes, I have logged a few million miles, including almost 500,000 in one year, in every imaginable kind of airplane, in most of the backwaters of the world. When I hear the cocktail party fliers trying to top each other’s stories of the horrors of commercial flying, like late flights, thunderstorms, and diverting to the wrong airport, I am usually silent, thinking “You guys aint seen nothing”. So I thought that I might share a few of my experiences, some of which were funny, some which would curl your hair. Most, I hope, are interesting, but maybe some are just plain boring. But anyway, for better or worse, here goes.

MY FIRST FLIGHT

My first airplane ride, (and several subsequent rides,) was with the General commanding Parks Air Force Base, where I was a PIO (Public Information Office) photographer. This, however, was not the cushy assignment that it would seem. But let me explain.

This Base Commander was a crusty old Brigadier General also named Parks. We figured that he must have really screwed up somehow, as commanding a training base was not a choice assignment for one of his exalted rank. Anyway, he was really an egomaniac, and he insisted on his every move being documented by a PIO Photographer. Moreover he would send his driver over to the photo lab at precisely 9:00 AM every morning to pick up yesterday’s prints, which were always done up in 8X10 size.

This general, being a base commander, was entitled to his own private airplane, so what do you think that he had? Actually it was an ancient worn out WW II C-47, (the military counterpart to the civilian Douglas DC-3) which had been originally used to haul paratroops, and had never had the troop seats, static lines, etc taken out. But it was his airplane, by God, and he was proud of it. The point of this story is that most of the time, one of us photographers had to accompany him in this piece of s***, to document for posterity whatever he happened to be doing on that trip. And that is how I got my first airplane ride.

WINGS OVER THE PACIFIC

Now, let me tell you about another military flight from Travis Air Force Base, California, to Okinawa, and return, when I was a photographer in the Air Force Strategic Air Command. 

The airplanes that were available were beat up, worn out WW II transports, and I Was unlucky enough to draw an ancient R5D, which was the Navy equivalent of the civilian Douglas DC-4. Unpressurized, cold, drafty and noisy. To complicate matters, I had an impacted wisdom tooth, which hurt like Hell, and the gas tank for the APU (Auxiliary Power Unit) which we carried was leaking, so one couldn't even smoke. After what seemed to be two days of this, and much island hopping, (the Pacific’s a big place at 180 MPH), we ended up on Wake Island. There I transferred to more commodious transport, a C-118, the Air Force equivalent of a DC-6, which had been fitted out as a flying ambulance, but was pressed into service as a troop carrier. We flew to our final destination on Okinawa in style on this airplane, except when we hit an air pocket, dropped a couple of thousand feet, and I bounced off the ceiling and fetched up on the floor. We did get to play tourist a bit though, during a rest and refueling stop at Iwo Jima. One sight, which I will never forget, was the American flag flying atop Mount Surabachi, and the mountains of scrap equipment of every description laying about everywhere. (It’s certainly a shame though, that in later years, we decided to give that island back to the Japanese.)

On Okinawa we faced the task of unpacking and setting up the lab, then running it on a 24 hour basis.  This seemed like a lot of work to me, so I convinced the big shots that they should document this operation for posterity, (a thought which apparently had never occurred to them,) and I, being the only qualified press photographer around, should take the pictures.  


So I scrounged a Speed Graphic, took a couple of test shots to assure that the camera worked, and started shooting pictures. This turned out to be a spectacularly easy assignment, and while the flyboys flew their missions, and the other guys did their thing, I ended up spending most of my time at the NCO club, or in the native village just outside the base. This was the first (but not the last) time I had been in the mysterious Orient, and the sights, sounds, and smells were fascinating. The mosquitoes were also memorable. The biggest and meanest I have seen anywhere, before or since.

The trip back to Travis AFB was not quite so bad as the one going out. Except that the C-97 we were flying had a defective rudder boost, so the plane kind of wandered all over the sky. We did have some fun at Wake Island though, when the magnetos went bad on two of the big Pratt and Whitney R4360 engines. The runway was only 6000 feet long and hung out over the ocean on both ends, and it was midnight. The flight engineer would mess with the mags, and the pilot would try a full military power take off. Then a mag would act up, he would throw everything into reverse pitch and stand on the brakes, bringing us to a shuddering stop just inches from the end of the runway. Anyway, after three tries, the mags held and we finally got the machine off the ground.

Amazingly, almost all of the pictures turned out, and I got a commendation and even a magazine cover. Additionally, since this was a war zone in wartime, and I was supposedly flying on airplanes some of the time, I got two campaign ribbons, a large mustering out bonus from Washington State as a combat veteran, along with eligibility to join the Veterans of Foreign Wars. Not a bad return for taking a few pictures, huh.

This picture was the magazine cover.
Since it was a Navy airplane and an Air Force magazine, they had to airbrush the Navy logo out
I didn't notice it was a Navy plane when I took the picture.
MY FIRST COMMERCIAL FLIGHT

I actually got this story published in the travel section of the Seattle Times, a few years back.

I have already mentioned some of my military flying experiences, but this point I should digress a bit to tell you about my first flight in a commercial airliner. It was 1957, and I had to go to Tulsa for some meeting. And I was going to fly. Really exciting.

When I got out to SeaTac (Seattle Tacoma International Airport) there were maybe 150 people in the terminal and about four airplanes on the ramp. Check in took about 5 minutes, and then I walked out to the airplane. It was a piston engine DC-6B, the latest in commercial airplanes, and carried 54 people. The first thing that I noticed was that the airplane was painted in United livery on one side, and Continental on the other. The crewmen were United people, but the flight was called an interchange flight. And when I got on, I found that there was, in addition to the 54 seats, a lounge in back. (In propeller planes, First Class was also in back, because it was quieter there.) And when we got up in the air, they were serving free drinks. I’ll tell you that sitting in the lounge with a pretty Flight Attendant and drinking free booze, was a far cry from the Air Force planes I was used to. (They called them Stewardesses, and with only 54 passengers for three attendants, they had plenty of time to chat.) Of course, we stopped at every city on the way, and they shut down the bar when flying over a dry state, but we eventually arrived in Denver. There it was everybody out, fill up with gas, and change to a Continental Airlines crew. Then, it was off again, more stops, and finally Tulsa at about midnight. A total of about 18 hours since I had boarded in Seattle. I throw this tale in, incidentally, just to let you younger people know how much air travel has progressed, or regressed, since then.

THE NOSE WHEEL GAME

Northwest used to run a “milk run” from Seattle to Minneapolis. Usually a beat up old DC-4. Unpressurized, noisy, and flying between the mountains, rather than over them. This flight stopped at practically every town on the way. Spokane, Great Falls, Glendive, Minot… you get the idea. In the course of my work I used to have to fly this quite a bit, and often, after landing at some town, the flight crew would all pile out of the airplane and gather around the nose wheel. I investigated this a couple of times, inquiring if anything was amiss. I was told that everything was OK, and the only thing I could notice were what looked like some initials chalked on the tire of the nose wheel. Finally, one day in a bar, an old Northwest Captain gave me the real scoop. Seems that at the start of the run, the crew members all chalked their initials on the nose wheel. Then at each intermediate stop, the initials that happened to be closest to the ground were noted, and after a series of complex computations, this determined who would sleep with whom, on the layover that evening.

So fast-forward 20 years. I am teamed with an attractive lady in some useless Human Relations sponsored seminar. In finding that she had been a Northwest flight attendant, and had served on the Seattle-Minneapolis milk run, I asked her if she had been a participant in “The Nose Wheel Game”. There was a long silence, then she finally admitted that yes, she had. Turned out that she also had her share of good times at the Tiger Den in Cold Bay Alaska. But more on that later.

ALASKA BUSH FLYING
A worn out ex Alaska Airlines DC-3, which we used to haul freight.
Since it’s a tail dragger, it can land on the beach.INTRODUCTION

I spent quite a bit of time in Alaska, doing a bunch of interesting stuff. Since the only practical way to get around that gigantic state is by airplane, I logged a lot of air miles, most of it bush flying. So here are some examples of the fun I had.

THE NORTH SLOPE

Bush flying on arctic Alaska’s North Slope, in the middle of winter is really a barrel of fun. It isn’t really dark, just a grey overcast, something like twilight, along with a perpetual whiteout, which can be disorienting as Hell. They say that if you can see caribou through the airplane windshield, you are flying too low. And that is right, as the caribou stand out as black spots against the perpetual white. And speaking of caribou, the airstrips are built on top of several feet of gravel, to insulate them from the ever present permafrost. This makes the runway marginally warmer than the surrounding ground, and the caribou, being smarter than they look, congregate there to keep their feet warm. Anyway, the point is, that before landing, you have to buzz the runway a couple of times to drive off the caribou.

NELSON LAGOON

One of my more interesting and improbable adventures was building a power plant, in a native village called Nelson Lagoon. This place was at the very end of the Alaska Peninsula, and we did the job in the dead of winter. Later I was accused of building this power plant with only a DC-3 load of whiskey and a duffel bag full of twenty dollar bills, but that was a slight exaggeration. The DC-3 was only half loaded with whiskey, the rest being our equipment.

This job involved a lot of Bush Flying, and we used a whole fleet of weird and wonderful airplanes. Most of them were old enough to be in museums, but they were still daily drivers in Alaska.

Anyway, if interested, you can read all about it in the Nelson Lagoon chapter of Workin' 'Round the world, a website linked to my"John's World Travels" website.

Part of my charter fleet. On the left is a deHavilland Otter. To the right is the Cessna 185 which was sort of my personal executive airplane.

But I couldn't resist spinning one Nelson Lagoon "bush flyin'" yarn here, so here goes.

To emphasize just what a hassle getting back and forth “to town” could be, let me tell you how a supposedly routine 700 mile flight from Anchorage to the job site actually turned out.

It seems that I knew a really great lady in Anchorage who worked for the State Dept of Social Services, and when I was back in Anchorage on business one day, she looked me up. She told me she needed to see the Village Chief in Nelson Lagoon, and could she ride back out there with me. I told her no problem, so on the appointed morning she met me at the airport, slung her duffel into the plane and away we went.

Our airplane that trip was a six place twin engine Cessna, which wasn’t a particularly good bush plane, and couldn’t land on the village street (the normal landing ground) because the Cessna’s wheels were to small and too close together. I had chosen this airplane, though, because I did not want to subject the lady to the hassle involved if I used my 185. I figured that we could land on a nearby abandoned oil company strip, and it would be no problem to get someone from the village to pick up this VIP.

First stop was at King Salmon for gas, then on to Nelson Lagoon. When we got to Nelson Lagoon, or the vicinity thereof, the fog was pea soup thick, and we couldn’t see a thing. We stooged around in the fog for a while, but couldn’t find the town. Remember, this was in the days before GPS, our INS (Inertial Navigation System) wasn’t working, and the LORAN didn’t seem to be reliable.

To tell the truth, the navigation system, at that point, consisted of me, in the right hand seat with a map on my lap, looking out the window, glancing at the gyro compass, and calling out course corrections to the pilot.

Finally, after using up several of our nine lives dodging 10,000 foot volcanoes, we were running low on fuel, so it was back to King Salmon for more gas and a $25.00 six pack of beer, and then up and away again. This time, when we reached Nelson Lagoon the fog had lifted, or more accurately, blown away, but there now was such a crosswind blowing that it was impossible to land. Besides, it was getting dark, so the only thing to do was to go on another 100 miles to Cold Bay, where there was a lighted runway.

Cold Bay was an abandoned Army B-29 base, which had very little maintenance since WW II, but was kind of maintained as an emergency landing field for commercial air traffic to the Orient. There was a primitive transit quarters, consisting of a Quonset hut with no doors on the rooms, and also a bar and restaurant of sorts, called the Tiger Den. This establishment was a holdover from when the old Flying Tiger Lines made a scheduled fuel stop there, on the way to the Orient, before long range jets.

So we put the airplane away, got something to eat, and headed for the bar, which was presided over by my friend Judge Hiker. Hiker was a profane little German but was a real judge, sort of a cross between a Justice of the Peace, and a Superior Court Judge. He was in his cups, as usual, and regaled my lady friend with tales about him being the only f*****g judge in 40,000 f*****g square miles. Hiker, incidentally, was bedding the Nelson Lagoon Village Chief’s white girl friend when the chief was out of town, which was often, so he was a frequent visitor to our job site. But we will hear more about that later. Anyway, after the festivities died down, the pilot and I had to guard the bathroom doorway, (no doors again) while the lady took a shower and got ready for bed.

Next morning, no problem, a clear and beautiful day. We gassed up the airplane and headed out. When we got to Nelson Lagoon, we landed on that deserted oil company strip about five miles from town. And since, contrary to my expectations, and our arrangements, no one came to meet us, we hiked in. About this time the lady looked at me and remarked, “Do you suppose that a letter would have done just as well?”

This is the Cessna 310, and pilot, who flew the lady and me to Nelson Lagoon. Note the winter Alaska outfit I am wearing. Wool shirt with Canadian Indian sweater over that, with wind shell over that. Cord pants over thermal underwear bottoms, wool socks and insulated boots. This plus a Canadian Indian wool hat, would keep me warm down to –30F.

The 310 had two wing tip fuel tanks, with transfer valves behind the pilot’s seat. A favorite trick would be to surreptitiously turn all valves off, and see how quickly the pilot would react when both engines quit. Hey, we had nine lives, might as well use some of them up.
BARBEQUED BEEF

As I mentioned before, I was using a guy with a Cessna 185 quite a bit. Until he filled up with the wrong gas, blew his engine and crashed in Cook Inlet, killing his passenger. (Which fortunately, was not one of my guys.) The first time I made it to town after the incident he looked me up and asked me how much I owed him for his recent flying. Seems he had lost his logbook in the crash, along with some of his memory, and didn’t have a clue how many hours he had flown for me.

A few days later, a Japan Airlines freighter, loaded with cows, tried to take off from the taxiway, rather than the runway, at Anchorage International one morning. He didn’t make it, and the plane crashed and burned, killing everyone on board, including the cows. The sick humor around town for the next couple of weeks, all revolved around barbequed beef.

And to prove that bad things come in threes, shortly thereafter, a 747 overshot the runway at the same Anchorage International, and ended up in a gulley.

THE BACKSIDE OF THE MOON

At one point in time, among other things, I was running a crew on Alaska’s North Slope, and simultaneously installing an ATM system in Patterson New Jersey. Talk about diversity. Anyway, here is an interesting tidbit about one of my trips between those two places.

Seems I arrived in New York in the middle of the night, coming in on a flight from Fairbanks. I had just left my construction job on the North Slope, and was wearing a grungy old oil roustabout’s arctic parka. The cabbie who I hailed took one look at this apparition and asked where I had come from. When I said Fairbanks, Alaska, it might as well have been the other side of the moon as far as he was concerned. I finally convinced him I had enough money for the $75 dollar cab fare to Patterson, and after that he decided that I was OK.

WEST INDIES ADVENTURES
Trunk Bay, Virgin Islands National Park, St. John, US Virgin Islands. One of the finest beaches in the West Indies, or anywhere else, for that matter. British Virgin Islands in the background.
INTRODUCTION

Off and on, during the past 40 or so years, I have been both working and traveling for pleasure in the West Indies. Since air travel is the only practical way to get around that part of the world, a lot of flying was involved. And a lot of good war stories, some of which I would like to share.

MAUREEN O’HARA

Back in the old days in the West Indies, there was an airline called Antilles Airboats. This airline was owned, of all people, by Maureen O’Hara the movie actress, and her husband. These guys flew ancient Grumman Gooses, or is it Geese, or maybe just Goose, on an irregular schedule between many of the islands.

If you have never flown in one, I need to explain that these are seaplanes, and about the time you get the plane up on the step, you are in a total spray of sea water, and pretty much blind, till you get the thing airborne. It was always a real thrill, riding right hand seat, when the pilot, taking off in a crowded harbor, finally got the thing in the air, then looked over and exclaimed “Well, we didn’t hit anything that time”.

SPY STORIES

While selling for Resources Conservation Company, I had the use of a deHavilland 125 Business Jet. That is, if I could convince the powers that be that I really needed it. Reading and Bates Offshore Drilling Company, one of our partners, owned this airplane, and they would let us use it for only the direct operating costs. Anyway, I was really working on the Rockefellers, trying to sell them a water treatment plant for their West Indies resort, and by liberal use of the Boeing name, and judicious use of the Jet, I was making good progress.

So, one day, I found myself with the ol’ deHavilland full of Rockefellers and their senior staffers, enroute to the West Indies. And, I found out early in the flight that, improbably, every one of them, along with myself, had been some kind of a government agent. Anyway, there was not much selling on that flight, only spy stories. And that evening, after a sumptuous feast in the hotel dining room, the chairs were pushed back, everybody relaxed over cigars and drinks, and the spy stories really got going. The anecdotes got more and more interesting as the drinks flowed and everybody tried to top the previous yarn. Things finally settled down about three AM when everybody ran out of steam.

Incidentally, ex agents are notoriously closed mouth, such a gabfest is totally out of character, and I have never witnessed anything like it before or since. Incidentally, the guy with me, who was the only civilian in the party, asked me the next morning if the stories were all true. My reply was that the best thing he could do, was forget that the whole thing ever happened.

A WILD AND CRAZY BUSINESS TRIP

Well, I finally sold the water treatment plant to the Rockefellers, and then I got the pleasure of building it. Anyway, while installing this plant on St John, in the US Virgin Islands, I had to make a business trip, to visit a resort owner in the British Virgin Islands, about 100 miles away. The British Virgin Islands (BVI) as the name implies, was and is a British Crown Colony, one of the last vestiges of the old empire. In those days, it was a real backwater, with less than one hundred whites in the whole place. The best way to get there, it seemed, was on RockAir, a rinky-dink airline which was owned and operated by the Rockefellers, and flew a couple of ancient Britten-Norman Islanders. Now the Islander is an excellent bush plane, but these were a little long in the tooth, as were the pilots, for that matter.

My companion, who incidentally had never been anywhere, and I started the adventure early in the morning by hopping a commuter flight from St. Thomas to San Juan International, in Puerto Rico. There we made contact with the RockAir pilot who drove us to the airplane. At this point our other two passengers joined us, a young American couple on what appeared to be their honeymoon, who were headed for some remote spot in the BVI.

So we threw our baggage in back, climbed in and belted up, and guess what, the machine wouldn’t start. At this development, the pilot, who was a real West Indies character, pulled a rum bottle from under the seat, had a large swig, and passed it around, while he assessed the situation. Then after a short council, we decided that the batteries were flat and we were in need of a starter cart. We finally located such a cart, and after a few more belts of rum, got it hooked up. But you guessed it, the machine still wouldn’t start. At this point, I enquired as to the availability of tools, and finding some in the baggage compartment, convinced the pilot that he and I could probably fix the plane. So, out came the tools, and off came the cowlings. The cause of the trouble soon became apparent. It was corroded battery terminals. So we cleaned them up, put the cowlings back on and got back into our seats. By this time, the rum bottle was empty, but our mechanical endeavors had been successful, and the plane fired up immediately. After an otherwise uneventful flight, we reached Virgin Gorda, the island that was our destination. Through his alcoholic haze, the pilot could barely make out the runway, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a 3000 foot dirt strip wedged between a cliff and the ocean, with a 30 degree dogleg smack in the middle. This really shouldn’t have been a big deal, because the Islander can normally land in 1500 feet or less, but the pilot had never before seen the strip, and was not in the best of condition. Anyway, since we couldn’t stay airborne forever, we decided to chance it. And aside from a good bounce when we landed, everything turned out OK.

Upon alighting from the plane, we bade our newfound American friends good bye, borrowed a Moke, (A Moke is a kind of Jeep, but made in Australia, of all places.) and got our business out of the way. We then repaired to the local watering hole, a quaint thatch roof shack on the beach, with all four sides open to the sea breeze. Like right out of an old Humphrey Bogart movie.

Most of the dozen or so customers looked to be retired British Government functionaries who were playing darts and draughts, while nursing their pink gins and commiserating about the glory days of Empire. There were also a few beach bums, and other lost souls, the kind of detritus which you would expect to find in such a setting.

Anyway after a couple of pints of bitter, I was admiring the dart board when one of the particularly devious looking characters sidled up to me and said, “Do you play darts Yank.” I said, “Not really, but I’ll try anything once. So this guy proceeded to explain the game, also explained that we played for drinks, and proceeded to beat me handily. He then proposed another game and I said OK, but to make it interesting, I suggested that this time it be drinks for the entire bar. Backed into a corner, my new friend had to agree, and when we lollied for starting position, he knew he had been had. I got a perfect fifty bulls eye with my first dart. You can guess the rest, I cleaned him and he stood the bar for drinks. Maybe some Yanks do know how to play the game after all, I told the incredulous barfly, on my way out the door.

But the day wasn’t over yet. While winging home we spotted a rubber raft with what looked like three survivors of a shipwreck. We radioed the Coast Guard, and then circled the scene till the rescue helicopter arrived. We then went on to San Juan, dropped off some stuff and returned to St Thomas. Meantime the helicopter with the castaways had landed, and as we were clearing immigration, we noticed the immigration officers hassling these poor sodden sailors, because they didn’t have the proper entry documents. Quite a day, huh.

But thWEST INDIES VACATIONS

Over the years, Pat and I have spent some great vacations in the West Indies, including some not so great air travel experiences. But let me tell you about some of them.

Barbados beachWEST INDIES ADVENTURE

I originally wrote the story below for a newsletter. It was published there and in the local newspaper as well, so here it is in its entirety:

Having recently returned from a trip to the West Indies, we thought it might be interesting to share with you some of our air travel experiences in that part of the world.

Our travel agent and good friend Judy Bjorback, first alerted us to this great air travel bargain. Thirty days of essentially unlimited air travel throughout the West Indies on LIAT Airlines, for the small sum of Three Hundred Dollars. The only catch being that you had to buy the pass in the West Indies. Some places where LIAT didn't fly we would have to use an airline called Winair. We would have to get these tickets in the West Indies as well.

Anyway, we arrived in San Juan, Puerto Rico one day early, (a good thing, as it turned out) and went to get our pass. We then found that the pass cost $367 instead of $300, and could only be obtained from a travel agent. No problem, we thought, and we went to look up a travel agent. Three travel agents later, it became obvious that travel agents didn't really want to sell the passes, because it was too much work for the small commission. After walking the streets of San Juan for what seemed like hours we finally found an agent willing to sell us LIAT passes. We never did find anyone who claimed to know anything about, or wanted anything to do with Winair. There is an added complication in Puerto Rico, by the way. When you get away from the tourist areas, everyone speaks Spanish. And an island dialect, at that.

So, early the next morning we went out to the San Juan airport to catch the 8:00 LIAT flight for Martinique, with a plane change enroute at Barbados. We were advised that the flight would be a little late, so we spent some time looking out the window. Out there we saw these funny looking little yellow planes with wings on top, engines on the front of the wings and funny little things going around out in front of the engines. They were 37 passenger deHavillands of a vintage that the Red Baron would have been familiar with. We thought maybe they were from a museum, but they did say LIAT on the tail.

About two hours later, they called the flight and sure enough it was one of the little deHavillands. By this time, we knew we had missed our connection, but nothing could be done. Anyway, the plane finally got airborne, and 20 minutes later landed at Tortolla in the British Virgin Islands. This stop was not on the schedule, but nobody seemed to be concerned. Eventually we got going again and after four more unscheduled stops at strange islands, we finally ended up at Saint Lucia, (nowhere near Barbados) and were advised that this was the end of the flight. Several hours later, after many assurances that things would be straightened out in five minutes, an even smaller and older deHavilland landed. This one was a seventeen passenger, and had wheels that hung down permanently. Anyway, they jammed seventeen lucky? souls into this airplane and this time we made it to Martinique.

This act was repeated with minor variations every time we changed islands. Flights were invariably at least two hours late, (They should have named the airline LATE instead of LIAT), usually went to a different place than was scheduled, with lots of unscheduled sightseeing stops enroute, and many times they used the small seventeen passenger deHavillands, which could only take half the passengers who had confirmed reservations. One day we actually used two airlines, landed in three countries, and took ten hours to get to from one island to another one that was fifteen miles away.

As an interesting sidelight, which I almost forgot to mention, there was a French couple waiting with us in St. Lucia, as well, who had somehow gotten marooned there on the way to Martinique, These guys did not speak English, so could not figure out what was going on, and were becoming more distressed by the minute, But fortunately, there also was a French Canadian couple who spoke both English and French, so could translate.

The problem though, was that the gate agent was getting stressed out, so instead of speaking plain English, he launched into his native pidgin patois, which is almost incomprehensible. This didn't particularly bother me, because being an old West Indies hand I could pretty well make him out, but I was the only one. So, he would speak to me, I would translate for the Canadians, (and the other passengers) then the Canadians would translate to French for the French couple. Incidentally, I often wondered in later days, as to how much of the original information made it through this chain to the confused Frenchmen.

Winair was about the same, (Yes we finally did get tickets.) except the airplanes were even smaller and older. The reservation system, however, was unusual. You phoned in and got reservations normally, but when you got to the airport you didn't have any, so everybody flew, or tried to fly, standby. This made for some interesting discussions at the gate.

Of course there was added excitement with immigration and customs, since each island was a different country, and the visa form you filled out on the plane was for the country you were supposed to go to and not for the one where you actually landed. Not that it made any difference, the forms were all incomprehensible anyway. To top it off, usually they wouldn't let you out of the terminal until your next flight actually arrived, and sometimes they charged you five or ten dollars departure tax to get out of a country where you didn't want to be in the first place. We can assure you that being cooped up for hours in a non air conditioned tin shack in the tropics with several dozen unwashed natives, while being assailed with announcements in unknown languages, being hassled by officious officials, and drinking warm beer, is lots of fun.

It all turned out OK in the end, no airplanes crashed and we did see some beautiful islands. We would suggest though, that if you are not an experienced traveler with a taste for adventure, you might be well advised to see the West Indies from a cruise ship.

ANOTHER WEST INDIES TALE

Our West Indies trips always seem to be adventures, and this one was not an exception, as chronicled in this tale about our air transportation problems on a recent trip to that part of the world.

Checking in with US Air in Seattle for our initial flight to San Juan, we found that although we had reservations on US Air to San Juan, by way of Philadelphia, our tickets (electronic, of course) were with United, to San Juan, via Chicago. Swell. It took officials from a couple of airlines about 45 minutes to straighten this out, but luckily TSA was not busy so me made our flight. Which was late leaving. This put us late into Philly, with only 20 minutes to catch the ride to San Juan. Leaving from a different terminal of course.

But, after almost having a heart attack running a quarter mile dash, we bribed an electric cart operator to whisk us to the right gate. And you guessed it, the flight to San Juan was late leaving. Over three hours late, it turned out. So that got us into San Juan in the middle of the night, causing us to miss out on a good Puerto Rican dinner. I really like Puerto Rican food, but it seems that the last few times to Puerto Rico, we have missed dinner due to late arrivals, and had to settle for Burger King. But this time the Burger King was closed as well.

Next morning we headed to St. Thomas on an eight passenger Cessna, flown by Cape Air. Last I heard, Cape Air was operating out of Boston, but one of their aircraft somehow found its way to the San Juan/St. Thomas run.

Arriving at St. Thomas, we found the airport totally deserted, not a taxi or an airplane, for that matter, in sight. We finally woke up the taxi starter, and he agreed, if we correctly interpreted his West Indian patois, to find us a cab. Eventually a cab did show up, and we piled in. I should point out about now that we had come to St Thomas for Carnival, the best festival in the West Indies, and due to Carnival, every street within a mile of our hotel was blocked off. So we bid the taxi goodbye and humped our bags the last mile. We had an eventful time at Carnival and then on to a luxury hotel on Barbados, in another ancient deHavilland turboprop, which aside from being late and noisy, was not too bad.

We spent a few fun filled days in Barbados, and then on to Miami, via American Airlines this time. American is a great airline and we were looking forward to a peaceful flight, but our bad luck held. The guy sitting behind Pat on the airplane had a stroke. No one aboard admitted to being a doctor but a couple of the passengers who were nurses volunteered to help. The flight attendants were very professional, and got a doctor on the radio almost immediately. After some long distance diagnosis, assisted by my oxygen saturation meter, it was decided to divert to San Juan Puerto Rico, where the guy could get some proper medical treatment. All this, of course, took time, causing us to arrive in Miami three hours late, miss our connection to Atlanta, and spend the night in a seedy hotel recommended by the airline.

We then headed to Atlanta, and eventually on back to Seattle. But the plane from Atlanta to Seattle (US Air again) was four hours late departing, so we didn’t arrive home in Edmonds till about four AM the next morning.

Almost enough to make one give up on air travel.

ANOTHER WEST INDIES ADVENTURE

This is an abridged version of this trip tale, which only discusses the flying experiences. You can get the full story in my book “Travelin’ ‘Round the World”, on a linked web site. And , if you have already read the full story, just skip this writing.

We left sunny Palm Springs for San Juan, Puerto Rico early in the morning, with a plane change in Dallas/Fort Worth. We had a little less than an hour to change planes, and had to walk from one end of he terminal to the other. But it turned out that the departing flight was late. If they had made the concourse just a little longer, we could have walked all the way to Puerto Rico.

Since the flight was late, we arrived in San Juan and got settled in our hotel room about 10:00 PM. We then went looking for an exotic Puerto Rican culinary experience, but found Burger King instead. Due to the lateness of the hour, it was the only thing open.

Early next morning we caught a plane to St. Kitts. It was a small plane, but the airline, American Eagle, was reasonably efficient. Arriving in St. Kitts, we went thru customs and immigration. St. Kitts is a country with a total of 35,000 people, but they have their bureaucrats. If a 747 had ever come in, it would have taken till a week from Tuesday to process everybody.

Then it was on to Nevis. The airline was Nevis Express and the airplane was the 35 year old Britten-Norman Islander which you will soon hear more about.

Next stop was Saba, and to get there we had to rely on Winair. Winair has old and small Twin Otters, but they are STOL (Short Takeoff and landing), and the only airplanes in the Caribbean, other than Britten-Norman Islanders, which can land on Saba's 400 meter airstrip. For all you folks who aren't into metric, 400 meters is considerably less space than the fairway of the par four golf hole in our front yard. Needless to say, landing there, (Saba, not the golf course), and taking off as well, is some experience.

Then it was Winair back to St., Martin and the dreaded LIAT (Airline) to Antigua. Some say that LIAT stands for "Leaves Island Any Time", while others swear that it means "Luggage In Any Terminal". They fly ancient deHavillands, are NEVER on time, but sometimes really do land on the island where they are scheduled to go. That day we were in luck, we actually got to Antigua, and only four hours late.

ROYAL AIR NEVIS

We can’t leave the West Indies without a discussion about Royal Air Nevis, which had to be the world’s most informal airline. They used ancient Britten-Norman Islanders, and flew one flight, from St Kitts to Nevis, and return, on an irregular schedule.

So when you wanted to use Air Nevis, the drill went like this. You walked into the office, gave the attendant, (who was also the pilot, baggage handler, etc., etc.) a US $20 dollar bill, then walked out to the Islander, threw your duffel into the luggage compartment, or the back seat, and got into the airplane. Then you amused yourself by drinking warm beer, till they had collected enough brave souls to make the trip profitable, usually up to six. Eventually then, the plane took off for a beautiful, and hopefully uneventful trip to the other island. Upon landing you grabbed your duffel, walked off and grabbed a taxi. No hassles with tickets, reservations, TSA, or he like.

Incidentally, when I flew with them 20 years later, they still had the Islanders, but by then had a computer, tickets, scheduled departures, and even uniforms. Just like uptown. And the fare, if I remember was closer to $US 50.

TALES FROM SOUTHEAST ASIA

The Southeast Asian airlines are generally the best in the world, particularly when it comes to customer service. But I have had my share of “fun” on them as well. Like the first time I flew Garuda, the Indonesian flag airline. Everyone had told me to avoid this airline, but I figured it couldn’t be that bad. So I boarded the airplane, and older Airbus A300 or 310, I believe, and immediately noticed that it had no Gasper air. For those of you not familiar with the term, these are the little individual air nozzles that can be adjusted to blow cool air. Lack of these made the inside of the airplane, on the ground, hotter than Hell, but I was surviving. Then came the big shock. The cabin crew straggled aboard, and I have never seen an uglier group of Melanesian women in my life. After we were airborne, the service matched their looks, and things kinda went downhill from there.

Speaking of Garuda, let me spin another interesting tale. I was in Jakarta, out at the airport, trying to board a Garuda flight to Hong Kong. I presented myself at the counter, along with my credentials, But after a search in the computer the counter agent announced that they had no record of me, the flight was full, and I would have to rebook. I couldn’t understand this, as I had checked with Garuda a day or two before, and had been informed that everything was cool. But then I remembered that East Asians have a propensity for getting first and last names mixed up, so I enquired if they had anything under John. Oh yes Mr. John, the agent said. I have your records right here, everything is in order and you are confirmed Business Class on this flight.

Things didn’t work out that well in Hong Kong, though, where one day in a similar situation they really couldn’t find our reservations to Tokyo. The Chinese lady, however, was very solicitous, explaining that since we were not in the computer, we really didn’t exist, and since we didn’t exist, we didn't really need a flight to Tokyo, so please relax. This explanation caused my traveling companion, who was new to the ways of the Orient, to almost bust a blood vessel. But after he calmed down a little, and stopped threatening to burn the place down, we found the Station Chief, and he got us a flight to Tokyo on Swissair. The Swissair flight was fine, except when I tried to chat up the cute flight attendant. Speaking German gave me a headache in about five minutes, and I had to revert to English. This lost me much face with my traveling companion, but the flight attendant thought that it was kind of humorous.

ARIZONA ADVENTURE

Once when I was consulting for the Salt River Project in Phoenix, I had occasion to fly from Phoenix to Flagstaff in the middle of the winter. December, I think. Anyway I get out to Sky Harbor and check in with Cochise Airlines, a small regional carrier, for a nonstop to Flagstaff. Then thru the gate out to the ramp, and onto the airplane. And guess what, I am the one and only passenger.

So we take off and head for Flagstaff, and about midway through my first drink, the pilot is back with some bad news. Seems it is snowing in Flagstaff, there are 18 inches of snow on the ground already, and there is no way that we are going to land there. So, he tells me, we are heading back to Phoenix. Hey, I said. I have better things to do than take a pleasure flight around Arizona all morning; I really need to get to Flagstaff. So how about diverting to someplace close. Williams or some such place. Well out come the maps from the Jepson bag, and after considerable study, it looks like Sedona is the only logical place. The only airport anywhere near Flagstaff with no snow.

So we do a ninety degree right and head for Sedona. After being unable to raise anyone on the tower frequency, we finally, in desperation, buzz the tower twice. This apparently woke them up and we got somebody on the horn with landing instructions. Anyway we land without incident, and all walk into the terminal. By this time a considerable crowd has gathered, ‘cause a commercial flight into that airport was not an everyday occurrence.

I convince the flight crew to have a cup of coffee while I check the rental car situation. Finding one Pinto available, I arrange for it and bid the crew goodbye. So while they wing their way back to Phoenix in relative comfort, I am fighting an old Pinto, with bald tires, up the Red Rock Canyon to Flagstaff in a worsening blizzard. What some people won’t do for a living.

But this tale is not over yet. My final destination was Page, Arizona, and I eventually got there, after some more misadventures, including a bus ride with a load of drunken Navajos. I had originally arranged for a helicopter charter to Page, but the skids were frozen into a snowdrift, so that was out. Finally arriving in Page, I decided that that I was not going to go through that again, so I chartered a Cessna 185 for a flight to Las Vegas, my next destination. I took advantage of this situation to do a private tour of the canyonlands of southern Utah and northern Arizona. Including, after getting permission from air traffic control, a low level flight THROUGH the Grand Canyon. Previously I had flown over at 20,000 feet, had hiked to the bottom and back up, and now I had flown through it.

BEST AND WORST AIRPLANES

In my view, the best and most comfortable passenger airplanes of all time were the Lockheed Super G and H Constellations. Comfortable, roomy, fast, (Over 350 MPH, which isn’t too shabby, even by today’s standards), quiet, with a heating and air conditioning system which actually worked, and on top of that, the airplane was sexy looking. They were THE long haul airplane of the late fifties and early sixties, and most of the major carriers were using them. Only problem was the Wright 3350 Turbo Compound engines. Overly complicated, and they tended to catch fire at inopportune times.

Running a close second in excellence though, was the Douglas DC-8 Super 62, when configured with five abreast seating. And the new Embraer 70 passenger regional jets are really pretty comfortable, as well.

Prize for the worst airplane from a passenger’s standpoint would go either to the 747, configured for Japanese domestic travel, or the old Lockheed Electra turboprop.

Speaking of Electras, after a couple of unfortunate crashes early in their career, the FAA restricted their speed, while Lockheed worked on a fix. And during this time, I was unfortunate enough, with seven other brave souls, to have to ride one nonstop from New York to Seattle. Well we droned thru the sky at about 200 MPH, and by Chicago we had seriously depleted the airplane’s liqueur supply. By the time we were over Montana, everyone was well oiled, including the flight attendants, and by Seattle, no one cared whether the plane crashed or not. Fortunately, I had a ride home from the airport.

Mentioning bad airplanes, the old Martin 404 had to be in a class of its own.

To get the dihedral right, Martin had to bolt a tapered forging between the side of body rib, and the last inner wing rib. This forging, though, turned out to be prone to cracking, causing the wings to sometimes fall off. So the airlines had to periodicallly pull the wings, X ray the forging, and then put the whole thing back together. I know this, ‘cause I was a tech rep at TWA in the 50’s and watched them do this endlessly with their 404 fleet.

And flying on these airplanes could get pretty exciting, as the following examples will show.

Sometimes smoke would blow through the A/C on takeoff, giving everyone the impression that the plane was on fire. Then the flight attendants (They called them Stewardess in those days.) would have to try, usually unsuccessfully, to calm everyone down. And speaking of flight attendants, we were once on a 404 in some unusually bad weather, when the flight attendant annonced “If you are concerned about the airplane, I don't blame you, because these planes scare the Hell out of me too.”

And finally, the pilots had to carry rolls of black electrical tape, so they could tape the de-icing boots back onto the old Curtis electric propellers, at almost every intermediate stopl

Yep, it was a fine airplane.

MISCELLANEOUS MUSINGS

I should mention first, the around the world trip which I put together once when I had nothing better to do. I thought it would be neat to fly around the world, so I found reason to do some business in Japan, Hong Kong, Pakistan, and Dubai, all at about the same time. Then I threw in Bangkok and Frankfurt Germany for good measure. Anyway, I made that trip, which lasted about three weeks, during the winter, with only two carry ons, although they were bulging by the time I got back. I actually managed to do some business in Japan and Karachi, had a lot of fun in Bangkok with a Brit solicitor I met along the way, and looked up a lady friend in Frankfurt, where I used to live. All in all, an interesting and successful trip.


In the mid sixties, as I remember, I was at an air show in Canada with a group of Japanese. Anyway a featured event was a high speed, low level pass by a P-51 Mustang. You know, the old piston engine fighter of WW II.

The sound was subtle at first, a high-pitched whine, a muffled screech, a distant scream. Moments later the P-51 burst through the haze. Its airframe straining against positive Gs and gravity, with the big V-12 Merlin bellowing out its raucous ear splitting blast. And prop-tips going supersonic as the burnished bird blasted across the field, not one hundred feet off the ground, shredding and tearing the air. At about 500 mph and 150 yards from where we stood, she zoomed by with the pilot waving. Imagine. She glistened, she screamed, the ground shook, a sound like 100 freight trains rolled into one. Then the pilot pulled her up and rolled, and rolled, and rolled out of sight into the broken clouds.

The sound had barely died away, when one of the Japanese, in a mixture of awe and terror, gasped " No wonder we lost the War".

Years later I invited my eight or nine year old Grandson Ryan to be my guest at this same show. And since it was a trade show, with an inexhaustible supply of food drink and give away goodies in the manufacturer’s chalets, I figured Ryan might as well get in on this gravy train as well. I had registered myself with my own company, and to get Ryan into chalet land, I registered him as a Representative of British Aerospace, who also employed me. Well, Ryan thought he had died and gone to heaven, and all went well till a Show Official asked the lad how long he had been with British Aerospace. Only since today, Ryan truthfully replied. And that seemed to satisfy everyone.

And at that same show, a young Japanese, when introduced, allowed that he was pleased to meet me, as he had read about me in a Japanese history book. Too bad I wasn’t rich, as well as famous.


For awhile, I was traveling so much on the old National Airlines, that most of the flight attendants knew me by sight. It even got to the point that after I settled in my First Class seat, the flight attendant, unbidden, would bring me my glass of straight scotch, and then ask, ”And what is your friend drinking, John.”

And speaking of National, they used to have these intimate unmarked hospitality rooms for favored passengers. One day in St. Louis, when I banged on their lounge door, it was opened by a distinguished, familiar looking gentleman. He introduced himself as the Mayor of Seattle, and said that it was a pleasure to meet Pat’s husband. I guess that I hadn’t realized that she was that well known around City Hall


Twice, in my travels, I have been on a scheduled commercial flight that tried to land at the wrong airport, and there were probably other times I was not aware of.

The first incident was a Vickers Viscount, which was on final at Olathe Naval Air Station near Kansas City, when the pilot realized that where he was trying to land was not Kansas City Municipal, which was on the other side of the river. The second incident was an attempt by a United 727 to land at Hillsboro Airport near Portland Oregon, instead of the destination, which was Portland International, a few miles further west.

Now for a bit of humor. One day I was sitting alongside a salesman who peddled lifejacket emergency lights. You know those water activated bulbs that go on automatically when someone goes into the water. Anyway, he had some demo bulbs, about the size of sugar cubes, and we decided to have some fun. So, first, he deactivated the overhead light for his seat, and then dropped the demo bulb into his drink, where it started flashing away. Then he called the flight attendant, and explained that the overhead light bulb had fallen into his drink, and improbably, was still working. This really spooked the flight attendant, who thought that she had seen everything, and she took off to get the Flight Engineer. When this august individual showed up, he immediately figured it for a scam, but couldn’t figure how we did it.

In all my miles on scheduled airlines, I have only had two emergency landings, both involving blown tires. Quite a record, huh.

Probably one of the worst scheduled airlines, in my experience, was the old Air Inter, the French national domestic airline. They flew a collection of beater airplanes, clear back to the Caravels, including something called a Mercure. This airplane looked something like a BAC 111, and was so bad that only Air Inter flew it.

And the bad airlines seem to develop nicknames. Like “Pathetic” for the old Pacific Airlines that used to fly the West coast. Not to mention “Northworst”, for Northwest. Trans Canada Airlines, or TCA, got to being called ‘Tin Can Airlines” so much that they had to change the name to Air Canada. LIAT, of course, became LATE. Some said the acronym stood for “Leaves Island any Time”, while others swore it meant “Luggage In any Terminal”. And slogans. Pan Am’s “Worlds Most Experienced Airline”, became ‘World’s most Exasperating Airline” a handle which was not too far off the mark. There were other examples, as well, which I can’t think of at the moment.

As you know, the French like their dogs, and take them everywhere, but a dogfight at 30,000 feet on Air Inter, was a little much.

In my travels, I have had several interesting experiences with both helicopters and horses, and in my mind they both fall in the same category. Helicopters are noisy, oil slinging, smelly, rough riding machines, of questionable reliability. Definitely not suitable for little old ladies from Kansas. Horses, as well, are smelly and rough riding, along with being unpredictable stubborn beasts, often with a mean streak thrown in for good measure. And I have found, from experience, that both these means of transportation are to be avoided, if at all possible.

BOEING'S PLANT 2

In South Seattle, the ghosts are stirring along the Duwamish. Yes ghosts. The ghosts of all those almost seven thousand Boeing B-17 bombers which brought the Nazis to their knees, and the 277 B-52 bombers which helped turn the tide in the Cold War.

They are losing their birthplace, as Boeing has decided to demolish its venerable Plant 2 airplane factory, where these B-17 and B-52 warplanes were produced in incredible quantities.

When I first visited Plant 2 in mid 1950, the wartime production of B-17 bombers, which actually reached 16 per day…every day, had long ceased, the camouflage village erected on the roof to confuse Japanese bombers had been removed, and the metal jigs and fixtures used to produce the planes, had been cut up and sold for scrap.

The only remaining evidence of this mighty production effort were the thousands of nuts, bolts and rivets embedded in the plant’s asphalt aisles, and the scars, dents and embedded metal in the maple floors of the balcony, where the smaller pieces of airplane had been assembled. In fact, you could shoot a cannon down any of the main aisles with no fear of hitting anyone or anything.

But listening closely, one could imagine hearing the whine of the lathes and milling machines, and the thump of the presses, turning out the bits and pieces, and then the earsplitting clatter of rivet guns, wielded by hundreds of legendary “Rosie the Riveters”, assembling the parts into complete airplanes. And finally outside on the apron, the scream of the four big radial engines, as they were run up to full power, bringing the big “bird” to life, at last.

But Plant 2 didn’t sleep for long. The Cold War was soon upon us, along with the B-52 bomber. That awesome machine, which is still in service, could carry an H bomb to anywhere in the Soviet Union. Thus threatening unimaginable devastation upon that Evil Empire.

And where was this monster built. You guessed it, Boeing Plant 2. The airplane could barely be contained inside the plant, and actually had to have the vertical tail folded down to clear the doors. But the other Boeing plants were full of priority work, so the old gal was again pressed into service.

And serve she did, with 277 B-52s being built there in 8 years. But with the transfer of B-52 production to Wichita, the old lady, who by now was showing her age, again fell into disuse. Boeing had built a state of the art Developmental Center elsewhere, and modern plants for producing jetliners, were sprouting like weeds at the Boeing Renton site.

She did have a bit of a reprieve though, when the first 8 737s were built there in 1966. That was a couple of years before I used part of this old factory to build and test a full scale seawater desalination plant. While at about the same time, some other guys were building asphalt processing plants elsewhere in the building.

In recent years, however, the place has fallen into almost total disuse, with antique airplane storage and some Museum of Flight airplane restoration being the only significant activities. Somehow though, it doesn’t seem quite right to rip down this iconic structure, and recycle this irreplaceable bit of Seattle and airplane history into just another park. Or Heaven forbid, a Shopping Center.

The last B-17 to roll out of Plant 2. No, not 1945, but September 2010. The airplane is a B-17 belonging to the Museum of Flight, which was stored in the building.

Photo courtesy of Robert Bogash

FINALE

Well, I guess that just about brings this sorry book to an end. I am sure that by now, if you were paying attention, you probably know more about weird flying experiences than you really wanted to.

John, Palm Desert California, January 2009