Jack

Flying with a crazy man

The next few blogs are going to get very personal. I’ve refrained from “going deep,” until now, if only because I’m trying to learn how to write better so as to convey with deeper emotion and clarity the topics about which I blog. I encourage you to write me and tell me where I’ve gone wrong, in your opinion; criticism can be painful, but, productive. Just remember, and even though I’m from Jersey, I do bleed, so be eloquent if you intend to tell me I suck…I’m doing all of this to prepare myself for a life after flying when I retire about 18 months.

We all know that one person in our life, from our past, who was larger than life. A character whose personality was so immensely powerful, in a positive way, that not one person who was in their immediate area, whether engaged with them or not, wasn’t touched in some profound way just by their mere presence. A person whose eyes were like torches on a rainy, dismal, fog cloaked night; whose bright eyes beamed wonder as they told story after story, tale after tale. Those eyes acting like a cinema projector radiating stories and adventures upon your heart and soul with the added treat of overly dramatic body language adding even more detail.

There was not a day in my life that was not brightened by the presence of Jack, even on the days when I royally pissed him off (I could do that to adults back then).

Jack was an overweight, short on stature (5’6” ?…I’m guessing) giant whose personality could overcome, overwhelm, and win the hearts of even the most reticent of humans. His beer belly ruled his midriff in the same manner that his big, deeply blue eyes and double chin ruled his very bald head.

His eyes. He wore very thick glasses that furthermore accentuated his already earth-like (blue oceans as seen from space) all seeing orbs. I’ll never forget the beauty of his eyes as he told me his stories, watching them open, or close, or shift with each exciting change in whatever human interest or aviation tale he was bringing to life.

To totally describe Jack in this blog would bore you, though I could try and emulate Dr Frankenstein, who brought an eclectic assortment of human parts to life, by using a vast array and assortment of words to try and bring the essence of Jack back from the grave. To that end however, his spirit would still be absent from that verbal sort of conjuring. But, Oh how I wish I could have a prayer answered and have God allow him to come back into my life again. Jack was magic to me, answered prayer not prayed for but, brought to me at a time in my life when depression ruled and where I lived with serious doubt that I would age past my teens for any number of reasons.

Jack was blue collar raised in South Jersey and spent his late teens and early twenties as a crew chief in the Navy. He was exceedingly intelligent and also gifted with a wit that could get him in trouble with his superiors and yet could literally charm the pants off the ladies.

After the Navy he began working at the FAA, initially as a mechanic and then as a dispatcher for the multitude of flight test aircraft located at the FAA’s National Aviation Facilities Experimental Center (NAFEC) at Atlantic City International Airport, in Pomona, New Jersey. It was in that position where he and my father, one of the FAA’s Flight Operations Test Pilots, befriended each other…I’m pretty certain their mutual love of beer was the lubricating agent for that lifelong friendship.

And with that short introduction of Jack, I met him in the summer of 1974. I came back from riding my dirt-bike in the rather extensive collection of woods a few miles from my house and while I was putting my motorcycle in the garage I encountered my future mentor. He and my dad had gone fishing on my Dad’s boat and they were savoring the taste of Budweiser while lying about the fish they had caught, using the shadows of the garage to avoid the penetrating effects of a hot late afternoon sun.

Jack affronted me with his first spoken words and I thought, what a jerk! But, then knowing he’d caught me off guard judging from the sneer on my face, he began to belly laugh, which caused my old man to laugh and then cascaded onto me. I never looked back after that initial meeting…he and I were friends for life.

I didn’t know it then, but my father had an ulterior motive in bringing Jack into my pathetic life back then. He wanted him to teach me how to fly. Even though the old man would solo me, he knew, my Dad that is, if we flew together too much we’d butt heads so he figured Jack would be a better match for my laconic and cynical personality. My father was very wise.

Jack and I first flew together in August of 1974, he called the night prior to our flight to tell me he was picking me up the next day, early and we were going to fly to Cape May Airport. My dad had been teaching me to fly and indeed soloed me in Jack’s amazingly beat-up but-still-able-to fly Cessna 150; this aircraft, 11Z, was the definition of a rudimentary flying machine. But, still I loved climbing into her because I knew that vehicle of flight was my doorway to heaven, if only for a short time and a temporary escape from the hell on earth that was my home life back then.

At the secluded little grass airport that cradled Jack’s two aircraft, we arrived early the next morning. I automatically began untying 11Z, releasing her from her bonds when Jack said, “No, no, no, we’re flying the Luscombe to Cape May, not the one fifty.”

Wow, what a treat. Jack’s Luscombe was a 1947 8A, all metal, model and she was b e a u ti f u l. I mean she was polished and shiny and pristine, as if just off the assembly line, though to me human hands didn’t make her, but off duty angels.

She had to be hand propped though, so Jack taught me the ways of propping an aircraft without getting killed by a spinning propellor, which would bode me well for a future summer job when I was in college.

But, in terms of rudimentary, she had no internal generator supplying her electrical needs for the radio, transponder and lights. Nope, I was back to my newspaper bicycle days, relating to the equivalent of a small spinning generator mounted between the aircraft’s wheels and being spun when the aircraft’s propellor was spinning: To be clear, the Luscombe was a tailwheel aircraft with all of 65 horses powering her locomotion. I did ponder, before take-off, if those few ponies could get us elevated to any degree given Jack’s aforementioned midriff.

The flight to Cape May was wonderfully enchanting, since I so loved flying (still do!) back then, but being new to it the sights and sounds were so mesmerizing. I thought to myself as I stared at the peons below, living in their mundane, earthly bound lives, how could anyone ever tire of being airborne?

After Jack finished his meeting in Cape May and upon getting ready to fly back to Knocky’s airport, from where we came, Jack said he wanted to teach me to fly his Luscombe. With those words I thought he meant on the way back to Knocky’s. He meant to solo her at Cape May Airport, though he kept the solo part out of the conversation until he was actually going to let me solo. I guess he was afraid he’d spook me if he told me beforehand.

For the next 30 to 45 minutes or so Jack and I did pattern after pattern, touch and go after touch and go on runway 19 at Cape May, this being done after we did a couple of stalls so I could see how she spoke, the aircraft, before she stopped flying. Unlike my father, Jack was not a kind instructor and in fact at times his instruction was ruthless. He may have been jovial as hell when gravity kept his feet to the ground, but when levitating, he could be an asshole. With that attitude I elucidated honesty on a level I’d never known before; Jack didn’t mince words. When he said I was flying like crap and not paying attention, he was correct and I put my tail between my legs. When he praised me for a good flying performance a halo appeared over my head. My father was always nice, always calming, always supportive when instructing me, even when I know I totally screwed up. The problem is at times when my father said I was doing good I really wasn’t sure if I was, because I always seemed to do good. Holy crap with Jack, no free passes baby, if I did a poor pattern there was no, “Oh son that was good, but I’m sure you can do better,” gibberish. No, with Jack it was, “What the fu$k was that??!! Are you trying to kill me? I don’t want to die with you, I can do that myself, get your head out of your ass and concentrate.” Seriously I thought I’d turn to jello with his harshness, but then the Jersey in me kicked in and said, “I’m gonna prove to his sorry ass I can fly this aircraft!”

And that’s what happened. After about 45 minutes of “lovely” training, Jack asked me to pull off the runway after a full stop landing whereupon he climbed out of the little Luscombe. I think the aircraft immediately grew 5 inches in height once he deplaned and gave an audible “ahhhhh..”

With Jack watching by the runway I did three patterns, two touch and goes and a full-stop on the last pattern in order to pick up the aircraft’s owner. Jack said I had a smile on my face that beamed when he opened the door to get in. I’ve never stopped smiling from that day on in fact.

Words cannot convey the confidence Jack afforded me by being who he was on that day and soloing the timid, pip squeak little boy I was then. I stood up to the giant’s well intentioned manner of authoritative and at times draconian instructional technique and soloed a tailwheel aircraft, a most beautiful one at that, in less than an hour of instruction and with maybe 40 hours in my logbook…my confidence level in Life due to the gift of Jack’s time and aircraft created a positive ripple affect in every area of my life, and which continues to this day. That day with Jack was just the beginning of some amazing adventures with him.

I had to pass my FAA written test before I could take my practical flight test with a FAA Examiner. I was like, so not a studious person back in my teens. I was in the bottom ten percent of my high school graduating class that made the upper ninety percent possible. I don’t think I was stupid then, though maybe I was. No matter what, I hated high school with a passion, including the school work associated with it, so my effort at academics did not include effort. This intro to my academic abilities in high school leads me to the fact that I had to actually study to pass my FAA written. It was the first real serious test of my ability to actually learn, and Jack was my teacher.

Jack was very avant garde when I was sixteen since he said he could relate to my hating high school and the academics associated with it. His answer to my worry about my ability to pass the FAA Test was to take me to the “Landing Strip” in the evenings after we went flying together, or when I just saw him in order for him to teach me the stuff a private pilot needs to know. The Landing Strip was what the last word of the name of the establishment implies, a strip joint. Yes, I was sixteen, but that didn’t stop Jack from smuggling me into the dark and seedy interior of that “fine” establishment. There were many nights when Jack brought me home, on a school night mind you, at 12 or 1 o’clock and I was drunk. My dad was an alcoholic, Jack was probably close, I guess they were mentoring me in other areas as well.

The best part of the Landing Strip was “Upside Down Norma.” Probably my second real crush on an older woman, and the first woman I ever saw with breast implants. Jack illuminated that fact to me since he used her breasts as a teaching device. You see when Norma was upside down, the silicone in her lovely shaped beauties did not drop near as much as the other ladies who had real breasts, hence the reason she could go upside down without blocking her vision. The other large chested babes, well, you get the idea, it wasn’t pretty. No, upside-down Norma had a lock on the pole gymnastics. Jack would call her over to us and she was definitely a bit older than the other ladies who “danced,” but she was always so sweet to me and very attractive, despite her advancing years. I still hold those times with Jack as wonderful bonding times, though my mother hated him for exposing me to that side of life; and for allowing me to get drunk on a regular basis at sixteen, and on a school night…going to school hungover was brutal and I must say, to my mother’s credit, no matter how hungover I was, she would literally pull me off my bed at 6 AM in order to get me out the door for school; trust me, I protested mightily about wanting to stay home. It never happened. It was a great way to keep me sober.

The flying life with Jack was adventure after adventure. The most notable flight we had, well flights, because it was a bunch, was from Marathon in the Florida Keys to New Jersey. I attended summer camp in the Keys during my high school years and in the summer before my senior year in high school Jack flew down to pick me up from the camp. Now, ya gotta picture this, most of the kids who attended that camp came from very wealthy families, mine being the exception. After my three weeks at Sea Camp (it’s still in operation) in July/August of 1975 the head of the camp drove me to Marathon Airport in order for me to catch my “flight” home. I have no doubt this guy had seen some seriously nice aircraft fly into Marathon to pick up some of the more affluent of camp attendees. So imagine this guy, as we walk into the lobby of the FBO, and he’s looking for some pilot in a tie and possibly a uniform, or a rich, well dressed dad who was an owner/operator of some nice twin engined Cessna or Beechcraft. As we walk towards the doors that lead to the flight line Jack walks up to me, beer belly draped by a white, over-hanging, non-tucked in tee shirt, ball cap that looked like he used it to wipe the oil off his hands, thick glasses, jeans with holes (he was ahead of his time and a trend setter) and sneakers. He walks authoritatively up to me and says. “Hey Shitbird! Are you ready to go?” Shitbird was Jack’s term of endearment for me.

I thought the camp counselor was gonna drop dead. He said, after Jack introduced himself, “Who is that?”

I responded casually and with an air aristocracy, “Oh, Jack? He’s my pilot.”

With jaw dropped, and after Jack grabbed my duffle bag of clothes to take to the aircraft, Mr. Camp Counselor said, “Where’s your aircraft? Which one are you flying back to New Jersey?” He said this after walking up to the door that led to the flightline.

“Oh it’s that beautiful blue one sitting on the ramp right there,” said I, pointing and still keeping up with the posh talk, type attitude.

“All I see is some small thing, with its tail on the ground.”

“Yup, that’s her, such a beautiful aircraft. You wanna go for a ride before we depart. I can take you up?”

He left skid marks leaving.

Jack was a funny guy, a very funny guy, but he was not exactly polished which I think kept him from being more successful at the FAA and maybe in other ventures as well. His mouth could be very crude, and his personality was so gregarious and loud at times. I am convinced since he wasn’t exactly a snappy dresser either, his beer belly sometimes peeking from below a non-tucked in tee shirt, that even before he spoke most had formed a negative opinion of him. But, those that knew “him,” his heart, loved him.

That trip from Florida to New Jersey in that beautiful Luscombe is still one of the high points in my flying life. We never climbed above 500 feet for the whole trip back except, maybe to join the traffic pattern altitude at some of the airports we landed in order to refuel or spend the night.

Some of the more notable things we saw and did on that trip was for us to make a faux approach and simulated wave off on a carrier that was docked in Charleston Harbor. It caused workman on the deck to scatter…needless to say Jack got a letter from the FAA for that. We had a helicopter chase us as we passed through Myrtle Beach AFB’s control zone, we were about 15 feet above the water and just over the waves of the beach, but the runway at that AFB butts up to the beach. Jack thought buzzing the nudists multiple times over some obscure Cape Hatteras Beach was fun, me thinks they did not; finally we had an A-4 fly along side us as we passed by NAS Oceana. We were just off the beach and over the water at about 100 feet when I looked to my right and saw this A-4 with flaps, gear, and hook down at some crazy high angle of attack as it slowly passed us on the right, the fighter pilot in it waving as he did! I mean how cool is that???

That trip from Florida was actually a celebration present from Jack to me since before leaving for camp I had passed both my FAA written and practical flying test. I left for my Florida camp as a certified private pilot and felt on top of the world.

Before that lovely Luscombe trip however, there was some light to moderate turbulence encountered in Jack’s and my relationship. The first bump occurred when I flew a trip with Jack in a Bonanza. We were coming back from Alabama, we had flown down much earlier in the morning, and heading to Blairstown Airport in New Jersey. Jack wanted me to use a sectional to navigate to Blairstown. I did. But, what angered him was that I used some very obvious landmarks to get me there…like following the Delaware River. Jack said that the great thing about aircraft is that they can go above the earth and in straight lines, unlike cars which must follow a road. I was intransigent in my belief I did nothing wrong and Jack was also intransigent in his belief that I had flown too much on the East Coast and was too used to having a huge ocean or river too help in map reading, or lack thereof in finding a destination. We had a seriously loud argument after we landed at Blairstown about my reluctance to fly as a crow flew, a straight line to the destination.

One day Jack calls me up, now mind you, I’m still sixteen and working towards getting my private pilot’s license, and says we were going to fly to Youngstown, Ohio in a friend’s Mooney Mk 20 C. I was all for that and we cruised at a serene 12,500 feet enroute to Youngstown. A notable event occurred on that flight when four F-105 aircraft passed very and I mean very close on our left side, as they turned to the left to go behind us. They were banking hard left, almost 90 degrees, having come from our 10 o’clock position—to this day I wonder if they even saw us; seeing four Thuds that close and loud was impressive.

Once on the ground in Youngstown, Jack parked the Mooney and said that 11Z, the C-150 I’d been training in, was parked a bit further down the flight line and he said for me to go open her up and air her out. He said she’d been sitting there for awhile. So I casually walked to 11Z as Jack, with a $hit ass eating grin on his face taxied by in the Mooney and waved. WTF ? I was so perplexed. So I got to 11Z opened her up and on the pilot’s seat, left seat, was an envelope with my name on it and a couple of sectionals were sitting below the envelope. Another WTF.

As I opened the envelope I looked up to see Jack taking off..now ya gotta remember this is before the days of cell phones, ATMs, etc…life was crude then…LOL. And by the way, I had maybe twenty dollars in my pocket with no credit card, cash card, nothing except my driver’s license and FAA medical certificate. The envelope was one of Jack’s “lovely” communiques that said, “Since you insist on flying by either ocean or river, now that you are ensconced in the midwest, you must use your skill and cunning and navigate to Reading, PA airport. I will be happily waiting for arrival. Good luck. Oh, by the way, I’ll give you a clue on how to get there, head easterly Shitbird.”

“Asshole,” I thought.

So, right. The prudent thing would have been to get the sectionals Jack left in the aircraft, go into the FBO and do some map preparation and line drawing on the map to convert true course to magnetic course and heading (East is least, west is best for variation etc…) and maybe get the weather, which since I had just flown from that direction I knew was clear. But, did I do that? Noooooooo, I just circled Reading Airport, and took off with the thought of what my father had always told me about the Allegheny mountains, those in Pennsylvania, that they run in waves with their longitudinal axis oriented northeast and southwest. Why I remembered this as I took off and headed to where I thought Reading was I don’t know, but, irregardless, I thought what I thought and headed on a roughly east, by southeasterly heading.

Look, I’ll admit, I was a bit scared. I had no ocean on the left or right of me and no river on either side either. I was taking off from the innards of America, but, I did know if I headed on a east by southeast heading I’d hit the Atlantic Ocean eventually. But, I wanted to prove to Jack I could meet his challenge, Shitbird or not, I was gonna get to Reading and I wasn’t going to miss it either to the north of south. And just to be clear, 11Z had no, none, nada, zip navigation gear of any kind installed in her. Flying from A to B was accomplished by “dead reckoning,” in other words looking at a map and flying to your destination.

After about forty five minutes of flying at 100 mph I felt like I was pretty much on course, not that I had actually drawn a line on a map that I could relate to as being on course. Nonetheless, I thought I had all the landmarks below me figured out, until, suddenly I saw a power plant out the window to my left, that I couldn’t find on the sectional. Then in a cascade effect everything on the map and then everything on the ground around me looked different from what I had been seeing. In short order major doubt about my position rushed into my head like water rushing from a burst dam. So overwhelming was my concern for ‘being lost” that, like a very quick reacting laxative, I immediately had to take a bowel movement, and I mean immediately, I was suddenly “prairie dogging it,” if you know what I mean. I was closing down on my sphincter muscle with all my strength since I really didn’t want to crap my pants en-route to Reading—Jack and my father would never let me live that down. Now, the newest of emergencies was not finding my exact position, but finding an airport.

By the grace of God, just as I began my visual search for any airport, out the left side and just past that unknown power plant I saw a small airport, with an east west running runway, approximately 3000 feet in length. I tuned to the normal, universal Unicom radio frequency and made a hard left turn, overflew the airport, saw which way the wind favored for landing and landed without further ado. I was damn near flying into the ramp I taxied so fast, still maintaining a firm clasp on the ‘ole sphincter muscle. I parked and shutdown in one fluid motion, jumped out of the aircraft and walked, ran, hobbled, to the FBO building. I was so close now. I flew into the building with abandon and to the surprise of an older gentlemen sitting behind a counter. I squeaked out in pain, “Where’s your bathroom??”

Smiling, he pointed to my right and said down the hall.

I barely made it to the toilet before the sphincter protested and relaxed its grip, by then though it was bombs away since I was now over the target. I must have sat on the throne for 20 minutes, the gentleman at the counter making a house call to see if I was OK.

I actually had the presence of mind to bring reading material in the toilet with me, the sectional that I was using for navigation. During my “personal space time” I poured over the map, trying to figure out where I was. In the end I did find the airport where I suspected I had landed, and after talking to the very kind man, the only person in fact in the FBO building, he confirmed that the airport I showed him on the sectional was where I landed. I felt so relieved at this confirmation and in the fact I had lightened the payload of the aircraft by a few pounds; to this day I could not tell you what airport it was where I made that emergency landing.

Once airborne I was a lot more relaxed than when I took off from Youngstown. I began map reading and landmark locating as soon as I was airborne after that physiological break. I made it to Reading with total confidence without following a river, a road, or relying upon anything, other than going map to ground, ground to map, with regards to referencing landmarks between the real world and the sectional. I was proud to tell Jack, upon seeing him after I landed that I flew as direct a route as a crow would fly. He had made his point.

Jack could be an asshole at times, but he was a well intentioned one.

The next fair amount of turbulence I experienced with him, and one in which he really yelled at me, was a thunderstorm encounter, well, near encounter.

One early afternoon I rode my bike to Knocky’s, where Jack normally kept his aircraft, took off in 11Z and flew to Woodbine Airport for some landing practice and general air work in preparation for my private pilot’s license. I still had about nine months to go until I was seventeen and could get my license. I really was just having fun puttering around the South Jersey skies killing time flying until my birthday and that magic 17 number came up. Like a little boy playing in the sand with his toy trucks and oblivious to the world around him, so too did I play around Woodbine Airport. As I did touch and goes on the same runway upon which I soloed, I suddenly became aware of an infiltration of towering cumulonimbus clouds, their numbers and size became so overwhelming I couldn’t help but notice them. I quickly scanned the sky in the direction of Knocky’s as I did another touch and go and figured I’d better get my butt home before it was impossible to get there due to those obnoxious, windblown giants.

With my epiphany about the consequences of the interlopers, I immediately left the security of my playground. I stayed low, eight hundred feet or so, and in clear air and deviated at will around the massive, white, and ever-bulging cloud bases looking for a way to the sanctity of Knocky’s. But with every turn I encountered a dead end of bubbling and menacing-looking clouds full of energy and enthusiasm and with torrents of rain pouring forth from their bases, drenching the land below. Again, and again, and again I turned this way or that, every avenue of escape being thwarted by grand canyons of clouds rising 30,000 to 40,000 feet above me. The massing was seemingly complete, and when I saw lightning burst forth from a rather low-hanging bit of cloud, maybe two miles in the distance, I put my tail between my legs and high-tailed it for the security of Woodbine Airport. This sanctuary was still remarkably free of the weather, though it was starting to encroach there too as I landed. Once on the ground I taxied to one of the aircraft ramps and shutdown. There was a payphone near one of the buildings and I used it to call my dad who was at work.

The old man wasn’t flying that day, thank the Lord, he was in the weather shop and I had to be transferred to their number after calling flight ops.

When my dad wasn’t flying, he liked to go up to the weather office and help the guys. He knew the weather better than Mother Nature and I held his weather wisdom in as high regard as his flying ability. Anyway, when he answered I told him what the situation was, about as fast as light goes from the Earth to the moon. He asked me to slow down to sub-light speed in my conversation, after telling him about three times and getting a pregnant pause in return— he laughed! He thought it was great that I was getting this experience! When I told him about the lightning he thought that was even better and said at least I was getting some good weather experience in preparation for my pilot’s license.

With an internal sigh of relief, I asked him what I should do. He said he’d check the weather radar and then call me back.

About twenty minutes after calling my dad, the pay phone rang and I ran to answer it. The reassuring voice of my father told me that there should be a break in the cells (storm cells) long enough for me to fly “home” in about thirty minutes or so. He said he’d call me when he wanted me to take off.

I waited. I wandered around the ramp a bit, inspecting the many single engine airplanes parked there. After my nervous meandering and looking at my watch enough times to never allow a pot to boil, I ended up back at my trusty old steed and waited for the phone to ring. It wasn’t long.

After the Brrrrring! of the phone and my answering it, my dad said the coast was temporarily clear, and he estimated I had a twenty-minute window to get my keister back to Knocky’s before another set of storms would block the way. With no time to spare, I started up and took off.

Actually, the weather almost looked worse this time, once I began to head toward home, because the smaller “puffy” cumulus clouds were now a lot bigger. But I could see that there was a break in the line of weather in the direction in which I was headed. I could see lightning off my left side, all of my left, northwest through southwest, major league lightning at that, about ten miles away at its closest, but with my little engine that could at almost full bore, there was no way those tempests were going to catch me. On my right, the storms that I saw earlier were almost over the beach and no doubt the cooler, more stable sea air was taking the rage out of them and calming them down.

With clouds to left and right, I continued home at 100 mph, 800 feet above the ground as my heart raced at a million beats per minute. Once I saw the beautiful grass of my aerodrome from about five miles out did my heartbeat begin to slow since I knew I would make it to a landing. On my taxi back to parking I briefly reflected upon the flight home and how it really was a bit anticlimactic, save for the incredible display of lightning.

After landing and tying the aircraft down I had another tempest, of the human kind, with which to deal—Jack.

Oh Em Gee (OMG) Jack was mad. He came storming (no pun intended!) up to me and asked me what in the hell I was doing flying HIS aircraft in weather like this and with only a student pilot’s license. I had no answer other than it seemed like a nice afternoon to go flying and I got caught down in Woodbine. My dad had called Jack to tell him what had happened. There was no appeasing his anger, and after getting my butt chewed out for the better part of ten minutes, I hopped on my ten-speed bike and rode home bewildered— not so much by the weather, but by the contrast in emotions between my dad and Jack; hell they were both bipolar, and I wasn’t sure which one was more whacko. The greatest generation types sure had some anger management issues.

That night, after my ass chewing, my father had me go with him to the local pub and there we met Jack. I am sure they both conspired to have me there with them so we could have a more sane discussion about what happened that day. I figured I was going to get another dose of Jack’s anger, but instead he was very happy and in short order he and my dad were slapping me on my back saying what a great experience I had gotten that day.

At some point during that surreal evening I stood back from the bar and thanked God for such an eclectic mix of aviation mentors.

In the late summer of 1975, just after Jack and I had flown from Marathon, Florida in his Luscombe, I asked him if I could fly his aircraft up to New Bedford Massachusetts so I could spend a few days with a smoking hot girl I had met and dated while in Sea Camp. Lisa Watson was the girl and she and I had been constant pen pals since my return to Jersey with the occasional phone call thrown in. Jack said he wouldn’t let me fly his Luscombe up there alone, however he would let me fly him up there and he’d fly the aircraft back and pick me up a few days later. I was elated and on a Friday afternoon we departed for New Bedford with one fuel stop in Connecticut.

After arriving Lisa and her mother were waiting in the local FBO’s lobby. I asked Lisa if she wanted to go for a flight since Jack actually suggested it as we taxied in. Quite enthusiastically she said yes, with her mother’s approval and I ushered her out to the aircraft. Once I got Lisa to the airplane I knew why Jack wanted me to give her a flight—he wanted to strap her in so he could check out her physical dimensions, such was Jack.

I flew Lisa over the local area, and particularly her home which was only a few miles away in Nonquitt, everyone loves to see their neighborhood from the air.

After the flight with Lisa and before I left with her and her mother, Jack called me over to him as he stood by that beautiful Luscombe. I was quizzical, since I had already profusely thanked him for letting me fly up there and for his time and for letting me use his aircraft. So, I walked cautiously up to him not knowing what to expect. He said with a frown, “Shitbird, haven’t Upside Down Norma and I taught you anything?”

I was perplexed, deeply perplexed. I had no clue what he meant and I didn’t know how to respond so I just blurted out, “What are you talking about?”

“Her tits.”

I was utterly dumbfounded. There was not one time in my life where my father ever made a comment about the physical nature of any girl I dated. Now, here was Jack, a supposed adult to whom I am to look up to making a rather crude comment about a girl that I really liked.

“Lisa’s breasts or Upside Down Norma’s?” I asked, truly not understanding what the hell Jack was getting at.

“She has no tits. Yeah, she’s pretty, and has a nice ass, but no tits. Son, ya gotta go for the girl with jugs. I thought if you learned anything while watching Norma it was that. I need to educate you when you get back Shitbird. Now have a good time and I’ll see you in four days.”

“Yes sir,” I said, totally amazed at the conversation we just had.

Lisa asked me what Jack wanted when I got back to the FBO lobby and I said he wanted to tell me how pretty you were—she blushed—if only she really knew.

At one point in my senior year of high school I began dating a girl from my senior class. My father had just recently joined an FAA Flying Club so I had access to a few Piper Aircraft during this period of time in my life. One day after school I took this young lady for a flight. It was around 4PM in the afternoon when we took off. I decided, on a whim, to buzz the high school athletic fields. Now mind you the high school was situated in a heavily populated suburb and there was a lot of activity going on in the school yard then. Screaming down from a 1000 feet I flew maybe, 50 feet, over the the green grass of the baseball, football, and field hockey playing areas. I did one pass and then headed back to the Atlantic City Airport and landed.

Jack met me at the aircraft after I landed. He was driving an FAA airport vehicle and he was mad. He told me to take the girl home and that he wanted to take me flying. I asked him what his problem was and he said he’d tell me in due time. So I took my girlfriend home and met him at the airport. It was late in the spring and it didn’t get dark until later in the evening.

We actually met at Knocky’s and he said get into the Luscombe; he’d already prepped it for flight. We took off and he said to fly over the marshes which were a buffer between the barrier islands of New Jersey and the mainland. The marshes had many creeks, narrow and wide, that intermingled, separated, and then reengaged within the marshland’s confines. I was directed to fly over a fairly large bay and then drop down to low altitude. Jack didn’t define what low altitude was so I went down to about 100 feet. He also said to head south and then directed me to follow a rather large, wide, creek that was pretty much in the middle of the marshland.

At what I thought was a comfortable altitude, I began to follow the serpentine nature of the creek. As I banked left and right following the curves of the creek Jack began to push on the stick and he forced me to fly lower. I began to fight him and was pulling back. He got extremely stern with me and said I better not let go of the control stick. We were slowly going lower and lower with each mile of creek followed, to the point we were barely 20 feet above the water. At 20 feet he let off on the forward pressure and instead used his booming voice to cause me to fly low. However, if I did climb a bit he began again with putting forward pressure on the control stick. At that point I was gripping it as if my life depended upon it, which, in my thoughts it did since I thought we’d crash into the water. We were flying about 100 MPH and with each turn and bank as the creek did its twists and turns Jack told me to be smoother on the flight controls. My dad said the same when he was teaching me to fly. Consequently, in between fighting Jack against his forward push of the control stick I was also verbally fighting him on my left and right banks of the aircraft because I thought I was being smooth in my maneuvering and he said I wasn’t. I was pissed, he was pissed, it was not a fun flight. I thought the man had lost it, I mean I really did.

We fought like this until the creek divided into a couple of tributaries that went in somewhat opposite directions. Jack said to follow the left tributary and climb which I did without hesitation. We flew north, at 1000 feet, and followed the beaches of each respective barrier island until we got to the northern tip of Ocean City whereupon we headed back to Knocky’s and I landed without anymore comment from Attilla the Hun.

From Knocky’s Jack asked me to follow him for a “debrief.”

“Crap,” I thought to myself, here comes another ass chewing.

We wound up at the “Landing Strip” where my cougar crush, Upside Down Norma, was hanging out that evening. At this time in my life I was 18 and allowed into the establishment without help from Jack. Once I my eyes got accustomed to the dark I could discern Norma on center stage, her breasts still defying gravity. Jack handed me a beer when I saddled up next to him since we took separate cars and he beat me to the establishment.

“So Shitbird, have you had enough of low altitude flying?” He asked with a smile on his face.

“Jack, what is your issue?? I mean you scared the hell out of me today. I thought you had a death wish!!” I said with excitement and amazement.

“No, I don’t, but you do. Do you know how many pilots have died buzzing? You don’t have the skill or judgment at this point in your life to fly as low as you did over your high school today. That was dangerous and I hope I taught you a lesson. I know, I know, we flew very low all the way from Marathon to New Jersey, but I know what I’m doing and I was with you when you flew. You don’t have that judgment yet. So, Shitbird, take it easy. Let your dad and me teach you. OK?”

“Yes sir,” I responded with a sigh, as I glanced a look at Norma’s inverted breasts, remembering what Jack said to me in Massachusetts. “How the hell did you know I buzzed the high school so low?” I asked with genuine surprise.

“I was driving down Route 9 (It borders the school grounds) and passing by the high school when you flew right over me. I knew, I mean I knew it was you. You were so low I recognized the aircraft’s numbers. You really are a shitbird. No one with registration numbers that big on their aircraft would fly that low over people. I was going to the airport to pick something up and thought I’d scare the crap out of you. Do you know you could get your license suspended, or revoked for dangerous flying like I saw you doing? If you really want a career in aviation you gotta do better in the future kid.”

“Yes sir,” I answered as Upside Down Norma rolled upright, landed, and walked off the dance floor, throwing me a smile as she left.

After my instrument phase of flying where Jack taught me the ins and outs of flying in the weather and on instruments we began the road to my Commercial Pilot’s License. My father wanted me to learn aerobatics before I got my Commercial License which requires 250 hours in your flight log and another written test.

Yes, there was more of “Upside Down Norma” as Jack helped me study for the written test. By then I was able to drive myself to the “Landing Strip” so I drank much less than when I was his hostage because I was a bit older and wiser and not wanting to get a DWI or hangover.

The flying required for the Commercial is, as you would suspect, more involved than that required for a Private Pilot’s License so when he could Jack taught me the the required maneuvers and I performed the cross country flying by myself. My father insisted that I learn some basic aerobatic flying before I took my Commercial Flight Test and there again Jack was my instructor. Unlike some other phases of flight training, he was never, ever draconian or harsh when teaching me to do loops, aileron/barrel rolls, or spins—and Lord did we spin. We started out with one turn, and then two, and finally we got to where we were doing five and six turns. He wanted me to be to be completely comfortable with spinning and to recognize the instant an aircraft was about to enter a spin and how to immediately prevent it, with minimum altitude loss. His wisdom in teaching me this was heaven sent as three years from then his instruction saved my life.

Another moment of sheer terror when flying with Jack was when he taught me stalls in a Bonanza. He was borrowing the high performance aircraft from a friend and it was the same one we once flew to Alabama. Out of the blue he called me up and said let’s go do some stalls. I was thinking, ” big deal, I’ve stalled a bunch of other aircraft, what’s so important about stalling this one?” No matter he said, let’s go. We had climbed to about 3,000 feet above Wildwood, New Jersey, slightly over the marshes and near where I flew low with him a year before. He says, “OK, dirty the aircraft up, and configure it as if you were about to land and then bring the nose up as if to extend a glide like you were low on a visual glide path to a runway, but don’t add power.” I did as he said and I got the aircraft in the buffet, since it was just starting to stall. As soon as the aircraft started to stall Jack told me to recover. I immediately added all 285 horses of power and instantly the aircraft rolled over going inverted and the nose dropped dramatically. I about crapped. Jack was with me on the controls as soon as we began to roll and helped me to recover right side up without exceeding the aircraft’s gear, flap, and G limits. He said I looked white as a ghost after we got back to straight and level flight.

His point was to show me that with that kind of torque, 285 horses of it, recovering from a stall with the Bonanza was different than with an aircraft with 65 or 100 horsepower which I’d been used to flying. The rudder had to be used with more authority and you had to be slower when feeding in the power, particularly if you were right on the verge of the stall or even stalled. Even the Piper 180 which I flew a lot, the FAA Flying Club Aircraft, was much more docile than that Bonanza. To this day that lesson of Jack’s in the Bonanza is ingrained in my synapses though I’ve never flown a single engine propellor aircraft with that much horsepower again.

As usual, Jack’s style of instruction was so “in your face’, so brutal, yet so well meaning and to the point. He taught me much in our earthly debriefs of our flights together in whatever venue they took place. He was never harsh while teaching me on the ground but always enlightening with a fatherly kind of wisdom and love. Jack’s bipolar nature in the air verses on the ground always kept me on my toes.

Without question the greatest moment of Jack’s and my flying life together came when I was towing banners out of Cape May County Airport, in Rio Grande, New Jersey. It was doing my first season of banner towing and after my freshmen year in college. It was a hot August day and the boys, two other banner pilots, and I had gathered at the windsock of the airport which was in the center of the triangular arranged 3 runways. We had finished banner towing for the afternoon and were just BS’ing about the usual stuff when a FAA Convair 580 landed on runway 19. The runway was 5000 feet long and the aircraft went past us in its landing roll. It then taxied onto the rather large ramp that was just to the south of another east/west runway. The boys and I stood by the windsock, incredulous, as if a UFO had just landed. We then saw the left forward door and airstairs open and then descend to touch the ground. Two “aliens,” one rotund, the other of a slighter build, descended the airstairs and walked towards us. We stared at these aberitions, like deer in the headlights, as these men walked across the runway and kept heading for us. I was wondering if we had violated some FAA Regulation that day and were in trouble. Soon enough though, I saw the two men were my dad and Jack.

They walked up to us and asked what we were doing. I said we had finished towing for the day and were just talking. With that my dad asked us, all three of us, if we wanted to go for a ride in the 580. I couldn’t believe it. In all the years I begged my old man if I could fly with him 99 percent of the time he said no and now he’s landing a 580 where I’m towing banners and asks me if I want to go flying?? Words can’t express my shock and elation.

Walking with my father and Jack, we all climb aboard the 580 with Jack in the right seat and my Dad the left and we took-off. Once airborne my dad asks me if I want to fly. Are you kidding? Again, another heart stopping moment which I never thought I’d experience with my Dad, or Jack. Fly a 580? Hell I’d never flown a twin engined anything at this point and my old man is wanting to know if I wanted to fly a big 580 Convair.

Of course I said yes. With my heart beating a million times a minute Jack climbed out of the right seat and I replaced him. Jack moved to the jumpseat which was between and slightly behind my father and I. My dad had leveled the aircraft off at 2500 feet and had flown to the east of the airport over the marshes,and then headed on a wide downwind for runway 19. He handed the controls to me once I got squared away in the seat, the height and fore/aft distance I was guessing at, since I’d never flown this aircraft. I don’t remember the numbers, airspeed, I was supposed to fly as the old man talked me through it all, all I needed to do was manipulate the control yoke and rudders he said and he’d control the throttles. We did a wide pattern to runway 19 whereupon I performed probably the most horrible approach anyone has ever performed in an aircraft with the exception of crashing; my lord the flight controls on that beast were heavy!! We actually did a touch and go with my father seriously over powering me on the controls almost constantly. After gear and flaps up my dad let one of the other guys fly. We stayed in the pattern until all three of us banner kids did one touch and go whereupon we landed.

After deplaning my colleagues and I profusely thanked my father and Jack for their courage and hospitality in letting us each get a pattern in that most powerful of twin-engined turbine aircraft.

To this day that spontaneous act of kindness shown to me and my fellow banner pilots has never been rivaled, particularly since it was such a big aircraft for my father and Jack to have just dropped in to the airport to just say hello.

However, another much earlier example of Jack’s good nature and generosity was the time I introduced him to a fellow colleague, Jeff, with whom we both had started our first summer of banner towing while I was home from college (Jeff was not one of the other banner pilots on the day we flew the 580). One of the most interesting moments of both Jack’s, Jeff’s, and mine friendship was when Jeff met my dad and Jack. The two (Jack and my father) had already had a few beers when the four of us met at the Rugby Inn.

As the “Hi, ya doin’s” were expressed, Jack in his typical very forthright manner said to Jeff and very loudly I might add, “I know you from somewhere!”

Jeff said, rather sheepishly, “Yeah, I remember you too. I was the guy who borrowed your Luscombe.”

Jack’s eyes got real big, his arms starting flapping and then he said, even louder this time, “Yeah that’s it! Borrowed it my ass, you stole it!”

The rest of the story is this: Jeff was a lineman at the Ocean City Airport and he loved Jack’s Luscombe, so when Jeff got off work one day, he literally untied the aircraft, hand propped it by himself (just like Jack did), and flew it around (he had never flown a Luscombe before this flight); it would not be the last time he took the aircraft for a spin. Every time he landed he parked it in the same tie-down spot and filled it up with fuel equal to what he had used. It took awhile, but Jack began noting certain subtle differences in his aircraft when he went to fly it and eventually caught Jeff in the act of tying it down after a flight. Jack was absolutely furious. Jeff said the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius when it covered Pompeii was probably a mere burp compared to Jack’s emotional display that day. But Jack’s temper quickly died down, and once composed he said to Jeff, “Give me one good reason as to why I shouldn’t call the cops and have you arrested!”

Jeff simply said, “I think your airplane is the neatest one on the airport and the only one I wanted to fly.”

Jack was so taken aback by his answer that they both got in the Luscombe and Jack gave Jeff a proper checkout. Jack said that Jeff was one of the most naturally gifted pilots with whom he had ever flown.

Needless to say, Jack and Jeff had a lot catching up to do that evening and it was so wonderful to step back listen to and watch Jack and Jeff catch up on life and to listen to Jack bring his stories to life.

After college and upon entering the USAF I left home and was stationed out west, flying F-4s. Jack had taken me as far, instructional wise, as he could when I got my Commercial license. I had decided in my senior year of college I wanted to let the military train me further so I joined.

On occasion I was allowed to fly an F-4 back east and of course I headed to Atlantic City Airport, my aviation roots and from where I first began to fly with Jack and my father. Jack would always have a follow-me truck lead me (and my wingman if I had one) to a parking spot on the FAA ramp the wands in the hands of the marshaller being beer bottles—so Jack’esque. My father would be in the Ops building when I arrived in that wonderful Phantom, but Jack, no, he was right there on the ramp greeting me handing me and the lads I was with a beer upon deplaning.

After my last visit in the F-4 in 1987 Jack wrote me the most wonderful of letters. In the letter he told me how much of a wise ass he thought I was when he first met me and how he figured I would fail miserably in life but how much he saw himself in me and wanted to help me become a pilot. He said he was so proud of me when I came to visit in the Phantom and that I had exceeded all of his expectations (and mine!!). He said he considered me a son and that if I ever needed anything, with-in his ability he would be there for me. I had tears streaming from my eyes by the time I finished that letter and yes, he ended it by calling me a Shitbird.

Five years after reading his words and while only in his early 40s Jack had a severe stroke. I was flying F-16s and airliners then and he was such a proud peacock when I went into a pub with him wearing my flight suit after a Viper flight at the local airport. I was devastated. I remember his last words to me in the hospital since he was actually very alert for my visit. From his hospital bed he looked at me and said, “Do you have Jesus?”

I was incredulous. I mean, do you have Jesus? Are you kidding me? This kind of talk coming from a man who, when I was 16, took me regularly to a strip joint, fed me beer (school night or not) and had me analyze Upside Down Norma’s” breast implants and body in general?

Maybe at some point after his and mine regular socializing he received an epiphany from God himself and had re-converged with a faith he so long ago had abandoned, I don’t know. Or, maybe when in the presence of death an angel comes to visit offering you a last chance of salvation. I don’t know what caused Jack to mention the Christian faith to me but on his death bed he floored me with his question.

“Yes, my dear Jack, I know Jesus,” I said solemnly, “It was Jesus, you, and my dad that blessed me with my aviation career.”

Jack passed away the next day. He left behind his wife and two children, John and Brenda.

So many lives did he and I live together, all of it being centered around aircraft. The hot summer nights I spent with him watching Upside Down Norma as he taught me aviation academics or told me some esoteric and funny as hell story. His love of women’s breasts is still etched in my head. His edification of flying smoothly, or at low altitude, and to think well ahead of the aircraft have permanently shaped my flying. His teaching me aerobatics that one day would save my life and cause me to have no fear when flying military aircraft. Or, the time the water pump on my car broke causing my car to overheat on the way to my banner towing job. I called Jack and he came out and helped me take out the broken water pump and put in a new one, all the while my car was parked on the side the road. Jack taught me so much my own father was incapable of. He supplemented some of life’s instructions that my father was too narcissistic or drunk to convey. I loved Jack for what he will always be to me, a gift from God, prozac in the form of a man who came to me when I needed someone like him the most; Jack saved me from myself. I know one day he, Upside Down Norma, and I will be hugging each other in heaven and Jack will be making the angels laugh with his stories. No doubt though, he will still be calling me Shitbird.

COPYRIGHT November, 2021, Roger Johnson

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