Passing Of The Greats:
My old buddy Cal has been dead long enough that
I can tell this story. He was the guy that had at
least a thousand hours of flight time, before I was
able to coax him, kicking and screaming, through
the newly-created RPP in the 1990's.
Cal was not an educated man, but he had mountains
of character and integrity, and was a master craftsman.
The pilgrimage to Oshkosh was made every year, where
he looked (and learned).
He was one of my best friends. He had a homebuilt
supercub on wheels that he built. He then built a second
supercub on floats which was a thing of beauty. But typical
of Cal, he didn't do much paperwork on the second cub.
He took electrical tape and put the same letters on the
side of the second cub as on the first, which had a complete
set of paper. I told him that if they caught him, he would
be strung up by his thumbs for such a serious paperwork
offense. Cal reasonably replied that he could only fly one
airplane at a time.
He was the one with hundreds of hours of solo (mostly, ahem)
flight time on floats. I didn't think getting a float rating was a
big deal (5 hrs back then) but as I said, Cal wasn't real big on
paper. Good stick, though. Not a great stick, but a good stick,
knew his limits, stayed out of trouble, never bent an airplane
and he knew a lot more than I did about flying on skiis.
Cal died a few years back, and when a close friend of mine
passes, I don't like to let the occasion go quietly.
Cal wasn't big on religion, and I knew the preacher was going
to jump in with both feet during the funeral. But I knew what
Cal would like.
It was a crappy day. Low cloud and vis, freezing rain about
but I got up in the Pitts with a similarly insane friend on my
wing. He wanted to lead, but no way.
I had a friend on the ground parked outside the graveyard with
binoculars and an ICOM let me know when the preacher was
about to start yammering. Like I said, Cal wasn't really big
into religion. He flew on sundays, and did his worshipping
in the sky.
But as the preacher stepped up to talk at the grave, my buddy
on the ground called us in, and I circled the grave, putting my
(and my wing's) prop disc right on the hole in the ground that
they were going to put my old buddy Cal. RPM all the way up.
Apparently it was totally deafening on the ground. Some
distance away, my buddy on the ground keyed the mike and
my prop noise was really loud in my headset. Neat.
No one could hear a word the preacher said. Cal would have
like that
I'm sure that I offended all sorts of left-wing twats and tree-
huggers, but oh well. A fitting tribute to my old pal.
A year ago, just off the coast of Key West, saying goodbye to
another old friend, buried at sea.