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Authors: Stephen Coonts
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whole square mile is paved. I went out there last year for a look-see during a Pensacola visit and was stunned to see the abandoned hangars and the empty parking mats with weeds growing up through the cracks. Today from the air we can’t see the weeds.
Approach gives us a right base approach to runway 16 at Pensacola Regional. We swoop in and I manage a beautiful landing, the main wheels kissing just an instant before the tail. One of the old hands at the St. Francis fly-in recommended this as his preferred technique, but I can rarely do it this well. More practice—I need more practice.
We park at the FBO and fuel the plane with the help of two college students who are in awe of the big biplane. They provide rags for me to wipe the oil off the front of the fuselage and a screwdriver for David and me to remove the hubcaps so we can get at the inflation valves on the main tires. David has been complaining that the right main tire is low, and he is right. It has about ten pounds of air in it. After some sweating on the hot concrete, we manage to get the hub plates off both wheels and fill them to 35 PSI.
With the job done he tells me that my shirt is filthy with oil and sweat. I wipe my oily, greasy hands on my jeans and use a sleeve to swab my forehead. Then I grin at him. One of the first lessons I learned in this town is that flying is a sweaty business not for the fastidious. That is one of the things I like about it.
Inside the FBO the desk lady makes phone calls to every rental car agency in town and informs us there are no wheels to be had. A big whing-ding of World War II vets is down at the civic center. Then she tries the hotels. The civic center Hilton is full, but on her third call she finds us a room at a Holiday Inn at one of the malls.
The motel even sends a van, which turns out to be driven by a college student who tells us he is going to move to Denver. He’s been all over the east coast, he says, and is ready for The West. I nod my understanding. I joined the Navy to get out of West Virginia, so I know how he feels. The worst mistake a young person can make is to whittle down his dreams to fit the size of his hometown.
After a dip in the motel pool, David and I trot across the parking lot to the mall and take in Robin Hood with Kevin Costner. The previews of coming attractions give me a jolt. Sandwiched in between the trailers on a Danny DeVito comedy and a cop shoot-’em-up is a farce about naval aviation. The logo is a direct rip-off of the Flight of the Intruder movie triangle artwork, which was taken directly from the Vietnam-era Intruder patches that still adorn the leather flight jackets of A-6 pilots and bombardiers. Did my book start this? I sigh as I listen to this Pensacola Navy crowd guffaw at the foolishness on the screen.
That evening before bed I remembered Bill Butterworth’s remark about how much he enjoyed the big publishing blowout in New York, and I recalled the one I got invited to several years ago. It was Doubleday’s ninetieth anniversary party and they held it in the ballroom of a swanky hotel on Fifth Avenue, just north of the southeast corner of Central Park. I wore one of my Denver oil-company-lawyer suits and my best tie.
All of Doubleday’s heavy hitters were there. The booze was free and there were bushels of shrimp and crab legs and even caviar. I didn’t know a soul except Nancy Evans, who was then the president of Doubleday, and David Gernert, my editor. Of course they knew everybody and had to mix and mingle.
I got a double scotch since the price was right and sat on one of the railings overlooking the entrance. I was perched there when Bill Cosby arrived in a blue jogging suit, two-piece. Must have set him back at least fifty bucks, but what the hey, he could afford it. He looked at me and I looked at him and then he recognized somebody and started talking to them. I spotted a woman with a truly awesome cleavage and started staring.
Then Jackie Onassis,
Approach gives us a right base approach to runway 16 at Pensacola Regional. We swoop in and I manage a beautiful landing, the main wheels kissing just an instant before the tail. One of the old hands at the St. Francis fly-in recommended this as his preferred technique, but I can rarely do it this well. More practice—I need more practice.
We park at the FBO and fuel the plane with the help of two college students who are in awe of the big biplane. They provide rags for me to wipe the oil off the front of the fuselage and a screwdriver for David and me to remove the hubcaps so we can get at the inflation valves on the main tires. David has been complaining that the right main tire is low, and he is right. It has about ten pounds of air in it. After some sweating on the hot concrete, we manage to get the hub plates off both wheels and fill them to 35 PSI.
With the job done he tells me that my shirt is filthy with oil and sweat. I wipe my oily, greasy hands on my jeans and use a sleeve to swab my forehead. Then I grin at him. One of the first lessons I learned in this town is that flying is a sweaty business not for the fastidious. That is one of the things I like about it.
Inside the FBO the desk lady makes phone calls to every rental car agency in town and informs us there are no wheels to be had. A big whing-ding of World War II vets is down at the civic center. Then she tries the hotels. The civic center Hilton is full, but on her third call she finds us a room at a Holiday Inn at one of the malls.
The motel even sends a van, which turns out to be driven by a college student who tells us he is going to move to Denver. He’s been all over the east coast, he says, and is ready for The West. I nod my understanding. I joined the Navy to get out of West Virginia, so I know how he feels. The worst mistake a young person can make is to whittle down his dreams to fit the size of his hometown.
After a dip in the motel pool, David and I trot across the parking lot to the mall and take in Robin Hood with Kevin Costner. The previews of coming attractions give me a jolt. Sandwiched in between the trailers on a Danny DeVito comedy and a cop shoot-’em-up is a farce about naval aviation. The logo is a direct rip-off of the Flight of the Intruder movie triangle artwork, which was taken directly from the Vietnam-era Intruder patches that still adorn the leather flight jackets of A-6 pilots and bombardiers. Did my book start this? I sigh as I listen to this Pensacola Navy crowd guffaw at the foolishness on the screen.
That evening before bed I remembered Bill Butterworth’s remark about how much he enjoyed the big publishing blowout in New York, and I recalled the one I got invited to several years ago. It was Doubleday’s ninetieth anniversary party and they held it in the ballroom of a swanky hotel on Fifth Avenue, just north of the southeast corner of Central Park. I wore one of my Denver oil-company-lawyer suits and my best tie.
All of Doubleday’s heavy hitters were there. The booze was free and there were bushels of shrimp and crab legs and even caviar. I didn’t know a soul except Nancy Evans, who was then the president of Doubleday, and David Gernert, my editor. Of course they knew everybody and had to mix and mingle.
I got a double scotch since the price was right and sat on one of the railings overlooking the entrance. I was perched there when Bill Cosby arrived in a blue jogging suit, two-piece. Must have set him back at least fifty bucks, but what the hey, he could afford it. He looked at me and I looked at him and then he recognized somebody and started talking to them. I spotted a woman with a truly awesome cleavage and started staring.
Then Jackie Onassis,
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