7SW (Seven Sierra Whiskey) IV

Continued from previous post. (Some people, including my wife and Cedarglen, are impatient with this story and want me to wrap it up.)

Nah.

On Monday I got edgy and texted Dave in Alaska asking him if he had presented the check to the widow. The very act of texting or e-mailing Dave is an anxious endeavor, as he usually only responds once a week and sometimes ignores your question, preferring rather to tell you about something totally unrelated that has caught his fancy. But that time I got lucky. His immediate answer: “I’m having lunch with her now. She says thanks and she hopes you enjoy the plane. I’ll put the BOS [bill-of-sale] in the mail to you today.”

Whew! Unbelievably relieved feeling. The plane was finally mine. But there were more annoying details to attend. My check pilot was also the air park’s administrator. He e-mailed and said I would need to send him a certificate of insurance before I could operate the plane at the private air park. Did it.

I then took off for a Sao Paulo trip and on the layover my mechanic dropped an e-mail bomb. He was available only for Monday and would have to leave town after that for another job. I e-mailed back: “We’ve got to finish that inspection Monday. If we don’t, no other mechanic will pick up where you left off. They will all insist on a completely new inspection. I’ve got no plan B.”

This news troubled me all the way back from the deep South. The potential for a colossal goat rope to develop was looming. I needed everything to go perfect to make this work.

I knew I would return from Sao Paulo on Saturday morning at 5am. The company was obligated to give me 24 hours off after the international trip, so I would not be eligible to fly until 5am Sunday morning. Fat chance they would give me a 1-day trip Sunday.

Wrong again.

Saturday afternoon I got assigned a run from Houston to LAX on Sunday with a deadhead back to home base. This spoiled my plans to arrive at Dave’s at a comfortable hour Sunday afternoon and rest up for Monday. I bolted from the deadhead and caught a Southwest flight to Tucson, arriving at 7pm. Dave, having arrived home from his Alaska fishing trip, picked me up and told me he would be extremely busy at the office the next few days. He would lend me a spare truck and open the hangar. The rest was up to me. We dined on Moose roast Sunday night and drank Moose Drool beer. I don't like Moose Drool beer, but I bragged on it to please my hosts. (Dave and Marsha do not follow Decision Height, so I think I'm safe.)

Monday morning the mechanic, Mark, showed up right on time. His first words were, “We’ll get this done today. Even if I discover some minor items that can be corrected later, I’ll still sign it off and trust you to take care of them.” I liked him instantly.

I set out doing everything Mark asked me—taking off inspection panels, removing seats, wheel fairings, prop spinner and anything else he needed done to stay ahead of his inspection. Along the way I learned some interesting things about Mark that increased my trust in him and convinced me I had stumbled on the right guy for this job. He was a third generation aircraft mechanic. He lived on a dirt airstrip north of where we were—not nearly as nice an air park as Dave’s. Most of the residents at his air park lived in double-wides, as did he. But he was happy with that. He owned two airplanes, one a twin. I like it when my mechanic is also a pilot. But he was much more.

Mark had retired as a USAF tech sergeant at nearby Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. That was the same base I was stationed at decades ago when I was flying A-7s. He was a C-130 flight engineer. Then after his retirement he went to work as an independent aircraft mechanic, but he also took a part time job with a company that flew civilian C-130s. One

Civil registry C-130

day the company boss said, “Mark, you’re an experienced C-130 flight engineer and mechanic, and you’re a licensed multi-engine pilot. How would you like to get a type-rating in the C-130 and eventually fly as a captain for us?”

Wow! How many people get such an opportunity? I’d say there are only a handful of pilots in the entire world who have C-130 type-ratings and never flew one as a military pilot. Mark jumped at the opportunity. His most memorable mission: Flying the C-130 on search patterns for debris from the Space Shuttle Columbia disaster. So, now his company needed him Tuesday to fly a C-130 mission for the Marine Corps at Yuma. Now I understood. Now I trusted him even more. We worked like mad men for 12 hours, with a short lunch break. He knew his stuff.

Soon I pointed out the “rocket rod” tailwheel assembly and told him about what the other two pilots had recommended—that I get rid of it. He had no opinion on that but said we could do it if I had the parts. I presented him with the parts Karl had mailed to me. Immediately there was a problem. The tailwheel turning fork had only one arm. I needed two arms to match the original installation. He straightened and looked at me. “How long will it take you to get that part?” I shrugged, knowing it would be 2-3 days at the quickest. “Well,” he said, sighing, “what do you want to do?” I stared at it for a while, and finally said, let’s keep it on and see what happens. 

Mark thoroughly went over the RV and gave me some important pointers in taking care of it. At 7pm he declared the RV airworthy and signed the logs. I paid him and went to Dave’s for Moose fajitas and the last of Dave’s Moose Drool stash.

I went to bed exhausted thinking about all there was to do tomorrow: check out in the plane, fly it to Ryan Field for its pitot-static check (what if it failed and needed more work?), and then practice, practice, practice landings in the desert crosswinds. My "check pilot" only had an hour to spend with me. I would quickly find myself solo and was more than a little apprehensive about tomorrow’s checkout with the tailwheel, the crosswinds, and the dreaded rocket rod assembly. The thought of damaging the plane nearly nauseated me. Thankfully I was so tired I didn’t dwell on it much and drifted to sleep.

(Stay tuned.) 

A&P mechanic Mark checks out the RV-6

The 6 gets its pitot-static system check

7SW (Seven Sierra Whiskey) III

(Continued from last post)

We had just leveled off at our first planned altitude of FL 280. As we burned down fuel we would incrementally increase our altitude up to FL 360 (with of course the permission of whichever controlling sector we were in). We had just bade sweet dreams to the relief pilot, who went back to take the first break. With the 767 pointed south and Sao Paulo 9 ½ hours in our future, I got out my company I-Pad to read up on the latest changes to the “pubs” (publications). 

When the I-Pad fired-up, a picture of my hoped-for RV-6 burst onto the screen. As soon as I wiped it away and opened the content locker, Wes, the guy in the right seat said, “Wait! What was that plane on your I-Pad?”

“It’s a Van’s RV-6. Familiar with it?”

Wes nodded and said, “Some. Tell me about it.”

I told him all I knew about the RV-6, which wasn’t really much, and went into detail about the trials and challenges I was going through to get it. He nodded and kept quiet, but intently listened. I didn’t know that he was reeling me in like trophy fish.

Wes was actually older than me—unusual for a first officer. He was due to retire in a few months. A retired USAF colonel, he had joined the airline 14 years ago after a zipping career flying F-16s and as a T-38 instructor pilot.

When I finished telling him all I knew about the “Six” he came clean. Wes was a nationally recognized RV expert. He had built several RVs, the models 4, 6, 7 and 8. He had even built for others. He presently owned an RV-8, which is a

RV-8

fighter-like tandem cockpit model. Such was his expertise on the RV line of aircraft that he owned a business selling DVDs that showcased his RV building and operating techniques.

Wow! I had hit the jackpot. I had so many questions to ask him I wasn’t sure the long flight down to GRU and back, and the 36 hour layover, contained enough time for them. Wes was delighted to be paired with a captain who shared his interest and he dove into the guts of RV ownership. Like a hungry dog I devoured every word.

I handed my I-Pad over to him and he began scrolling through the pics I had taken on my first trip to Tucson to see the plane. He bragged on its clean, sleek appearance, but then I cringed when he uttered, “Uh oh!”

He pointed to the tail wheel assembly. “You’ve got a rocket rod. Get rid of that before you fly it!”

“Rocket rod?” I said. “What’s that?”

The rocket rod was a modification to the original design. Wes

went into a long discourse. “The closest time in my entire career that I came to crashing was flying an RV with that modification. It’s a bear to land the plane in a stiff crosswind with that.” He looked over at me. “Get rid of it. Get some original tail wheel parts from Van’s. Take them with you to Tucson and change them out.”

I was astounded. What if I had never met Wes? Would I have been flying a booby-trapped plane? I made plans to get the parts and took in all Wes had to say.

Fast forward a week. I’m sitting in the pilot lounge when an old friend, an ex-Navy Hornet driver named Karl drops by. Karl is in the process of building an RV-8. He asks to see my pictures and I open the I-Pad. He grins. “Beau-ti-ful!” he says. Congrats! You’re gonna love that!” Then he frowns. “Uh oh! You’ve got a rocket rod! I’d get rid of that.”

Karl reiterates what I already had been told and offers me a spare set of chains and springs to make the conversion back to the original design. I gratefully accept and he sends them to me in a few days.

Meanwhile, after calling a number of A&Ps in Tucson (licensed airframe & powerplant mechanics) I finally got a lead on one who could do the job. His fee was $500. But his experience with experimental aircraft was limited. At that point I was desperate for help. I booked him for July 8^th. Hopefully, he could complete the inspection that day, sign the plane off, and I could arrange to fly with an instructor (or at least someone familiar with the plane) the next day.

My luck with that search was good. I connected with Phil, an Alaskan Airlines pilot who lived on the same airfield that Dave was on and owned an RV-6A. The difference was, his had a nosewheel rather than a tailwheel, but he explained that he had much experience in tailwheel aircraft and, for $50/hour he would check me out in my RV.

Whenever I thought about it, the words “my RV” seemed fleeting. It wasn’t my RV yet. I had only told an implusive, unpredictable, eccentric woman that I would buy it as soon as I got the cash together, and even then I had spoken through a third party (Dave). That’s all I had! I really didn’t have a plane at all. I feared I was chasing the wild goose, or maybe even a pig in a poke.

When I wasn’t thinking about that, I was pondering the tailwheel situation. I had not flown a tailwheel plane in years. I knew they were squirrelly and hard to handle. I remembered the embarrassing time I was checking out in the Mississippi Civil Air Patrol’s O-1 Bird Dog.

The O-1 is a Viet Nam era forward air controller plane with a

 

O-1 (USAF), L-19 (Army) "Bird Dog"

tailwheel. My instructor in the back seat weighed nearly 300 pounds. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t land that airplane. Every time the tailwheel touched down hell broke loose. We swerved side to side, each swerve getting more violent than the first until the speed got low enough to bring it under control.

We went over to Jackson’s big airport to practice, where the runways were long and wide. With a crosswind blowing and the big man in back I precisely flared the Bird Dog to a gentle 3-point landing, at which the world outside the windshield went dizzily wild. The control tower, hangars and passenger terminal whirled so violently it all blurred. The left wing went down dangerously close to the tarmac and the plane pivoted around its left landing gear 360 degrees or more before coming to a wing-rocking stop.

We both sat there trembling when the control tower came on the radio and in a calm voice said, “Bet that was a fun ride!”

I never did check out in that Bird Dog. My instructor was just too heavy. His weight moved the center-of-gravity so far aft that controlling the plane would have been a challenge for the most experienced combat veteran O-1 pilot.

Think about it this way: Ever pushed a tricycle backwards? (Think, single wheel in back, like a tailwheel plane.) It goes anywhere but where you want it to go. But push it frontwards (single wheel in front, a la nosewheel aircraft), it glides smoothly straight ahead because the center-of-gravity is forward of the main wheels, not aft. Despite its inherent unsteadiness on the ground the tailwheel airplane is still popular because it looks sleek and is generally faster because a nosewheel does not stick down into the wind.

All this weighed on my mind as I made more arrangements. The plane needed a pitot-static re-certification. Several shops in Tucson can do this but the one I wanted, recommended to me by Phil, (owned by a guy named Juan) was the cheapest ($295) and wouldn’t return my calls. I needed to schedule the check on July 9^th after I had (hopefully) gotten familiar enough with the plane to fly it over to Ryan Field where Juan did business.

But at least I was making progress. The loan came through and I rushed to the bank to get a cashier’s check made out to the widow. I downloaded and printed a standard aircraft bill-of-sale and filled it out. It only needed her signature. I called Dave in Alaska. He said, “Express mail it immediately.” 

I went to the post office and paid for “next day” service. The postal clerk looked at the address. Delta Junction, Alaska. “It’ll be Monday before it gets there,” he said. (It was Wednesday.)

“But what about next day?” I demanded.

He chuckled and shrugged. “It’s Alaska, man!”

I texted Dave, knowing that while he was hunting or fishing he rarely tended e-mail or texting, but the response was quick. “Perfect! I’ll be back in town Monday. I’ll go see her then.”

I just hoped she would still be there.

(Continued next post) 

 

Many times on this quest I considered giving up and buying a boat.

But looking at this picture of 7SW sitting in Dave’s hangar waiting

for a new owner to rescue her from her loneliness reinvigorated me.

7SW (Seven Sierra Whiskey) II

(Continued from previous post)

When I got back from Buenos Aires I found an e-mail waiting from the guy in Atlanta. The Grumman had sold. That was a disappointment but no surprise. The same day another e-mail came from Dave in Tucson. The widow came off $5K from her price on the RV-6. Was I still interested?

This seemed the signal I was waiting for to pull the trigger, but I spent another few days pondering and canvassing the airplane market. I finally leveled the question at Eleanor that I had been avoiding all winter. “Do you want me to have another plane, or not?” She said yes, but—

But, she was afraid. George’s death was still fresh with both of us. It had hit closer to home than the loss of any of my many friends that crashes had taken. Still, she gave me the nod, and I called Dave. I wanted to go to Tucson right away and work with a local mechanic to get the plane’s inspection done. But Dave dealt my new-found enthusiasm for the plane a quick blow. He said that wouldn’t work until sometime in July (this was April). He needed to be there when I came, but he had trips abroad planned for business and pleasure.

I soon found out that the delay was exactly what I needed. It would take weeks to prepare for my trip to Tucson to fetch the plane. A mechanic needed to be lined-up to do the inspection. Same for a check pilot to help me get familiar with the plane. An avionics shop needed to be found to re-certify the pitot-static system. New parts needed to be ordered and sent to Dave’s place. The Garmin’s database needed updating. I needed to read up on the plane’s systems and equipment. There wouldn’t be time for that when I got there. And then there was the problem of actually buying the plane.

I paid my hundred bucks to a title agency and received the plane’s documents. The title was clean. It had two owners since its builder custom-built it for the first one. I tried to contact the builder. I had questions. But I couldn’t find him. Yet what was I going to ask him anyway? “Did you build that plane right?” “Did you take any shortcuts?” “Is it safe?” I realized I already knew his answers so I gave up on trying to find him.

Next was the problem of dealing with the widow. Dave knew her. He told me she was a nice person but impulsive and unpredictable. I worried about sending her a big bank check (she lived in Alaska) and hoping she would respond by sending me a bill-of-sale. It didn’t seem like a good way to do business. I called the title agency back and asked if they could arrange the deal using a safe escrow account. Sure, they could do that, for the tidy sum of $6,000. No way.

I pondered going to Alaska to see the lady face-to-face and make the exchange. Eleanor wisely suggested I let Dave do it, since he was already in Alaska fishing. Dave agreed, but he said I needed to send him the check fast because the woman was preparing to move back to the lower 48.

I wasn’t ready yet. I was financing the plane partially with a home equity loan and was waiting for that to come through. Plus I was having other problems.

I wanted to find an EAA “Tech Counselor” (TC) in Tucson who was familiar with RV aircraft to go over the plane with me when I got there. To find one, I e-mailed groups in Arizona asking for names. I got back a list and some personal recommendations. I began calling down the list. One by one, all the TCs got crossed off. It seems most of them were “Snowbirds.” They had gone back east for the summer. The others either did not want to do the job for various reasons, or didn’t return my calls. After a frustrating two weeks of this, I felt very alone with the little “6” sitting in the corner of Dave’s big hangar. July was approaching. I didn’t have the check ready. The woman was about to leave Alaska. I had made no progress in finding help with the plane in Tucson. The summer thunderstorm weather across Texas was setting in.

I was pondering all this during yet another trip into the Deep South when a source of both encouragement and troubling news unexpectedly emerged right across the Boeing 767’s cockpit from me.

 Sitting in this:

 Daydreaming about this:

What sense does it make?