The Pilot's Shoes(Michael D. Warner) THE PILOT’S SHOES
By Michael D. Warner

Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Warner all rights reserved


The Boss’s son was going to learn to fly. His dad, a former captain with Capitol Airways, had started a large aircraft charter company based in Washington, .D.C. with a subsidiary maintenance base and flight school located on Jacksonville, Florida‘s Imeson Airport. This was in the mid-1960’s and business had become brisk.

The nation was rife with anti-war protests, with the burning down of East L.A., parts of Newark, St. Louis and other American cities. Musically, the British Invasion was ongoing, Beatles, Stones, Dave Clark Five and many other bands. They chartered large airplanes to haul themselves, their equipment and their crews, touring all over the U.S.

I had been on my first flight-instructing job for about six months flying from a small airport just west of the city when I was offered a job as ground instructor to run the company’s aviation ground school. It was an immediate $100 per month raise from my ex-employer’s $400 per month salary. You can bet, I was ecstatic! Only a couple weeks passed until I was reassigned as flight instructor at the same rate of pay.

We were a couple weeks into Spring and the early Tuesday morning air mass, smooth as glass, provided. perfect flight instruction weather. I tossed down a remaining gulp of warm coffee, shoved a worn Jacksonville Sectional chart into my hip pocket, and strode outside to meet my newest student already standing beside the Cessna 150 trainer parked fifty yards away on the tie-down ramp.

Approaching the small ship, I looked him over: Large fellow, maybe six-foot three, well built, large hands and feet. Not a long-hair hippie type. I guessed him to be in his early twenties.

“Mornin’,” I said. “I’m Mike. You must be Gary..”

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.” His expression was a bit, er, snooty I finally decided. And he left no doubt that he was the boss’s son. “I’d like to work out over Fernandina,” he advised. “Want to check out the beach crowd.”

Whoa! I wasn’t ready for a student to tell me where he wanted to go flying

“We‘ll see,” I finally replied. “Maybe if we have time..”

He said nothing and turned to open the door.

“Don‘t get in, yet,” I ordered. “We’re going to start by pre-flighting our ship.”

I began the walk-around exterior inspection, explaining about checking fuel levels and draining the tanks and the gascolator to eliminate any condensed water that may have accumulated and checking for low air pressure in the tires, nose gear strut and other important items.

So far, so good, I thought to myself as I went through engine starting procedure and demonstrated how to move ahead, turn using the rudder pedals and braking. But, as soon as his fourteen triple-E shoes moved up to the rudder pedals, we came to a screeching halt!

“Easy on the brakes, Pal,” I cautioned. “Just use a bit of toe pressure when you want to stop.” Over noise in the cockpit I didn’t make out his grumbled reply.

This student was ham-handed and didn’t seem to be able to grasp the concept of coordination of the flight controls at all. Well anyway, I thought, on this introduction to flight I would just cut him some slack.

Alas, the next flight and the next were not much better. This morning, we were at three-thousand feet just inland from the beach. I suddenly had an idea. “I’ve got it!” I shouted and grabbed the flight controls. I executed a steep descending left hand turn to level out on downwind leg for runway 17 at the small air strip below.

“Out of the plane,” I ordered.

Gary looked somewhat miffed. “Now what?”

“Take off your shoes. Toss them in the back. “We are going to begin coordinating those controls.”

I thought he looked a bit unhappy but I didn’t care. If my boss had wanted me to baby his son, I guess he should have told me. Now, somehow with his shoes off he seemed quite a bit less arrogant.

Ten minutes later, I found myself congratulating the young man on his newly mastered coordination of the flight controls. We made rapid progress after that. Each day, before climbing aboard Gary would pull off his shoes, toss them into the back, shrug his shoulders and actually smile at me.

“Just our little secret,” I promised.

Gary went on to obtain his license, passing his flight test with flying colors. Just afterward, he joined the U.S. Marine Corps. After completing basic training at Parris Island, he returned to inform me: “Mike, I am now a trained killer!”

He also let me know that if anyone, anyone at all, ever leaned on me to let him know and he would “..take care of it.” I smiled. I guess I had made a good friend.

We parted ways. Years later, when I looked up his dad, now retired, my old boss told me Gary was flying Lockheed L-1011’s for an air carrier. And, you know, every time I see one passing over, I watch it for a moment and wonder: “Is that captain flying in his stocking feet?”


THE END

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