I was back in the air in forty minutes climbing through the fog. I climbed above it and saw mountains to the left and nothing but a white blanket to the right and ahead. This was boring flying, nothing really to look at except the line of mountains to the left, just keep her headed in the right direction and follow the mountains south.
The important thing in this kind of flying is to keep checking your instruments. With no real reference, it is easy to let the plane drift. In clouds it is even worse. A pilot can put a plane in a diving bank and not even know it until he impacts the ground. That’s what JFK Jr. did, flew his plane right into the ocean, controlled flight into terrain is what the NTSB investigators call it. Stupidity is what other pilots call it hoping they never make that kind of mistake.
I realized at some point that I was back over Canada. I began to think about all of the countries I had touched or flown over on this trip. How many? Canada, first. Then Greenland, Iceland, Ireland, England, Spain, France, Italy. I’d have to sit down afterwards and count. I started to see the fog break up and bits of green show through.
The weather really broke up about Victoria. Off to the left I could see the island and the city. Across the bay was Vancouver. Both cities looked beautiful and I decided my next trip would be back up this way. I was thinking about turning left and stopping right now, but my bed was calling me, home.
I looked ahead and kept going. My path kept me off the coast for a long time. I crossed the coast in Oregon and flew over southwest Oregon. This was back in home country. I flew up to Ashland several times a year to see plays at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Having been to Broadway several times and the Oregon festival many times I can truthfully say that I think the Ashland festival does a better job most of the time than Broadway. If you want to see first rate theatre in a beautiful setting, go to Ashland.
Now, I had familiar mountains as signposts. Ahead, I could see Shasta, a volcano that juts straight up from the valley to 14,000 feet. They are all sorts of wackos who think it is the center of some sort of energy fields and they take their crystals and dance around in the moonlight and crap like that. But looking at the immense majesty of that mountain dominating everything around it, you do feel like there is more to it than just rocks.
The mountains fell away and I was back over the central valley. It stretched away for 600 miles. I would be home in less than an hour the computer said. My mind began to wander, recalling the things that I had seen and experienced on this trip: Lilja, what would I do about her, the terror and triumph in the Indian Ocean, the masses of people in India and the girls, my mistake in Thailand and lucky landing and the pretty Thai girls, little Karen in Australia and her hero’s reward, the flame out in the middle of the Pacific, the rat bastard in the Philippines, and the school girls prostitutes of Japan. It had been quite a trip, for good and bad.
I circled a little to the east to avoid the airspace around Sacramento’s main airport and descended into my airport where I had started over a month before. I called in and began final. Off to the left was home. I waved as I went by thinking of my bed. The wheels chirped as I touched down and I was filled with relief. I had done it. As I taxied to my hanger, I checked my log book. I had flown 119 hours and twenty-six minutes and 27,185 nautical miles.
A month after I got home, a letter showed up from Iceland. My hands were shaking as I opened it. My heart skipped a beat when I saw it was from Lilja. She was writing to tell me she had met a nice fellow. She thanked me for giving her first plane ride and would always remember me. But her boyfriend was a little bit the jealous type and maybe it wouldn't be a good idea for me to write. It was a very nice sunny letter and it devastated me. Well, I always was fairly sure she was flat out too beautiful for a guy like me. Like the man says, it's nice to look at a Mazerati but at night you feel better climbing in your Pontiac for the drive home. Lilja was a Mazerati all right. So much for long distance love...
I toured the air shows with my Corsair, always a highlight of the show. I was a bit of a celebrity having flown it around the world. I was at the Oshkosh show the next year when a fellow walked up. I saw him take out a pencil flashlight and inspect the gun ports. He looked under at the belly of the plane. He seemed entirely too interested.
“Hello.” I said.
He straightened, “Hello. Roger Smythe-Hyde,” he introduced himself with a British accent. I shook his hand. “I’m with Jane’s.”
For the uninitiated, Jane’s publishes books on all of the world’s Armies, Navies, and Air Forces. The antenna quivered. “How can I help you?”
He looked at the cowling, saw the pirate flag and said, “Rather unusual decoration.”
“I’m a Tampa Bay fan,” I said.
He looked at me quizzically.
“Football. American football team.”
He smiled, “Yes, well. There is a rather unusual story that has been circulating in a very small sphere. The story runs that an old World War Two Corsair stumbled on the Somali pirates last year and helped out a vessel under attack. He was short on fuel and had to do an emergency landing on a carrier, the Kitty Hawk supposedly. Seems then, that the Admiral talked the pilot into helping out. They loaded GBU’s onto his plane and he sank three pirate ships, putting the buggers out of business. I have found out through other sources that the pirates took rather a beating last year.” He glanced at the Pirates below the cockpit. “Rather unusual decoration. Seems they called this fellow the Lone Ranger because he carried out these missions alone.” He looked deliberately at the cowling, with its script, Lone Ranger.
“Never heard of such a story,” I said. “And there are a whole lot of problems with your story. This plane couldn’t carry a modern bomb, let alone guide it. It doesn’t have the proper electronics to even arm one. Plus, they are the wrong shape and size. And last,” I said pointing to the wings, “All of the bombing hardware has been removed. I’m pretty certain a Corsair could never carry modern bombs. Maybe if they dug up some old world war two bombs, but who would be crazy enough to put unstable bombs on their plane?”
“Yes, there are some issues, aren’t there? But you do have guns on board. Rather unusual. If I was to publish…”
“If you mentioned my name, you’d be in court defending against libel, in Britain. They have rather stricter libel laws than we do here, don’t they? Unless you can show how this plane could drop a GBU you’d better have a good attorney,” I said.
He looked back at the undercarriage and shook his head. “Some would consider you a hero,” he said.
“Me? What for? I haven’t done anything,” I said.
He looked at me hoping for a reaction. I simply returned his look. “Yes, well,” he said looking at the pirate again. “I hate unanswered questions. It is such a good story, too. Good day.” He walked off.
The damn limey bastard must have talked to others though. For the next two days I had a parade of people coming by to stare at the pirate flag and the Lone Ranger. I noticed that the insiders on the circuit treated me differently. No one said anything, but I knew that there was a rumor running around. Everywhere I went there was always a group who would come by and look at the pirate and give me an appraising look. I also had trouble buying a beer, not that I minded. I was only asked twice directly about the story, denying it both times.
I was bummed for a while after that letter from Lilja. But the images from the trip kept coming back. I started thinking about doing it again. One thing I would do different would be allowing time. I realized I hardly remembered parts of the trip near the end. Taiwan, Bali, Alaska all seemed to run together. I would need to spend more down time and allow myself to catch up.
I’m seriously thinking about trying another round the world trip. There are still lots of places I didn’t see the first time. I sure know the places to avoid the next time. I think I’ll try the southern route next. The trip across the Atlantic, Brazil to Sierra Leone, is 1,581 miles. Lots of allied planes made that trip as well to the fighting in North Africa or Italy. On the way south I could see the Incan ruins, pop over the Andes and see the Amazon. Then go across Africa. I’d avoid the Philippines this time, that’s for sure. I'm not sure I was avoiding Iceland but the thought of that stop, well, I just didn't want to go that Northern route again.
There’s a world full of beautiful cities filled with beautiful women and I want to see them all. I'll make sure I have plenty of time this time.
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