Rescued?! Who the Hell Wants to Be Rescued?

He came too blearily. This was worse than before. Before he had at least been on his feet, he had at least been mobile. His memory may have been completely fractured but at least there was clarity. Now he just felt groggy, vision blurred, and a throbbing ache at the back of his head. Slowly his senses were coming back, although faded and distant with out real reception. Strangely though, above all else he recognized the bitter taste of gun oil.

Like a flash bulb shattering a dark room his mind caught up, painfully. The voice, the sound of footsteps, the second and third man. Bearded faces. A heavy blackjack, stars...

Voices. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted the decision. A dimly glowing bare bulb hanging from its fraying cord cast long gloomy shadows over the rusting surfaces of the factory floor. He willed his eyes to focus, his mind reeling, torn between slipping back to the safety of unconsciousness or making an effort to determine where he was. He was alone, he hoped. Left and right glances, the fog slowly lifting. Hollow and distance clanks could be heard, the sound of forlorn machinery groaning against age. He was shackled to a metal chair that was strangely bolted to the floor beneath him. "Ok," He said aloud. "Now what?"

As if to answer, thick Russian voices grew closer but strangely muffled. The loud clank of pins sliding and the creak of heavy hinges brought his attention directly to the wall in front of him. As his vision cleared and adjusted for the lack of light he could make out the steel barrier, like a giant bulk head, riveted to girders with a single heavy door. From his rusting gate poured an equal pale gloom to the one above his head, three men stepped out, the same three from before. Two took places at his left and right, their shear bulk made so much more predominant by their heavy winter clothing. The man on his left smiled a crooked, gaping smile, his leather like face drawing to fine lines around his eyes, a long scar running from his forehead parallel to his nose and vanishing in his thick beard. The one on the right was no better only balding, with his scars displayed on across his tattooed hands. What ever was amusing his friend on the other side, he didn't share in the sentiment. No smile graced his lips, only a hard scowl and look of menace flickering behind his eyes. His mouth a razor slit of what could only be furry. In either case, Lefty or Righty as he quickly decided to call them -no formal introduction seemed to be coming- the message was crystal clear. No, they were definitely not here to serve coffee or provide aide. No, they were probably not going to take the shackles off. No, asking wouldn't help much either. Goons, in any language or country are that very thing, goons. Their purpose was intimidation, which was working, or the providers of pain, judging by Righty here, the latter. They simply were not to be reasoned or fucked with.

The scrape of another chair being dropped in front of him refocused his attention to the last man. Thinner than the others, but still as heavily dressed and bearded as Lefty, he plopped down, the back of the chair facing his prisoner. Crossing his arms and leaning forward his removed a pair Ray Bans from his face, his cold hard brown eyes scanning his subject. A smile parted across his perfect teeth.

"Did you really think, honestly, that you could hide even this far away?" His accent a perfect mid-western English. American, couldn't be anything else.

Panic and fear instantly paralyzed him. He didn't have a clue who this man was, or why he was strapped to a immobile chair, or what any of the three wanted but his mind had finally shifted into gear and grasped the situation. No, it was something more that had triggered such a state of shock. That voice, rustic and gruff, resonating want and motive set off a string of alarms in his head. He didn't know how or why, he certainly didn't recognize the man’s face, but the voice was a piercing stiletto that drove home to the fiber of his soul. He recognized it instantly and that recognition meant pain and fear. Sweat began to cross his forehead, his arms and hands becoming slippery.

"You've caused us a great deal of trouble you know. Chasing you across dust bowls and tourist traps back home is one thing, but tracking your ass across half of Europe and in then on to this frigid place, that is altogether a different game isn't it?" He leaned back from the chair, holding a grip on the top, staring at his captive as if debating in his mind the appropriate punishment. "A game you've not played before. Perhaps you're learning faster than thought. Still though, it always ends the same doesn't it?"

He stood and pushed his face closer to his captive, the smell of vodka and frustration on his breath.

"I always win, don't I? No matter what information you grab, no matter where you go, no matter how many others lives you risk, or throw away, I always find you in the end... don't I?"

Ray Bans stepped back and flipped the chair around. Sitting loudly down he sighed, almost disappointingly. Clicking his teeth, he nodded to his assistants. A crashing blow from the left came down directly across his jaw. Explosive waves of pain coursed through his face and down his arms. Before he could rally from the first, another landed squarely from the right. The coppery taste of crimson began to mix with the still lingering flavor of gun oil. Again the left right combination came. Once just didn’t seem to be enough. Ray Ban waved a finger, his companions stepped back, but not outside of reach. A message could still be delivered at command. Ray Ban pulled from his jacket pocket the staged photos and falsified id.

"Interesting name you picked for yourself. Ivan. Can you even ready Cyrillic? Did you pick this to spite me or did you even know what they typed?" He tossed the id at his captives’ feet.
"Great shots by the way, didn't realize you were such the war hero. Is the tank in the back ground real or some paper mache joke?" Another flick of the wrist, the photos tossed next to the id. "What am I to do with you?"

The sweat still trickled down his back and arms, despite the cold air around him. He could feel it gathering around his wrists where the shackles clasped the U shaped rings. He was still petrified, gripped completely in fear and shock but somewhere in the furthest recesses of his mind, those not knocked silly from his new best friends, a plan subconsciously started taking action. Without commanding them to do so, he felt his wrist slowly, impossibly start to turn. Ray Bans stood and waved is hands, both index fingers coming to a point. Lefty and Righty gripped their captive, roughly one holding his shoulders, the other holding his head. From his waist, Ray Bad produced a silver pistol, an old 1911 automatic and shoved the barrel to his captive’s lips pressing them to his front teeth. He fought at first but a twist of the shoulder from his tormentors momentarily opened his mouth in a cry of grief. These giants who were so adamant about his lack of mobility must have easily pulled tree stumps by hand in a past life. His shoulder aching however became less important than the weapon now boring its way to his esophagus, the source of the familiar taste now found.

Ray Ban smiled ear to ear, his thumb drawing back the hammer of the silver weapon, it's pearl gripes gleaming. Mechanically it clicked, past the half cocked position, ever so slowly down to full and locked. It wouldn't take any effort at this point. An easy squeeze on the trigger, tripping the sear, would release the hammer, striking the firing pin, igniting the primer, burning the powder and pouring the conical hollow slug down the short barrel into the cavity of his skull, his eyes were wide, a strange mix of panic and odd acceptance of his fate.

"You are very, very lucky you know." Ray Ban spoke the words calmly, flatly as if delivering a eulogy.

He pulled the trigger.
The click was almost deafening.
"Somebody still wants you alive."

Cold, And Winter

"Damn does it ever stop snowing?"

The wind raked him again, the heavy coat doing little to stop it. Dark streets of midnight St Petersburg, what the hell was he doing here. No rubles, few dollars American, a fake Russian Id and forged war photo's, created in the back stage of an old abandoned theater, convincing at first glance but ridiculous to the scrutinizing eye, his clothes dirty from fleeing and the heavy wool coat, all he had in his possession.

"Damn what am I doing here? Damn Damn"

The fake id and photos still warm from creation were merely hours old, he didn't even speak Russian! Who were these supposed to convince? Avoiding at all cost anyone who asked questions was the only smart plan he could come up with. It was the only plan period he could come up with. All he could remember, the only though that occupied his mind to shear blindness revolved entirely around that back stage and it's dimly lit room in the wings.

"What was her name?"

He whispered to himself out loud, not intentionally as his mind raced the phrases simply fell out in the open. Dangerous probably, alone at this hour in the middle of a city that would suspect his actions. Americans don't travel at night, alone, poorly dressed for the winter, gloveless and muttering to themselves. What little attention was to be drawn was most likely focused his way and not in his best interest. Eyes from windows were watching.

"What was her name? Did I even know it?"

That forlorn stage, that thick Russian accent, she must have been the only person thus far that he had met who even spoke English, and what a beautiful sound it had been. What little he remembered before stumbling to that place, led by a complete stranger who was either sympathetic to his plight, or leading a lost lamb to an easy slaughter, was that of haze, tattered clothing and a fist full of money that he had no idea how it had come to his pockets. What he did remember apart from the whirl wind of flashes of photo bulbs, props and grungy costuming to sell his part as war fighter, were the piercing blue eyes.

Several shots, the mechanical click of the camera and old film plates being slid from the archaic camera frame, the smoke from the photographers hand rolled cigarette, the pounding of Cyrillic keys on the aging type writer, chemical developers, she spoke to him.

"Here" as she forced a clear bottle in his hands. "Will keep you warm."

The dark sultry voice, echoing in his head. Flashes of memory eluded him. The numbing effect of the alcohol, he froze in his tracks, cobble stones under his boots. "What happened next?" His eyes held wide, the fear of a fractured memory creeping in, grow worse. "Damn!"

Cloudy and slowly, it came. Like the smoke that lingered in the room long after the papers and photos where placed in his hand, the image came. Wantingly he almost begged for a clear view and vividly it came to answer his call. She sat atop him, stretched across his back on the hard wood floor, her clothes piled loosely near the fading curtain. How white her skin was. Flawless and soft, it almost glowed in stark contrast to the surrounding dark. She moved against him, pressing her body against his chest and whispering softly but cunningly into his ear.

"Twelve hundred" she pressed into his lobe. Holding herself as if to fight off the very cold that strangled the rest of the world. "Twelve hundred for all. Id's and photo's. Yes?" Almost playfully the words rolled from her tongue. Not even the sound of breathing could be distinguished from her accented grin. "You want to escape alive don't you?" eyes flashing a hint of deception.

He watched her, looking down her spine, the white, so unusually bright and yet so cold, her black hair cut short further confusing the skin tone and blurring the lines of what was and what was not before him. How much vodka had he swallowed? Was there even any left in the bottle? He watched her eyes flash, knowing that trust was something he was in short supply of and surviving would be more satisfying than knowing what was going on, damn the facts. That was then. That was before the door had closed and the aimless shuffle against the wind began.

"How much for it all?" His eyes just as darkly reveling his intent, after all, considering the circumstances, what else to do with a nude woman sitting so coyly across him?

"For you, fifteen hundred, all American"
With two in his pocket, why resist?

The cold swarmed him. What happened after only his imagination would be left to construct on its own. He remembered the white skin, blue eyes and dark hair. What more was necessary, save for directions? "God what is going on?"

He stumbled on blindly, was there even an embassy in this city? He could only hope. Ever more talking to himself and growing louder, unaware of the footsteps and eyes, closing. Perhaps he should have been more careful.

Find a gate, find a way out. Find a train. Anything. Thoughts raced through his head. "Speak to no one. No one at all."

"Not even to me?"

He turned. No voice he had recognized, gruff and stern.

"What the hell happened?"

One those days.

It's an odd feeling when everything starts to catch up. Laundry, dirty car, destroyed apartment, dust, work, sleep (the demand for and not receiving) Something within you begins to rebel. Begins to seethe. Begins to twitch. On a day to day, this happens to everyone. Trouble is, the relief system. Everyone has methods of zoning out, reaching Zen, blowing off steam and stabilizing before acting on such impulses as painting the far wall with the contents of the lottery ladies skull from the local quickie mart. Arguably, at least here such an argument will be made, this is defying a subtle yet necessary natural instinct to weed out from the heard the generally useless. For more than a few thousand years now, man has been slowly carving or modifying this instinct out of his day to day operation, slowly allowing the truly stupid o flourish completely unchecked. This has more than likely resulted an a -less than desirable gene pool- shallow stagnant and screaming for more than a chlorine rinse, an entire flush and drain is actually more in order but the very device that would have otherwise allowed for this has been completely numbed and subdued. Changed from an ax swinging blunt force solution to a mere grind of the teeth, we all, each and every, wait perpetually in line for the hopeless case in front of us. Shedding food stamps for cigarettes and playing the same loosing numbers as they've clung to for untold years, they prowl. Or in the same spirit of useless, the fat man at the burger bar, ordering one of everything followed by a "diet" whatever as if the absence of sugar were any hope at all for saving his lard ass from the imminent heart attack, lurking the shadows of clogged arteries overburdened with excessive blood pressure . We have endured, and coddled these people for far to long. It's either time to start loading some guns or exporting the stupid to a far away country....one with closed borders and a F.E.M.A outpost.

Once the case was made that such folks were needed, the stupid were necessary to carry out the remainder of the jobs that normal or intelligent people were unwilling to do. However to counter this, I submit that the immigrant population into our country, illegal or otherwise, have gladly picked up that torch, which by the way was dropped from the fat stubby fingers of the last cretin, and run like INS and hell were right behind them. Frankly, despite all the politicized bullshit associated with it, I truly believe that if you've come up with a clever way getting into this nation AND found a way to avoid taxation till death all the while benefiting from lazy or over burdened white people, then WELL DONE. You've found a niche and a way to actually produce in life, the same way those who never leave the trailer park or can spell the word career never will or could. I'll gladly make a trade, those who want to work in this nation for those who don't. Each can exchange to the others country. I give the trailer park community a week before they all kill each other with a lack of gun control or social norms to keep them all in check.

Anything it takes get the damn lottery lady out of my way.
Anything it takes to get that fat asshole out of the drive thru.

KW

RUN, DAMN YOU!

It happens. We get comfortable in our surroundings, our routines become set, we adapt and settle in. Complacency, much like an unchecked vine, creeps in slowly weaving in between the edges, deep into the cracks, ever bonding us to our own conclusions and small windows of the world. Cushions on a couch we’re all snuggled into. There’s nothing wrong it, to some degree it’s a natural thing. Many chalk it up as the career, the spouse, the home, the two point five, the white picket fence and the golden retriever happily waiting, slobbering on an old worn out tennis ball at the gate or drive way for the chance to play. For most people, not only is his normal, it’s a goal. Something to be obtained even against the most impossible or improbable odds, man’s hand extends out to grab this as his own. Who cares in the long run if it matters, if it’s even remembered, its stable and that’s what most people yearn for anyway, stability. Amidst the perceived chaos of jobs and life, which in itself isn’t all that chaotic and can be relatively predicted, kids grow up, go to college repeat what they’ve learned from the previous dreams of yester years generations, you grow old and hopefully not alone, the cycle carries on all the while we convince our self via stress and concern that the stability is the norm we seek and so love. Time rolls on but I’ve gotten off point. That grip, that vine, which binds us so warmly…comfortably, the boat that carries us across the ocean of time and life, safe and sound, with little to worry or care or want for…some of us are busy supercharging the engine! Some of us are busy drilling holes in the hull. Some of us are having fun, remembering that man never accomplished much by sitting in the cave throwing rocks at the sun at dawn to ward off its evil bronzing spirits, nor did we ever win any wars by smoking dope and not taking showers. Some of us are cutting the vines, tearing down the walls, feeding the dog chocolate, setting the couch on fire or seeking other chair like alternatives, living fast on an insane blend of adrenaline, caffeine, rock music, destroyed bank accounts and unadulterated (and sometimes adulterated) pure fun… AND WE’RE DAMNED DETERMINED TO TAKE YOU ALL WITH US!

Sit down. This is going be interesting.

Aches Pains and Lessons Learned

After spending six months cramped in, out, upside down and sideways around a cockpit while hauling fuel hoses, dealing with Jet setters, in house politics and the stirrings of a potential stalker(Someone else, not you Em), it occurred to me that somewhere through the duration I picked up about five pounds that I didn't previously have, nor wanted. So tonight, after such a long absence of physical effort (at least in the fitness effort direction, all other physical efforts have been purely aircraft related) I've restarted a running routine. Eight laps around an empty flight line during the last hour of slavery when the winds are calm, the sky is wide open, and no one is flying or taxing in. Between myself and whom ever the second man is, we have the terminal building and our attached ramp to ourselves. Time to put it to good use. (I'm sore as hell right now, complacency hurts)

Running has always been a good escape for me and these days it's a welcome stress relief. Although this is the beginning night of this new effort, I had previously spend months in the gym, right up till the point when the project got under way. When the work started on the Cessna, the work on my body (and the cancellation of the gym membership) came to a close. Now that she's nearing her completion I can shift focus slightly. Back to the point about stress though. I'm no where near where I wanted to be in my aviation life as I had planned. By now, I had pictured myself at the very least behind the column of a KingAir, building time and paying off loans. If not there, at the controls perhaps of a Canadian RJ. In either case, twas not to be, at least not now at this point. On the positive side, despite my delays I do, and can, claim two points that a great deal of established jet jocks, much to my own surprise, can not boast to.


One: I own, not rent, split, fractionally share, or finance my own Aircraft. This very point in and of its self at my age and place in aviation is practically unheard of and I am eternally greatfull for this fact. Many pages could be written about the pure potential that ownership implies. I'll write that book later, something along the title lines of "Luck, Looks and Pistol Whippings: How to own you're own Airplane and make it in Aviation without owing your soul to VISA"

Two: I am not burdened down with debt in any form. The majority of young pilots my age, flying any given aircraft at this very moment are strapped for amounts that can range between a few thousand dollars, or (and in the case of a good friend I have here at Lakeland) close too 200,000 plus, tack on interest and you can imagine why so many starting pilots out there are not the happiest of individuals. Trying extending the college roommate experience and live off Ramen noodles a few extra years and you get the idea. And we're all working toward the same goals. Paying jobs. Paying jobs in the field we love, that we are so dedicated to that we are willing to sacrifice relationships...close friends...family...financial stability and uncertainty for years to come...and time in order to obtain. Time is something that every pilot always wants more of. More time to practice important flight maneuvers. More time to dedicate to cross country flights. More time to be inked into the all important log books. Time. Ever single second, even to the most minute click of a stop watch hand or roll of a digital display, in the air, every sweat earned chronological moment counts. Within aviation two roads can be taken to take yourself to the coveted position of Captain, in any airframe, for any company. One route, and the one more vastly popular as the demand for pilots comes to a fevered pitch, is through academy or flight school training. Although quick, and known for producing quality pilots (in most cases) it's also the biggest pitfall. Debt, debt, and more debt will be accrued. The for mentioned friend I have, will start his new life (a change over to Air Traffic Control even after obtainment of every rating save for ATP) at a six figure average. Sounds promising. Factor in his debt plus interest and even if he can dedicate 10K per year to the sum total, he won't be free and clear till some time around twenty years down the road. Twenty years, he's already 28. So at the grand close of 50ish, he'll break even, without an aircraft and will probably float a mortgage from that point forward. By comparison, having no debt, minus the cost of ownership, I will take a longer road to arrive at the same place in ratings, but I will not fret the next twenty years while my eyes get worse, my joints stiffen, and arthritis slowly begins its creep toward my hands. No, I will be much better off. The punchline is the same either way, academy grad or self propelled student, the only thing that counts is the time in the logbook. Doesn't matter if it comes from dropping skydivers, or flying sims for countless months, the only thing that matters is how much time is in that little back log book.

My greatest problem at this stage in the game is my growing impatiences. Even with all the knowledge , all the numbers and all the fingers pointing in the same correct direction (stay out of debt), I still grind my teeth to think that although close to complete, my bird is still on the ground. Something I'll have to work on. Not one to end on a down note however (ask Mozart about his popularity for doing that) I will smile and convey to you, dear reader, that interesting things lie ahead for me at Lakeland Airport. Some I can speak of, some I've been asked to remain quizzically silent on until the time is proper. (It's amazing how flustered some people can get over silence and a smile)


Of that I can speak of, Lakeland is receiving a new flight school. Appropriately enough this is the same flight school from which I bough my now loved Cessna. Leading Edge is coming to Landmark. The new school will feature training and sales of Cirrus SR22's (realistically no basic flight student could ever afford one but it's nice to learn in a glass cockpit) In a surprising conversation had with owner, who's branching out from his home airport at Vandenberg, I've been asked in no uncertain terms if I would like to join the team once I have my CFI and commercial tickets in hand. To say that this is exciting would merely expose an iceberg tip of the growing feeling (and shameless smile) I harbor just below he surface. A paid (well paid I might add) flight instructor position is something I've had my sights set on since I stepped foot on the tarmac here. Motivation to get my training back in high gear. I've already re-cracked the IFR books and have the other Gleims manuals on order. The cute, curly blond with bright eyes who's transferring over from V-town, doesn't hurt the freshly added fuel to the fire either. Here's to steep climbs and hard banks. Never could I be having more fun. :)

KW

Next episode: T-hanger rent, grass runways and how to, and not to, land a tail dragger.

Sun N Fun, Frustration and Falling Short

After two solid days of sanding the right wing to the point of grinding away my finger prints (BTW now would be a great time to rob a bank I think) and adding up the sum total of the remaining things to be done to bring Checkers back to flying status, I've come to the regretful and sigh inducing conclusion that due to work and the lack of available time to dedicate to the project I will not b making the debut for Sun N Fun. To some degree this is heart breaking, culminating seven months of effort to fall just oh so tragically short. The bird will no doubt be in the sky by the end of April, nothing a good two week of solid full time effort could produce but with the insanity that becomes my place of work during Sun N Fun, and the complete unpredictability of a schedule, it's simply too much for one man to do. The A&P who's over my shoulder on this one is just as swamped as he works a the same place as I. So each day I progress a step further, less added pressure now without a deadline looming.


KW

Cessna 150 Rebirth

Getting Closer.














Ready For White.















Ready for Registration Number
















Ready for Display. (Note: That's not me in the photo's, that would be the grand master mechanic/renaissance original.)
















Next Steps: Wings, Tail feathers, and interior. Getting Damn Close Folks.

KW

RED!

Although she appears a little orange, I assure you, it's the camera settings. She's Red. White to follow, N number in Black, red outline.

He's Still Alive!

Fuselage: Ready for Paint

Control surface refurbishment: Complete

Landing Gear: Complete and installed

Interior: Boxed and ready to install

Avionics: Gauges refurbished and ready for installation
Radios tested and ready for installation
RNAV gauges calibrated and ready for installation
Transponder/encoder calibrated and ready for installation

Wings: On standby for paint shop. Next to be completed.


Countdown to Final assembly begins.
ETA: 4 weeks to first test flight.
...Here we go ;)

KW

Merry Christmas/ Happy Hanaku...Jewmas (whatever you guys celebrate) Happy Kawanza, or Hooraa (no idea what you guys do)

Happy Holidays everyone, yep Still Alive!

Congratulations Ash and Mark, hope she's as cute as you are.


No, I wasn't on the stick in this one ;)


For those curious, the little 150 (Checkers) has her landing gear finished and installed, new tires, and intertubes, new door plexi (windows), new wheel bearings, and a complete avionics package (IFR steam gauges) waiting to be installed. (Bought for 300 smackers/pistol whippings. Why won't the bank tellers just listen and put the money in the damn bag...amateurs.)

KW

Shine On

For everyone...

As some of you may or may not have noticed the number of posts have significantly dropped off during the course of this past year, partially due to unreliable internet access, partially due to lack of time on my part. So with that being said, it's with a slow and reluctant had that I type this post.

With the added pressure to return to Kentucky for Uncle Sam, and the demands that the project are tolling, splitting time with work and worry, I've determined that making any progressive entries here is just something that's not as feasible as I would like. So I'm temporarily putting a halt to it, instead of letting it hang in the foreground incomplete. The Cessna project carries on of course, and I've more than a few hundred photo's of work completed so far, far too many to start posting with any negotiable story line. Add into the fact that I'm in a time and place where not much is really happening, I've grand ideas that I'm slowly working on getting off the ground but for the most part they're all in development and won't really come to term immediately. So with that, I kindly tip my hat to everyone who kept up with this BLOG. When the plane (Whom I've named Checkers as a tip off to the paint scheme I'm going with) is complete I will start my ramblings again. Cross country adventures with lessons learned from instructing when that chapter starts in my life. Not too distant future mind you, I'm not sitting on my hands down here.

So till then, may everyone's landings be soft and gentle (commercial air or GA) and never mind the large red blinking light on the instrument panel, probably an electrical fluke somewhere.

KW

P.S If there have been no signs of life to this Blog by January '08 someone come down here to Florida and find out what happened to me.

Contact at WhiteKennethE@gmail.com
AIM: AirTransRecon

Fabulous New Jersey.

Yep...there's nothing to see or do here.

KW

Current Photos

As Promised, progress so far.



Shiny from Tip to Tail



Pilots side, before removal and reconstruction



After extensive cleaning and re-assembly. Note the lack of 30 year old hydro jello in the hull. Co-Pilot side


Pilot's side after.

Plenty more where these came from, i's just a pain to upload them to Blogger. Stay tuned.

KW

UPDATES FOR ALL...someone for one or another

A quick up to speed fill in, since I've been busy/sick/working and haven't been able to keep anyone up to date on the project. Where's the chicken soup man?

The first actual, functional, MOVING (without binding cracking, or causing the comical total collapse of the aircraft) parts have been refurbished and installed. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the rudder pedals....(sounds of crickets)

Ok, nothing spectacular but bear in mind this is probably the most difficult assembly to remove, tear down, clean, sand, paint, semi-reassemble, install, remove, correct small issues and reinstall again of the whole aircraft. This is however a turning point as it marks the end of tearing the plane down and signifies the resurrection has begun. I can't begin to tell you the amount of grim and crude that was removed after 30 years of abuse, but the interior is all shiny bare clean metal, a significant swap from the state it was in when I got her. Pictures to follow shortly, next up is stripping the cowling and tail control surfaces. Working on a paint scheme to follow. Think I've got a named worked up as well.

A note for Ash, the only person from my past who keeps up with this scribbling, Yep I fully intend to put myself inside and go flying in this thing. Yourself and Mark of course can have a ride anytime you like.
(Trust me I'd never get this bird off the ground if the FAA really REALLY didn't think it could fly.)

KW

Ladies and Jiggle Fish

(If you get the title reference you've just earned ten coolness points)

May I present for the world's eyes to see, one and all, CESSNA C-150M from way back in 1977....N103LE.

Along with her sister ship 707NC, an even more ripely aged gal from the 70's A CESSNA C-150L (For sale upon completion, with low time 0-200A)

After a disappointing trip to the hills of Tennessee, topped off with questionable driving directions, I returned to Florida empty handed as far as aircraft were concerned. Little did I know that forces were at work in places that probably should not be seen anyway (never mind the man behind the curtain, this guy shouldn't be exposed to the general public at all, curtain or otherwise) and not one but TWO intact, supposedly flyable aircraft had been tracked down, looked over and bought more or less with thin the same three hour span by someone who I had expected to sit back and laugh at my efforts rather than pitching in, my own father. On the contrary the Old Timer pulled out a win from seemingly nowhere...then promptly handed me the bill for both aircraft...ahh the catch.

After recuperating next to an attractive yet heavy handed nurse, a deal was struck between the two parties involved (myself, Hereafter referred to as Aircraft Monkey, and Dad hereafter known as The guy holding the Cash and the Keys) that delivers a complete aircraft to my person, loaded with avionics of my choice (especially since I'm paying for them anyway) for the penance of completing both and selling the other. Still don't know what I've actually gotten myself into, but the short version of the long story is that at 25, I have my own aircraft to do with what I please.

So far, after about a weeks worth of effort I'm removed the interior entirely from 103 including the instruments, rudder pedals and bars (no easy task there) all plastics and anything not riveted to the frame. Just finished cleaning off what little corrosion could be found inside the fuselage and removed the hydraulic fluid that had pooled over the years in the floor boards. Interesting tenancy I've discovered, Hydro fluid degrades into a substance not unlike Jello after a few years exposed to heat and air. Edibility on the other hand is questionable but if you've a sibling or a roommate with a pet you don't particularly care for I suggest giving them a sample first before any experimentation of your own. Remember 9-1-1 is the stateside emergency number, you may want to contact your lawyer as well...just in case.

Stay tuned for more, updates to follow next Tuesday. Along with progress photos. Yes I did get her with wings and tail feathers before anyone asks.

And if someone can tell me where to find carpet patterns for these birds, as well as a headliners and landing gear coverings, I'd be in your debt.

KW

One Step Forward....

Slight change of plans. Somewhere in the last two weeks I've been talked into an idea that was initially my own quite some time ago but because of the nature of the other parties mind and it's particular quirks of operation, didn't come to full realization until recently.

So let the show begin. This coming Monday I'm loading up in the ze ol' Prelude and heading North to investigate throughly two potential purchases that could make my flying life a little bit easier. Through alot of drinking and web searching (with supportive late night drinking) I've located two OLD school Cessna 150's from the early days of mid 50's and 60's aviation. Tre Cool Oui?

One of these aircraft is challenged to say the least. If a metaphor could be conjured to represent the humorous yet tragic life this poor old testimate to small aircraft has had it would best be put as a retarded monkey hurled from the tree by it's other jolly primate friends anxious to protect the species. That's not to say the little machine doesn't have potential, it's just in really, REALLY bad shape. Flipped over in a storm, both wings are essentially scrap metal. The fuselage is intact for the most part, and includes a supposedly working engine. It would be a monster under taking, includes a distinct lack of instruments, and would demand my utmost attention every waking day if I have any chance of getting it air worthy in the next six months. Not likely the case I'm afraid.

The other, and much improved, aircraft is of the 66 vintage and is described as not needing alot of attention. Some wing damage on both sides but nothing as severe as a flip from a wind storm. Paints shot, engine is in pieces and according o the owners, "She's not really seen the light a day fer 'bout ten year now" PERFECT. It's at least been in some sort of structure and out of the elements. The wings have been taken off and stored at another location but it sounds as if a restoration wouldn't be a monumental effort. No engine (not assembled anyway), but instruments in the panel. At least one step in the right direction.

SO, on this road trip I will seek, I will explore, I will bring a digi-cam and get as much info on these wayward birds as I can. Divert to Louisville eventually and find center with my closest's and if one of these little beasties comes through in spades and I decide to tackle my own aircraft, this blog will become a running journal of the progress made in addition to my stream of clever and wise-assed-ness.

If it all falls through though....gone. ATP academy, without looking back.

Coin is in the air...what will it be?

KW

ALRIGHT, JUST WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

Day in the life of a Line guy at *insert company name here as not to be sued*

5:00 am: Crawl from bed, half awake, wondering what that damn noise is and why the sun isn't illuminating the world as its contracted to do. Contemplate calling in (even though no one is on station to pick up the phone) and blowing off the day to fly the coast line of Florida, pay extortion like prices for bad breakfast and lunch later but enjoy every second of it.

5:15 am: Slam the alarm clock again and repeat the above steps. Add to list critical decision point: Price of AVGAS vs. current bank account. Grit teeth, head to shower, go to work.

6:00 am: Meet disgruntled flight crew at front door, stranded from the night before. Demanding as much coffee as you also need in order to function. Weigh options of vacating again in exchange for day of flying.

6:20 am: Fellow gas monkey arrives 20 minutes late, believes nothing is wrong with this. Sump storage tanks, note 2 or more gallons of water in Jet Fuel tank 3 from thunderstorm the night before. Think nothing of this as Jet Engines are known to run on crude oil if heated properly. Decide to not tell the flight crew from earlier this fact. Continue sumping, lawsuits are not fun, nor is being bought and sold for cigarettes and the local penitentiary.

6:30 am: Complete sumps, begin paperwork

8:00 am: Complete paperwork, file paperwork, loose paperwork, hand deliver paperwork to abandoned file cabinet, backlogged 1964. Suggest a new filing system to fellow gas monkey. Abandon idea as realization that more paperwork would be involved in order to start a new system...only to be more confusing than the last. Question ethics of current management and consider implications of accusing *insert company name here* of harsh work environment. Reason: One and a half hours wasted on paperwork, cruelty.

9:00 am (Weekends) Begin the mass Gen Aviation landings for the local restaurant. Spend the next few hours on the ramp, marshalling, fueling, remarshing, ducking, refueling, running, hiding, praying that the "international" flight student doesn't kill you with his Cessna 150 via his taxi skills (or lack there of), fueling, swearing at the aviation gods, contemplate RAMP CLOSED sign at the Taxi entrance, neglect to tell tower of this plan, giggle at the ensuing pile up/confusion. Instruct next three arrivals on which airport has the REALLY cheap gas, prominently display wrong name on work shirt that you stole from another fuel monkey earlier in the week. Return to line office, hide in small corner, study for IFR written.

11:00 am: See above, only in reverse for breakfast club departures. Prepare for inbound lunch fliers looking for the $100 burger. Remind yourself that as a pilot, you could be doing the same thing, only at another airport. Graciously accept the one dollar tip from the pilot who almost killed you and the entire FBO weekend crew by fast taxing himself inches from the fuel truck "to make it easier on you guys when you top off my bird." Question the current FAA training standards. Blow tip on Rolaids from vending machine.

12:00 pm: Check schedule in-between arrivals to note who to call at end of shift for being late. (Plan on it happening) Note the unexplained change that has you working a double on Sunday. Also note lack of managers to justify this small detail. Cancel afternoon flight plans. Swear again at Aviation Gods.

12:00 pm: Receive phone call from slacker line monkey (ironically the one from which the afore mentioned shirt was stolen) informing you that he's not coming in and that you're now a solo act till 10pm. Demand head on platter, contents of wallet, first born and keys to his car. Make mental note to run him down with lawn mower barrowed from airport maintenance. Reluctantly call in back up monkey, prepare to endure tales of other *insert FBO name here* adventures where life was better, only dealt with jet aircraft, high fashion models and *baking soda* shipments. Question ethics of management again, question character of back up monkey.

1:00 pm Remember that the rest of the day will be low and slow, slack off on the computer, surf Sporty's pilot shop online, cruise eBay looking for Citizen aviation watch, also look for anti aircraft cannon for ultra light/cirrus defense. (F&#KING cirrus pilots....) Laugh at "international" flight students attempt at radio work, hide in line office to avoid being run over by 150 that's better placed in local airport bone yard.

Remember, YOU'RE a pilot first, a line guy second and despite your education; you've no problem living off Ramen noodles if you get to fly the rest of your life.

...Chicken and beef are the best flavors.

Contact local avionics shops and offer to fly for food/hours, no matter how questionable the airframe is.

The War's not over, but one battle may be won.

From the AOPA website.

The House got it right; an FAA funding bill that would modernize the air traffic control system, increase airport funding, and do it all within the existing tax structure. And no ATC user fees!

"The leadership of the House Transportation and Infrastructure Committee and aviation subcommittee refused to be bullied by the airlines or accept the FAA's claims of poverty," said AOPA President Phil Boyer. "They took a reasoned, rational look at what needed to be done and how to pay for it, and delivered a solution that promotes the interests of all segments of aviation.

"We will ask AOPA members to let their congressional representatives know that we support the FAA Reauthorization Act of 2007 (H.R.2881)," Boyer said. "And we thank Transportation Committee Chairman Jim Oberstar (D-Minn.), aviation subcommittee Chairman Jerry Costello (D-Ill.), and ranking members John Mica (R-Fla.) and Thomas Petri (R-Wis.) for their vision in crafting this bipartisan bill that would ensure America's air transportation system remains the best in the world."

Working within the existing funding structure of aviation fuel taxes and passenger ticket taxes, the bipartisan House bill would provide historic funding levels for the FAA over the next four years.

The long and short of it...

More money to the right places, no user fees, and the airline has to tow their own damn rope as they should.

The downside...
AVGAS taxes will increase, but that's almost a promised event in any government action. It's a small victory for now, but the bill must still be passed. Here's hoping.

KW

AND SO IT BEGINS

In the world of politics (as well as the world of war) the game is is played and won not by the total destruction of you enemy but instead, by the submission and subjegation of your enemy.

In aviation the battlefields are the airports and airspace, the tactics and weapons, user fees and taxation. And the Air Transport Association has opened with intersting first strike in the open public realm. This slick add has been making apperances across CNN and a few other news organizations. It's cartoony and caters to the un-informed which is a very dangerous thing. If I can't post it here you can find it on YouTube.com

...actually there isn't much you can't see on YouTube come to think of it.

To counter, AOPA has returned fire with their own commercial (which has yet to appear on YouTube oddly) outlining the reality of air traffic delays. It's not slick or cartoony, but instead straight forward and to the point. Link goodness

Between these two commercials and the growing support in both directions, it seems that aviation is getting poised to become a rather heated issue in the not too distant future. Honestly it feels like I'm watchig two presidential campaigns gearing up to slug it out based on the amount of effort that's been placed on these ads. Stay tuned kids, electees come and go, but this will effect flying forever.

KW

WHERE THE DEVIL HAVE YOU BEEN!!!!

Hard to believe that a month has more or less vanished since I added any inspiring, yet authentically questionable, words to this blog-o-mine. What have I been doing, where have I been, who's shooting at me, and just what the hell is going on here are all questions I've been rolling around in my own head. So anything that you've got, take a number and have a seat I'll get to your concerns when I figure it out for myself.

The last few weeks have been an adventure. Beyond scoring my pilot's license and having a damn good time on clear days, I've been traveling a great deal but more by roads than by air. Something that I've learned is that if you have a pilot's license a 14 hour drive that was already a soul crushing mindless zig-zag of highways becomes an absolute teeth grinding annoyance when you're forced by weather to long haul it from Florida to Kentucky via the great Yankee conduit that is I-75. Alas though because I am a patriot (despite the fact that the Republican party considers me otherwise because I register Independent, part of that “with us or against us mentality”...idiots) I returned to Louisville to do my duty for country and what's his name, that one dude, God or something, and continue my growing legacy with the 123 Airlift Wing...while also having a ridiculously good time with friends and family that I left behind some time ago. My two weeks spent back in the town I love was conveniently scheduled during the greatest horse racing event in the country, the Kentucky Derby! (Crafty planner I am!)

If you've never been to the Derby or experienced Louisville the week NAY the month leading up to the race then you, my friend, have no idea what kind of place that city really is when it turns on. Between the Pegasus Parade, the Air Show, Thunder over Louisville, The Great Bed Races (don't ask, I still haven’t figured out what it has to do with the event either) The Great Steam Boat race, the fashion that appears everywhere, concerts downtown, the food and multitude of festivities that can be found from block to another, a better time in another city, save for Marti Gras in New Orleans, is a hard thing to locate. The alcohol flows just as freely. If I didn't have friends and family in the Derby City I would still go there just for this event alone.

Speaking of friends and family, I spent this particular trip visiting previously unexplored areas of Louisville that before I would have simply avoided. In my adventures I got to meet a few amazing people, including the guys from the bands that played the Rudyard Kipling till dawn. It was 80’s night at my arrival but despite my lack of tight rolled jeans or custom fit vest complete with funky hair, I managed to fit in nicely anyway. Thanks to Lillyanna for inviting me out and showing me exactly how Old Louisville gets things done. In addition to hoping from place to place, including café 360, as well as the old watering holes down Bardstown road (Oshea’s, Flanagan’s, Molly’s respectively) I also spent a great deal of time with Aaron Mitchell, Jamie, and the rest of the house crew a mere block and a half away from the Downs. During our Derby Party/Cinqo De Mayo celebration I bartended for the back porch event, and raked in more than Aaron and crew spent on the supplies. Job well done, free alcohols to the bar keep, and thank you Jenny G for a solid night of festivities/distraction.

Words will never do the Derby justice, it's something must be experienced first hand. Find a friend who loves Horse gambling and get your asses to Churchill on the first Saturday next may. Actually, get there a week ahead of time, shell out for a room at the Galt house (yes you will pay through the nose for this and I recommend getting a reservation two years ago) and just enjoy the town I love so much. You won't be disappointed.

Off To The Race! For the first time I placed bets on a slew of contenders for the run for the roses. Two of them actually came through in spades. I've had a feeling that a change of luck was forth coming; especially after picking up my wings, this little bonus added to it that much more. It's going to be a good year.

On the Florida front, half the damn state, as well as half the damn state of Georgia has gone up in a plume of smoke and ash. Because I had to drive to Louisville it stands to reason that the return trip was also made via four wheeled transport and driving through the smoke and fire was interesting to say the least. Not quite apocalyptic but add a cast of pissed off natives with tattoos and piercings and Mel Gibson might have a run for his money. (Actually does deliverance count if you add smoke, fire and a different language?) Definitely reduced visibility, even on the ground I could barely see beyond a 1/4 mile. Flying through it would have simply been impossible on my current rating and even a tried a true IFR (instrument Flight Ref for those non aviators) jockey would have turned around before even getting close. Clogged engines and air filters do not good flying make. At one point, while passing again through the great yankee conduit, I passed several signs warning of fire and smoke, traffic detours ahead and finally the end all that I didn’t want, I-75 ahead was closed to all traffic from I-10 south. Plot a course and divert and back through Tallahassee I drove and on to Lakeland via crossroads. Eerie is the only word I can conjure to summarize that leg of the trip. Zero visibility, ash, smoke and the smell of pine trees roasting. Even after a rain shower passed through , conditions had not changed. Very glad I didn't have to fly through it.

Pre-Derby news, the Sun-N-Fun event passed while this page sat idle. What a treat that turned out to be, especially being an insider who's also in good graces with the board of directors or the event. Open pass to anything and everything, free demo flights and the watchful guide from a good friend who's leading me through the steps of self made employment. After Sun-N-Fun this year I stumbled onto several ideas that could improve not only the fly-in, but the general well being of aviation all together. Some are specific to Lakeland; some are wide range that could be very profitable. Dominos are already being lined up and it’s just a matter of time before I set things into motion. Champagne and Caviar? Not likely, but a step in the right direction towards my own cargo line. My brother and I were also requested, by name, to fly in the Cessna fly-by showcase this year using both our 172 and 150 Cessna’s. This marks the 80th year of the company's existence and a fitting tribute was made with a twenty plane fly by consisting of as many production and military Cessna representations that could be mustered, including the Bamboo Bomber. Guy and myself flew in positions five and seven behind a 140 and a “Birddog”. Nice highlight for the log book and to be asked to jump in with so little solo time following my license speaks alot about how the board of directors feels about my abilities as a pilot as well as an asset to the event. Yes, it's going to be a good year.

To wrap it up, this blog will go to a once a week updated basis, simply for the practice more than anything else, and ultimately a running commentary on the up and coming battle for the future of General Aviation. During the fly-in I became a member of AOPA (Aircraft Owners and Pilot's Association) for the sole purpose of getting into the fight against the Proposed "Next Generation Air Transportation System Financing Reform Act." To me as well as thousands of others I imagine the fight is personal. We've all come this far to be Pilot's and we will all be damned before someone else tries to restrict us even further from the thing we love most in this world. This is not Europe; I will not fly by their rules. In addition this blog will be a place to throw out directions and suggestions for a product I hope to swing to market in the not so distant future. Till then, cheers and happy landings, I'm off to the Airport.

KW