It happens each month like clockwork. Nope, I’m not talking about the normal ills of being a (greying) whisker shy of seven decades of sunrises. Nor am I speaking of “old friends” like the aches and pains that come with moving too fast, or midnight bladder runs, since that thing called “middle age” hit like a tsunami.  No, I am speaking of something that comes with the regularity of the tax man; the monthly publication of my union magazine (yes, even retired pelicans continue to receive it). The “Air Line Pilot” magazine’s ability to track one is legendary, almost mystical, for after several cross-country moves with no effort to update my address, it still inhabits my mailbox on a regular basis. I am quite certain that after the wizards at the Witness Protection Program erase you from all memory, the ALPA gnomes will locate you, and the magazine will show up just as it did the month before (when you were an actual person).

Regardless, it magically appears and is mostly filled with articles regarding airline safety, various FAA issues, new technology on the horizon, and information regarding the various ongoing contract negotiations within the industry. All those are fine and dandy, and mildly interesting to a retired pilot. Still, within the slick, glossy pages of this periodical, there remains one section that I (and most of my contemporaries) thumb to immediately.

It is called “In Memoriam.”

In aviation, we have a saying when one of our brothers (or sisters) passes from this Earth into the next realm… we say they’ve “flown west.” Within this section lies a hallowed list of aviators that reads like a roster from the dusty book of line pilots who have taken that journey “west”. Under the title sits a short poem/mantra that is as familiar to most pilots as their Pre-Start Checklist. It reads:

 “-Author Unknown”: “To fly west, my friend, is a flight we all must take for a final check.”

To those of us who have shared our world among the clouds, sitting but a few feet from a person for hours (even days) on end, there exists a bond that is as sacred as it is unexplainable to those who have lived within the restraints of gravity. Each month, as I page through the names, the list seems to be longer than the last. As the months pass, I recognize more of the names as those of brothers (and sisters) with whom I have had the privilege of logging flight time. They have all departed “west” to their eternal layover, and not surprisingly, some of the names spark the memory cells in my brain. Many of the names evoke wonderful memories (occasionally one that conjures the opposite), and I’ve either written about many of them or (in some cases) intend to pen a yarn about them in the future.

(The “In Memoriam” page from a recent ALPA magazine.)

It was a pleasure and an honor to fly with these folks, the ones who groomed me as a young “birdman”, and those who had my back as a new Captain. In later years, as my experience and comfort level in the Commander’s seat took on the “old shoe” style comfort, I endeavored to mentor the younger crewmembers and (at times) take on the role as a trusted advisor and marvel at their talent. They all (the wrinkled and the young) were amazing pilots, skilled in their profession, and they were a joy to work with (and for). The following link is a yarn penned many years ago of one of my all-time favorites when I was a new-hire at Northwest Orient Airlines:

Captain Al

Before my 37-year career at Northwest began, I was fortunate to fly with the most incredible group of pilots I had ever been a part of. We all worked for a small airline called Scheduled Skyways, based in Fayetteville, Arkansas. There were fewer than 100 pilots at this line. The following list reads like a “who’s who” of the gifted Captains at Skyways in the 1980s: Jim H., Jay T., Ron R., Wendall L., Gil M., Bill L., and Pat B. After a year, when I moved to the left seat and took command of the small “airliner” for the first time, the list of trusted First Officers was as hallowed as the list of four-stripers: Steve “Buzz” B., Cortney K., Pete C., Strawn F., Will H, Sinotra O., Ted J. Al M., Matt S., Don P., Stu B., Greg W., John A., Buddy A., Mike C., Scott E., Grady W., Paul B., and Mike D. Every name from those lists were (are) excellent pilots, and I was extremely fortunate to have them in the cockpit with me. Not every pilot at this line was mentioned; some were inadvertently left off (my apologies), some not so inadvertently.

The names mentioned are the men who helped shape me as a professional pilot, and many became friends (some to this day), and I was blessed to spend four years in my mid-twenties with them. Although we never shared the crucible of flying bullets and flag-draped coffins, we shared many a rain-swept, lightning-filled sky, more than our share of trials with difficult flying machines, and lots of bad days with difficult airline management. Pain spares no man, and we were no exception. We helped each other through death, divorce, and illness. When my beloved oldest sibling tragically took her own life in 1982, a dear friend and colleague made a suggestion that has become a lifelong outlet for my thoughts and feelings. He suggested that I begin a journal (“blogs” did not exist back before a guy named Gates hooked a keyboard to a screen). He explained that many years removed from the event, I would recall the event itself, but the details, and especially my feelings/emotions, could easily be skewed. He was spot on, and thousands of hours, ten calloused fingertips, and gigabytes of X’s and O’s (and one novel) later, I would be remiss if I failed to thank him profusely.

“Thank you, Peter, your suggestion has left many with sore eyes and bruised brains, but it has saved what little sanity I ever had… many times over. God bless you, brother.”

During those days in and out of the loud, cramped cockpits, we laughed, we bitched, and we bonded. Thank you, gentlemen, you will never know just how much I cherish those days.

Then there was Mark Detrixhe.

I first met Mark on a clear, pre-dawn September Sunday in 1979. I had been in the employ of the small “hometown” airline in Fayetteville for one month and one day. This was to be my fifth day of flying as a new First Officer on the Swearingen Metroliner in the livery of Scheduled Skyway. The initial training was “interesting” to be sure; it was flown in the middle of the night (the machines were far too busy to use during daylight hours), and under the intense tutelage of the Chief Pilot Ted B. The one other pilot in my “new hire class of two” (Howard S., who became a good friend and ended his career with FedEx) and I felt like we were taking a sip from a gushing fire hydrant. It was a huge amount of information for two young pilots (me, from the world of night freight in the Piper Navajo, and he, from the SoCal world of flight instructing). Still, we studied hard, flew to the best of our ability, and completed the program. I recall my first impressions of the machine was that it was very loud (we wore “noise cancelling” headsets…they did not cancel much of anything but a nice haircut), was much larger and heavier than anything I had piloted before (it had a 12,500 pounds gross take-off weight…by comparison the Navajo tipped the scales at just over 6000 pounds), and was rather over-engineered… a fancy way to say it was a complicated airplane (it was my first experience with things like “bleed switches”, “start locks” and “current limiters”).

(A typical Piper PA-31 Navajo cockpit.)

———

(A typical Swearingen Metroliner cockpit.)

The previous four days of this, my “virgin” week, were a blur. For the first two days, the weather was characteristically ugly for late summer in the Ozarks. Thunderstorms across the entire route structure (to include a missed approach at one of the smaller stations, Harrison, Arkansas), with lots of turbulence, heavy rain, and winds. After the front had passed, the next two days were a daze of dense, hazy skies and hot, humid flights. The four Captains for these first days were either the oldest guy I had ever flown with (Ray Y., … in his 70’s!), silent and surly (Art K.), or just rather “different” (Ed F. and David R.)…nice guys each one, but not the kind of commanders that might put me at ease (and thus relaxed) enough to truly glean anything useful about operating this beast in the 14-hour day, 10+ leg world of the commuter airline flying. I hung on by my fingernails, did exactly what they told me to do, mostly just watched them fly the aircraft (they were all “old heads” with lots of time in the machine), and finished each day wrung out and exhausted. Day five with Mark would be completely different.

Northwest Arkansas, in the Fall, can be a stunning place to live. Endless forests filled with vibrant hues that leave nothing of the color spectrum to the imagination. Cool mornings, warm afternoons, and gentle winds. This was what I expected on the first four days of my fledgling airline career; luckily, this was what I was presented with on day five.  After meeting this man (roughly my age) whose smile was eclipsed by his easy manner and friendliness, we departed Drake Field as the eastern horizon began to brighten with the approaching sunrise and settled into our day of hauling posteriors through the clear blue skies of the deep south. We motored through Ft Smith, Memphis, Harrison, and Fayetteville, back to Memphis, and finally returned to our home base of Fayetteville as the clock was a few hours north of noon. Where the previous four days were long, intense, exhausting hours in the cockpit, this day was exactly the opposite.

(Scheduled Skyways ship number N501SS on the ramp at Drake Field.)

My most vivid memory was that we laughed. A lot. He told (and showed) me things with the machine that no one had mentioned (admonishing me to “don’t try this until you have hundreds of hours in this piece of sh*t”). He did it all in such a way that as I walked to my car at the end of the day, I felt as if I had just flown with a “guru,” a pilot who had been doing something very difficult long enough to make it look easy. He had, in effect, given me a “master class” on flying a machine that was most assuredly NOT easy to fly. And he did this all the while keeping the cockpit atmosphere relaxed and fun.  I would not crew with Mark again for two months (flying almost every day), and when I did, the weather that day was characterized by rain, fog, low clouds, and wind. It was decidedly more challenging than our first day as a crew, but did the pressure of a day of ugly weather change this “easy-going” pilot in the command of our machine (and me)? Nope, same relaxed manner, same fun “banter,” same practiced “wizardry” at the controls of a difficult steed, and same feeling for me at the completion of (another) long day in the Metroliner. The “master class” continued, and I looked forward to seeing his name next to mine again on the schedule.

For the next few years, we crewed many more flights through many more beautiful (and at times angry) skies, and I learned a great deal from him. He became a friend, and I can still see his smile, hear his funny yarns, and recognize his influence on me as a new “airline birdman” as real and positive. He was a “Captain’s Captain,” and it was a pleasure to fly with him so early in my airline career. Like the rest of us brothers at this line, we all went our separate ways (I being hired by Northwest Orient in November of 1983). For some of us, our journeys would cross at regular intervals; for some, we would never see each other again.

Sadly, Mark “flew west” a few days ago, and although the years saw us drift apart and our lives move in different directions, I knew my aviation brother was still an integral (read important) part of my flying journey. Our last “conversation” was in a group text, and it breaks my heart to say it was not as “easy” as our early days in those noisy, cramped cockpits. Though we might have parted as polar opposites regarding things of this Earth, I pray that he knew I respected him as a man, an exemplary aviator, and loved him as a cherished friend. Several from our little group have journeyed before Mark, and in the end, we all will pass that invisible barrier between here and what awaits us. He will be missed by everyone who knew him.

I sat in my office a few nights ago and raised a glass of spirits to Mark. I prayed that he found his “paradise” and that he knows that we miss him.

“Fly west, Mark, on your journey that we all must take for a final check. I wish you only following winds and calm skies, my friend. Buy Buzz a beer for me, oh, and grab one for yourself… put it on my tab, brother.”

‘till we meet again,

BBall