CloudDancer
Registered User
L. Ronstadt - J. Ingram Duet
Chapter One - Dope, Dope, I'm the Dope
“So. You’re a pilot, huh?” said Don Ferguson, (the real-life “Dan Gunderson” in the first two CloudDancer books) as he took a half-step back after our handshake. He eyed my scrawny frame up and down quickly. I replied proudly “Sure am. Been flying for few years now. Why? What’s it to you?”
I was still wary of this strange Mexican man whom I’d never seen before today.
He had walked into this Denny’s restaurant which had been my regular
hangout for years, taken a seat a few stools away at the counter, and ordered a meal. But, it was his all too obvious eavesdropping on my conversation with the restaurant manager Steve, that had gotten on my nerves.
Sensing both my confusion and defensive verbal posture, there appeared
instantly on his face, this absolutely impish and infectious broad grin. He
said. “No, that’s good! I’m a pilot too!” Th e comment, combined with the
now almost cherubic beaming of his face, served to slightly allay my concerns. And he continued “And you fly Cessna Skyhawks too?”
“Oh yeah. Just finishing up my instrument rating in the Skyhawk now.” I
answered.
“Oh. Th at’s great. Yeah. So, how much time you got altogether?” asked
Don. Again I tried to make it sound impressive. “Well, right now, I’ve only
got 240 hours total, but it’s coming along pretty fast.” I was relaxing just a
little bit now, as this was familiar conversational territory and the guy seemed pretty nice.
“So how old are you CloudDancer?’ he asked. Now this was getting interesting again, as I noted he gave me another quick scan from head to toe. Was it because at 6’2” I towered over his slightly pudgy 5’8”? Also, it had finally dawned on me that this guy didn’t speak English with a Mexican accent, which I thought was pretty weird. I decided rather than answer, it was my turn to get some info outta’ him. So I hit him back with “You sure got a lot questions there Don. What does it matter to you how old I am?”
Promptly he apologized. “Oh Gee. I’m sorry. I guess I should tell you. I own a couple of Cessna Skyhawks and some other stuff and I’m kinda’ looking for a pilot to go to work for me.” Somewhat stunned, the best I could muster was a short “Oh really?” in return. And then he barged ahead with “Yeah. I could really use someone to fly my Skyhawks, and I’ll pay you twenty bucks an hour.” he concluded.
Immediately warning flags and sirens went off in my brain. I’m sure my
eyebrows must’ve gone up. I started “Uuuh... ummm NO! I do...” but got no farther, as he jumped back in and said “Tell ya’ what. I could make it twentyfive dollars an hour. And the job comes with room and board!”
Oh.. “This is bad!” I say to myself silently, as aloud I utter “Uh. NoNO!
Thanks a lot. I’m not really interested.” (Th is was in 1973 by the way.) I
thought to myself. Heck, my instructor, who actually has some experience,
only makes FOUR dollars an hour! I don’t need what this guy’s selling!
I had now put my hand up palm outward like a traffic cop. I shook my head no, and was getting aggressively negative, much to Don’s apparent surprise. The grin vanished on Don’s face to be replaced by an expression of utter bewilderment. He had absolutely no idea how this conversation had derailed so quickly, and why I now seemed to be growing agitated.
“Whoa! Wait a minute!” he said as I jumped right back with “No thanks
Mister! I’m not interested in doing your kind of work!” To which he answered “How do you know? I haven’t even told you about it yet.”
Smugly I looked at him and said “Hey look. You wanna’ fly DOPE, that’s
your business. I don’t want to...” “Dope?” Don interrupted. And with a truly
a truly quizzical look he continued “Why would I want you to fly dope?”
The only dope Don knew of being of course, the kind you spread on aircraft fabric, when building or repairing wood and fabric airplanes. This was the dope that he’d known since childhood.
I barged on “Sure! You’re Mexican. And you want me to fly .. .” And
then it hit him. He laughed heartily as he broke into my not-quite-on-the-mark analysis of his offer. “But I’m not Mexican.” he said, stunning me
momentarily silent. Now I was puzzled and said “You’re not?” Whereupon
he emitted another small chuckle before delivering this line with a genuine
twinkle in his eye. “Nope.” he said. “I’m an Eskimo! You gotta’ go to Alaska for this money!”
I’m sure my jaw dropped and I must’ve had the “deer in the headlights” look on my face. He asked “You wanna’ go inside? I’ll buy us some coffee and pie and we can talk for a while.” As I dumbly nodded my noggin in the
affirmative, he turned for the front entrance to the restaurant. I stuffed my car keys back in my pocket and fell in step behind. I’m sure the dopey look on my face lasted a while.
“So. You’re a pilot, huh?” said Don Ferguson, (the real-life “Dan Gunderson” in the first two CloudDancer books) as he took a half-step back after our handshake. He eyed my scrawny frame up and down quickly. I replied proudly “Sure am. Been flying for few years now. Why? What’s it to you?”
I was still wary of this strange Mexican man whom I’d never seen before today.
He had walked into this Denny’s restaurant which had been my regular
hangout for years, taken a seat a few stools away at the counter, and ordered a meal. But, it was his all too obvious eavesdropping on my conversation with the restaurant manager Steve, that had gotten on my nerves.
Sensing both my confusion and defensive verbal posture, there appeared
instantly on his face, this absolutely impish and infectious broad grin. He
said. “No, that’s good! I’m a pilot too!” Th e comment, combined with the
now almost cherubic beaming of his face, served to slightly allay my concerns. And he continued “And you fly Cessna Skyhawks too?”
“Oh yeah. Just finishing up my instrument rating in the Skyhawk now.” I
answered.
“Oh. Th at’s great. Yeah. So, how much time you got altogether?” asked
Don. Again I tried to make it sound impressive. “Well, right now, I’ve only
got 240 hours total, but it’s coming along pretty fast.” I was relaxing just a
little bit now, as this was familiar conversational territory and the guy seemed pretty nice.
“So how old are you CloudDancer?’ he asked. Now this was getting interesting again, as I noted he gave me another quick scan from head to toe. Was it because at 6’2” I towered over his slightly pudgy 5’8”? Also, it had finally dawned on me that this guy didn’t speak English with a Mexican accent, which I thought was pretty weird. I decided rather than answer, it was my turn to get some info outta’ him. So I hit him back with “You sure got a lot questions there Don. What does it matter to you how old I am?”
Promptly he apologized. “Oh Gee. I’m sorry. I guess I should tell you. I own a couple of Cessna Skyhawks and some other stuff and I’m kinda’ looking for a pilot to go to work for me.” Somewhat stunned, the best I could muster was a short “Oh really?” in return. And then he barged ahead with “Yeah. I could really use someone to fly my Skyhawks, and I’ll pay you twenty bucks an hour.” he concluded.
Immediately warning flags and sirens went off in my brain. I’m sure my
eyebrows must’ve gone up. I started “Uuuh... ummm NO! I do...” but got no farther, as he jumped back in and said “Tell ya’ what. I could make it twentyfive dollars an hour. And the job comes with room and board!”
Oh.. “This is bad!” I say to myself silently, as aloud I utter “Uh. NoNO!
Thanks a lot. I’m not really interested.” (Th is was in 1973 by the way.) I
thought to myself. Heck, my instructor, who actually has some experience,
only makes FOUR dollars an hour! I don’t need what this guy’s selling!
I had now put my hand up palm outward like a traffic cop. I shook my head no, and was getting aggressively negative, much to Don’s apparent surprise. The grin vanished on Don’s face to be replaced by an expression of utter bewilderment. He had absolutely no idea how this conversation had derailed so quickly, and why I now seemed to be growing agitated.
“Whoa! Wait a minute!” he said as I jumped right back with “No thanks
Mister! I’m not interested in doing your kind of work!” To which he answered “How do you know? I haven’t even told you about it yet.”
Smugly I looked at him and said “Hey look. You wanna’ fly DOPE, that’s
your business. I don’t want to...” “Dope?” Don interrupted. And with a truly
a truly quizzical look he continued “Why would I want you to fly dope?”
The only dope Don knew of being of course, the kind you spread on aircraft fabric, when building or repairing wood and fabric airplanes. This was the dope that he’d known since childhood.
I barged on “Sure! You’re Mexican. And you want me to fly .. .” And
then it hit him. He laughed heartily as he broke into my not-quite-on-the-mark analysis of his offer. “But I’m not Mexican.” he said, stunning me
momentarily silent. Now I was puzzled and said “You’re not?” Whereupon
he emitted another small chuckle before delivering this line with a genuine
twinkle in his eye. “Nope.” he said. “I’m an Eskimo! You gotta’ go to Alaska for this money!”
I’m sure my jaw dropped and I must’ve had the “deer in the headlights” look on my face. He asked “You wanna’ go inside? I’ll buy us some coffee and pie and we can talk for a while.” As I dumbly nodded my noggin in the
affirmative, he turned for the front entrance to the restaurant. I stuffed my car keys back in my pocket and fell in step behind. I’m sure the dopey look on my face lasted a while.