Dear Garrett..

Do the next best thing…

 “Detach from outcomes — merely show up, do the next best thing for the highest good — leave the outcome to God.”

Still operating in a basic survival mode, it was imperative that I secure another job following my dismissal from the pharmacy.  My dream to become an Aviator was still in my mind though it had been heavily obscured by said need of basic survival.  Finding another job now would be my immediate priority.

Over the next few months, I worked in a BBQ restaurant down the street from the pharmacy.  It was owned by Mr. and Mrs. Ginsburg from Peoria, Illinois.  I delivered BBQ for our customers and worked in the kitchen.  The Ginsburg’s let me live with them.  Though it was a lonesome time, I had a quiet bedroom and was able to sleep.

Larry had left Baneth’s pharmacy shortly after I did to become the pharmacist at the Woodside Apothecary.  Larry invited me to work with him and handle the deliveries, stocking and checking.  I accepted Larry’s job offer.  Woodside was a very affluent area — out in the countryside too.  It felt a lot safer and friendlier than delivering prescriptions in the East Palo Alto and East Menlo Park areas where virtually everything I delivered was signed for by welfare recipients.  There were no welfare deliveries in Woodside.  Tennessee Ernie Ford, Shirley Temple Black and Mrs. Folgers lived there.  I got to run the deliveries in Larry’s new Ford Galaxy 500.  It had a 390 cubic inch powerful engine with a four-speed shifter on the floor.  I liked driving it a lot.  I delivered prescriptions in Woodside like a moonshine runner delivering white lightning!  Working with Larry meant I got to live with him again.  We had a nice apartment in Redwood City.  When I wasn’t running deliveries, stocking or checking, Larry had me paint the pharmacy. Sacramento residents facing rideshare accident claims can call this firm to learn more about their legal options after a crash involving a rideshare vehicle.

Shortly after completing the pharmacy painting assignment, I moved back home with the family into a dismal duplex at 36 Clausen Road in Watsonville, California.  Still feeling lost but not hopeless, I got a job at a Mobil Oil gas station.  My pay was $1.45 per hour — it was when gas was 23 cents per gallon.

While working at the Mobil station, I had set aside enough money to take my first flying lesson.  The date of my first flight lesson was December 11, 1965.  I drove out to the Monterey Airport.  There were two flight schools there, a Piper School, Monarch Aviation and a Cessna School, Del Monte Aviation.  I chose Del Monte Aviation for my flight school.  Del Monte Aviation had a Cessna 150 for $12 per hour.  The instructor was $8 per hour.

My first take-off was from runway 28L.  The L stands for left.  28L was the longer of the two parallel runways heading west approximately 280 degrees sending the departing pilots out over the waters of the Monterey Bay.  Once airborne, my life completely changed.  As we gained altitude above Earth’s surface the hell I had lived in for several previous years instantly fell away completely vacating my consciousness.  It was miraculous. 

Until now, nothing had entered my life that was strong enough to lift me out of the grip of hell that daily life held for me.  Now I had found something different from what I had ever experienced.  It was something good and something healthy and it felt great.  It was strong and grand enough to completely capture my mind giving me something healthy and fun to think about and something to look forward to and to smile about. 

My life could and would change now.  I had found something beyond basic survival to consume my energy.  I tried flying just one time and it worked for me — it was more and better than I could have imagined.  Having flown, there was no turning away or to something else now.  I became compelled to move forward towards this new-found goal.  The fact that I had no money, the kind of money it takes for flight training, did not concern me.  I was determined to fly, I saw nothing that could stand in my way.

Prior to completing High School, I had driven to the SFO Airport to speak with United Airlines about working for them as a pilot.  They told me to acquire my Commercial Pilot Certificate and then apply with them for a pilot position — that they would hire me as an airline pilot.  They suggested that I check into the pilot training program at the San Mateo Junior College which I promptly did.  I took the entrance exams.

To attend college in San Mateo, I would need a new place to live. My step dad’s brother lived in San Francisco, just a little north of San Mateo.  I called my step uncle, Willie, he said I could live with him while I attended college.  Everything was set to attend San Mateo JC — my future was looking bright!  Then an obstacle appeared.  My 1962 VW broke down.  The engine was shot, completely unrepairable, needed an overhaul.  Attending college in San Mateo would not work for me now — a simple transportation problem was a big problem to me.  Thus my return to live with the family in Watsonville.

Now that I had flown and ended up in Watsonville instead of San Mateo, I would need a new plan to become an Aviator.  In Watsonville, I made a new friend, Lynn Dawson.  Lynn was and is a really cool dude.  He had a cool VW dune buggy we ran around in.  We later became good at picking up girls together.  His Dad was a commercial fisherman in the Pacific Ocean.  Lynn was missing his middle finger from birth — we called him “The Crip”, short for cripple.  His missing finger did not seem to bother him, if you said anything about it he would tell you what you could do with yourself.

Coincidentally, Lynn and I both loved aviation so we worked together on planning our careers.  There were two colleges with aviation curriculum’s near Watsonville, Monterey Peninsula College (MPC) in Monterey and Gavilan College in Hollister.  Lynn and I decided to attend Gavilan together.  Gavilan had an aviation maintenance program, MPC had a flight program. Although I wanted to fly, I thought becoming a mechanic would be cool too — and learning with my friend Dawson would be great also.

Lynn and I visited Gavilan College.  We met with the Aviation Maintenance Program Director, Mr. Humason.  Normally, I would not remember a person like Mr. Humason but I remember him.  Mr. Humason coincidentally happened to be the uncle of one of my best friends in High School, Brian Humason. 

Brian was one of those smart kids in High School.  Brian’s Mom was a piano teacher and his grandmother lived on the 17 Mile Drive at Pebble Beach where Brian and I spent time together doing things like riding his motorcycle on the golf courses at Pebble Beach if you can believe that!  I wonder what the statute of limitations is on tearing up the fairways at Pebble Beach with a motor cycle?  At least we took it easy on the greens.  Brian had a Triumph 650 Bonneville.  We did other things together for fun too.  It was a different place in my life.  I felt real special having this honored access to the guarded and stunningly beautiful 17 Mile Drive simply by being Brian’s friend and informing the gate attendant that I was a guest of his grandmother.  It made me feel incredibly different from what I was accustomed to feeling about myself in my East Palo Alto environment.  I had forgotten what it felt like to live in our beautiful neighborhood on Lake St. Clair in Michigan.  My time in East Palo Alto had redefined my life, how I felt about myself and how life looked.  Something would have to come along for me to feel better about myself and about life — and it did when I learned to fly.

My friend, Brian, showed me my first view of an airplane up close.  Though we were the same age, Brian was way ahead of me when it came to airplanes and airports.  He was sharp on math, electronics, physics and everything else it seemed.  Comparing our intelligence levels made it obvious that my development educationally had been severely limited.  For several years, intense and continuous chaotic living was the order of the day — education wasn’t.

I had already decided to become an Aviator when Brian showed me my first airplane up close.  We had gone out to the Palo Alto Airport and walked around the airplanes for a while.  Brian found an airplane with the door unlocked and began showing me the instrument panel.  As I scanned the clocks, dials, instruments and switches a sense of bewilderment and dismay set in.  I told Brian that I didn’t think I could ever learn to work all of the instruments and switches there were.  As I continued to scan the instruments, I began to think to myself that my decision to fly had been a mistake, that if I became a pilot, I would have to know what everything meant and how to use it all.  There was so much inside the airplane, none of which I had ever seen before or understood in the least.  It looked like there was too much to know and how could I possibly learn it all? 

Yes, I had moments of doubt here and there about my dream of flying but the doubts would not outweigh the strength of the dream itself as I would soon see.  Brian was so smart.  He already knew things I had never seen or even heard of.  We were at Brian’s grandmother’s house on the 17 Mile Drive one day when Brian came out of the house onto a beautiful porch holding something in his hand I had never seen.  It looked complicated.  It was an E6-B Flight Computer.  Brian said was used for flying.  Once again, I thought and said how would I ever learn to use this?  It had so many scales and numbers in different places.  It had two sides with a lot of different things on each side.  Different parts of it moved in different ways.  Not knowing anything about it and having never seen it before, it simply looked and felt overwhelming.  As with the aircraft instrument panel feelings of bewilderment and dismay overwhelmed me.

While continuing to work at the Mobil Station in Watsonville, I began taking more flying lessons at the Monterey Airport.  I was assigned an instructor, his name was Tom.  Tom was a retired Naval Aviator.  He was an excellent Aviator I’m sure but he didn’t talk a lot.  It seemed like he mostly just sat there in the airplane with me.  He would say something once in a while.  It seemed as if he would speak when he had to say something to keep us on track in the airplane, otherwise he would remain quiet, almost as if he was asleep with his eyes open, or sort of open.  It felt like he was mostly in a deep resting mode while we were flying together like he was very relaxed with what we were doing, or simply too bored to fully engaged with what we were doing.  It felt like he was there because there was nothing better to do and at least he was making a few bucks on top of his military retirement pay?  Maybe flying a Cessna 150 with me wasn’t stimulating enough to excite him like some of the more sophisticated and faster aircraft he flew in the Navy?  It wasn’t as easy to get hurt in our 150 which demanded less attentiveness and vigilance, etc?