Piloting for Skydivers

PILOTING FOR SKYDIVERS

1989 or so. At least that’s when I was flying jumpers at California City, California

The fear of falling is common among humans. A fall of just a

few feet at the least provides a fright, and at the worst, death

or paralysis. The very feeling of falling is alien because it is

something, due to the consequences, that a lifetime is spent

avoiding. Under controlled conditions falling can be used as a

thrill vehicle. Speed in any form is exciting because of the ever-

threatening sudden stop. Skydiving is flying in a long fall--

120mph. straight down. In l975 in Zephyr Hills, Florida, one of the

most active drop zones in the U.S., I began to explore my fear of

falling by taking a beginning static line parachute course. On the

third jump I began paying more attention to those staying in the

plane than jumping out and the logic of it all began to escape me.

The pilot of the plane became the object of envy. He didn't have

to jump out. I developed a keen interest in flying in an airplane

rather than out of one. It is ironic that after 12 years of

agricultural, charter, ferry and instruction flying, I eventually

became a pilot for skydivers and got to watch them jump out instead of me.

Skydive piloting, like agricultural or any other sort of

specialized flying is a learned skill. There aren't any schools for

it outside of the two hundred and eighty or so drop zones in the

United States. Although the rudiments can be learned within the

first few hours with adequate coaching, it does take a few more to

become proficient with the finer points. It is an excellent

opportunity for the commercial time builder and, in certain

circumstances, for the private pilot.

Parachute Operations are organized, either commercially, or

under the auspices of a private club. The particular organization

I flew for is organized as a club and club members who hold private

pilot licenses can drop jumpers, not withstanding the fact that the

F.A.A. views the flying hours gained as compensation and so

clearly, the private pilot versus the commercial ticket holder must

not be in the running for a professional career in the piloting

game. There are no minimum flying time requirements beyond those

of the common sense of the drop zone operator and insurance

underwriters, but understandably, the private pilot whose ink is

still wet on his license may want to log a few hundred hours prior

to asking jumpers, most of whom are afraid of take-offs and

landings, and generally anything inside of an airplane below

jumping out altitude.

One of the first lessons is the absolute necessity for smooth

flying. A lot of these free-falling sky devils are scared to death

of airplanes. They would prefer an elevator, and they are crazy for

balloons. Maybe it is going fast near the ground, all so necessary

in a fixed wing craft that rubs them. For them going fast near the

ground after they jump out means their chute didn't open. I suppose

fixed wing takeoffs are faintly reminiscent of the dark side of the

sport. "How was your day skydiving Honey"? " Man, am I beat. Chute

didn't open." Although essential equipment is duplicated and

malfunctions are extremely rare, a series of preflight equipment

checks are made, all to prevent going fast near the ground. I

wondered what the thrill was after 1000 jumps or so. One responded

"...60 second fall to Earth is ecstacy. It is only there that I

have total freedom without any possibility of outside interference..

It is simply me and my chosen environment; total independence."

That statement could be the preamble to the skydiver pilot's

constitution for if he is to serve them to the best of his ability

there are a number of skills to be honed. Word of pilot complacency

burns like wildfire through a dropzone, and other drop zones also.

A pilot who fails to show adequate progress in the task of getting

them high quickly and efficiently will soon find himself with no

one to fly with. Skydivers tend to be quite vocal about any

dissatisfaction they have with their pilot, and lavish in their

praise for a good one. Piloting for skydivers is certainly

beneficial in regards to immediate feedback. He'll seldom get the

chance to ask: "How am I doing"? Parachutists may or may not be

pilots, but like any passenger they know what they want, or don't

want.

Although the larger zones around the country operate seven

days a week; it is the weekends that are busy; then there are the

"Boogies". A boogie is an intense skydiving meet, sometimes

involving competition, and most prevalent on the holiday weekends.

When they tell me to bring my lunch I know it is going to get busy

up and down like an elevator boy, daylight to dark.

At boogies I have met the most unbelievable assortment of

people possible anywhere; lawyers and doctors and ditch diggers,

movie people, paper hangers, engineers, housewives, intelligentsia

contractors, physical perfectionists, writers, paraplegics. They

have all discovered the thrilling sport of not going fast near the

ground and are only concerned with enjoying each others company an

having a good time. The sport has evolved technologically and

professionally to the point where it is no more dangerous than

wrestling alligators...JUST KIDDING!  Most are not pilots, but they are fliers

conscious of all of the safety precautions that both occupations

imply.

There are a number of initial questions concerning the art of

putting people out of an airplane, and one of the ways I answered

some of them was to place myself, literally, in the skydiver's

position and attend the four hours of initial classroom and

practical training and then to make a freefall jump with two

jumpmasters--from 12,500 feet AGL.

The experience can be likened to my first hour of learning to fly

an airplane: total sensory overload, but an experience that

emphasized to me the importance that skydivers attach to each of

their jumps. It is a 30 minute plane ride up to altitude in a

Cessna 206, and only a 60- second flight for them to the ground,

or hopefully, 2500 feet above it, and they log each one;

optimistically as an enjoyable experience. If it isn't I don't want

it to be my fault.

The very first question I asked was not about the airplane at

all, but about why only 12,500 feet? Surely higher altitude result

in a longer free-fall. The answer lies in the cost-benefit ratio

of flying to and falling from a higher altitude. The air is

beginning to get thin up there and the time and expense of gaining

higher altitude is weighed against the extra free fall time gained

Simply put, 12,500 feet is the point of diminishing returns.

Aircraft performance begins to suffer and once out the door the

jumper falls faster through the thin air than at a lower altitude

while paying a progressively higher price for the privledge.

Additionally there is the added expense of oxygen equipment

required by F.A.A. regulations for the pilot above 14,000MSL and

the passengers at 15,000. Piloting for skydivers is covered in

F.A.R. 105. and it is considerable in the assignment of pilot in

command responsibilities. After reading about the responsibilities

of the pilot in command of a skydive aircraft I became concerned

enough to cover my bases with a thorough review of part 91 also.

Skydivers pay higher dollars to go to higher altitudes. On a

typical load of jumpers the pilot may have one to drop at 3000

feet, another at 8500 and the rest at 12,500. These jumps are made

progressively on the ascent. It is of utmost importance that the

pilot does not descend in the drop zone. If a jumper expresses a

desire to jump at a lower altitude once the aircraft passes that

altitude he should be given two choices by the pilot in command:

either jump at the present altitude or land with the airplane.

Occasionally jumpers will pull the rip cord within seconds out of

the door and fly their canopy down instead of free-falling. One

thing is for sure. There is no doubt as to the direction they are

headed, and I'm not about to chance a mid-air tete-a-tete at their

halfway point. Never descend in the drop zone!

It may come as a surprise to learn how organized the

sport is. There are rules, procedures and protocol for every move

once the skydiver donns a parachute and begins to approach an

airplane. Three gear checks for their parachutes; they are taught

from their first jump training to approach the aircraft from the

rear and remain aft of the wing at all times; safe habit pattern

construction for those not initiated about the dangers of a

propellor, rotating or otherwise. There is an order in which they

board the airplane and an order for their exits; they understand

the weight and balance requirements of any particular aircraft the

fly in, and know enough to query the pilot if they don't. The chain

of command extends from the pilot. The jumpmaster takes orders from

the pilot and the rest listen to the jumpmaster. Helmets on for

take-off. Altimeters set, mine and theirs. They are so organized

to be occasionally amusing. One of my first flights I was finished

my cockpit pre-flight and sat there thinking that it would take

them time to settle down in the aircraft. After a few moments I

turned around to see them all sitting there between one another's

legs, front to back, hands in their laps, helmets on, waiting for

me.

I have noticed a marked release of tension, even to hearing

the odd sigh of relief upon reaching the first 1000AGL after

takeoff. In an emergency the pilot will have the jumpmasters full

attention as well as an unblinking quizzical look. Ordinarily with

experienced skydivers on board I have made up my mind, that if I

have an emergency above one thousand feet of altitude I'm going to

order an exit because that's when they know they can jump and will

want to anyway. If there are students or first jumpers aboard,

anything short of a major fire or structural failure I will order

them to remain with the aircraft. I've always wondered if they

will. With a little luck I'll never know.

Once "at altitude" the chore of spotting the aircraft becomes

the next task. Jumpers are going to be drifted with the wind after

exit and the procedure is to exit up wind of the drop zone. The

pilots job is to fly directly over the drop zone and into the wind

The jump master, through experience will then decide how far up

wind to fly before ordering the engine cut and the exit. The wind

can change as the day progresses, but if it doesn't change

appreciably the "spot" becomes common knowledge throughout the DZ.

On the fifth flight on my first day flying jumpers a jump master

asked me as he was boarding the aircraft: "Where's the spot?" "The

spot?" I replied. "It's that big round area down that road over

there with the wind sock in the middle of it". That's when I

learned what a "spot" was. The learning curve for flying skydivers

is initially quite steep. Simply learning to fly directly over the

drop zone, the pilot soon discovers, becomes a monumental task.

Even getting close enough to keep the jump master from shouting

turns less than 40 degrees takes a respectable amount of time. The

initial technique is to fly a base leg to the right of the DZ with

the wind 270 degrees relative then make the upwind turn when an

imaginary line drawn from the center of the DZ extends through the

seat of the pants; easier said than done at 12,500 ft. "40 LEFT!"

The next step is to extend the line to a point on the horizon and

the aircraft then turned to put the nose on the point. This also

takes a fair amount of practice because, for reasons of economy,

the arrival at the spot should be timed for the top of the climb

and the nose of the aircraft, high mountains not withstanding,

begin to cover the coveted point.

Another method is to approach the dropzone at a judicious

angle, somewhat less than 90 degrees and getting progressively less

as the target is reached. In that way the pilot will be at least

close to the correct heading, if not more than 40 degrees off, as

the zone disappears beneath the aircraft. With enough practice he

or she will improve to within an acceptable limit of "5 DEGREES"!

without stoking the jump masters patience beyond a smolder.

Understandably the difficulty of correctly spotting the

aircraft is inversely proportional to the altitude, and is somewha

easier at 3000 feet than at 12,500. Three thousand feet is the

altitude that is used to put the static liners out. These people

are usually first, second, or third time jumpers and are quite good

at hiding the fact that they have resigned themselves to die and

are in an advanced state of petrification. Most are not used to the

airframe rattling and engine noise that a bare bones jump aircraft

makes during takeoff and everything is new and strange and very

scary to them. The jump master never stops talking. One gets the

impression that it doesn't matter what he says, just as long as he

keeps saying nice things to them. No one that says nice things to

you is going to let you die. Unlike the experienced jumpers, who

can't wait to get out, these people can't wait to stay in. It is

certainly not a time for anything less than the gentlest flying the

pilot is capable of. Unlike the experienced altitude jumpers that

are diving, tumbling, yea leapfrogging out of the door, these

fledglings must sit in the door in a certain position, half hangin

out, waiting for the order from their jump master to exit the

aircraft. One way to help them through their ordeal and earn the

good cups of the jump master is to quiet the engine down as soon

as possible and to make the jump runs for each student at a reduced

power setting with shallow angles of bank. I can think of no

better way to drive a student jumper into a feint than to whip into

a 70 degree angle of bank while they are half hanging out of an

open door with little to hang on to. The pilot knows that they

won't fall out if he stays coordinated, but at the time they won't

be in the mood for logical explanations. There is a good chance

that you will be bringing them back with you and refunding their

money; unless, of course, the jumpmaster happens to be a fellow

like Billy Reed of Van Nuys California, who with over 12,000

student jumpers out the door, keeps them so amused and distracted

from the altitude that they exit in peals of laughter and keep

coming back for more.

Cessna offers a skydiving modification for its 206 and many

aircraft which do not have factory mods available are modified by

the operators to offer the performance required for the sport. With

the Marshall Stol Kit installed the performance of the aircraft is

close to the limits of the imagination. Using reduced engine power

about 13hg of manifold pressure and 2200 rpm at 11000 feet on a

standard day the aircraft will maintain altitude clean at 55 mph

indicated, and do 45 degree banked turns with just a little added

power. The mod doubles the lift coefficient, extends the glide

ratio from 7 to 13 and ups the stalling angle of attack to an

remarkable 35 degrees.

Other additions for the customized aircraft include a buffer

strip for the cargo door, and a pilot operated, wing-mounted 35mm

camera to freeze those never-to-be-repeated first jump expressions

Also, a skydiving aircraft can be tailored in other ways

toward efficiency and economy; specifically, setting up the

aircraft for a quick ascent and descent in a minimum of flying

time. During the climb, which is made at full power, considerable

right rudder trim is required for Vy (best rate of climb speed).

At altitude the jumpers are released and an

immediate descent is begun as the aircraft exits the drop

zone. The power and flying control settings at the top of

the climb will already be set for the descent if the pilot has

timed the top of the climb and reduced power over the spot. To

illustrate the scenario lets load all of the fuel in the right tank

and keep 10 gallons of emergency fuel in the left tank. In order

to maximize the descent rate and simultaneously prevent shock

cooling to the engine after the exit, we will drop 10 degrees of

wing flaps, close the cowl flaps, drop the nose to 120mph indicated

and descend in a left slip maneuver. The power is already set at

approximately 15 hg and 2200 rpm. The right rudder trim is already

set up for the slip due to the attitude in a full power climb, and

the aircraft will descend at the same power setting at about 1500

to 2000 fpm down for another load. Carrying the majority of the

required fuel in the right tank minimizes the chance of un-porting

the fuel feed to the engine during the slip while eliminating

buffeting in the door, which is on the right side of the fuselage.

Using this technique the C206 can operate for two and a half hours

between fuel stops well within the confines of VFR reserves. The

average time, up and back for a 12,500 ft. trip is between 40 to

50 minutes depending on the density altitude and about 25 minutes

for a number of jump runs for students at 3000ft.

Occasionally there are opportunities for cross country trips,

carrying jumpers to another drop zone or some pre-arranged

location. Additionally the more experienced ones make night jumps,

hurling themselves out into an inky blackness with only a chem-

light taped to their altimiters. Then there are the parties. There

is always an after hours party during a weekend of jumping. I'm

sure that is a rule of the sport, if not written. FAR 105 dictates

the same alcohol limits for skydivers as 91 does for pilots and it

is strictly adhered to.

Piloting for skydivers, besides offering an opportunity to

improve on basic skills, and indeed learn new ones, provides the

chance to meet a lot of quite interesting people from virtually all

walks of life who, I think, like to view themselves as a little

wild, some are, but most aren't; otherwise they would be wrestling

alligators. The minimum age is 16, but I have flown for a first

time jumper who was 77. Whatever drives them; they are certainly

a lot of fun to work for. Come to think of it-I once did meet a one armed

skydiver who raises alligators._

We were Sailors Once-and Nuts (but some were crazy)

I remember Bumper most of all. He more than all the rest of the nuts I shared a barracks with beside the golf course at North Island, San Diego, was a most unforgettable character. Bumper would wake up and start getting dressed only to find one of his shoes missing. The following morning it would be replaced only to find the other missing. He would throw a fit, running through the barracks screaming obscenities, accusing anyone in his path. Most weekends he would spend in the brig or city jail for public drunkenness. During the WestPac cruises he would be confined to the ship for contracting the clap. On the next visit he would be confined again for contracting the clap from the same woman. He reminds me of the John Belushi character in Animal House. He’s probably a senator now. On one occasion his friends came through the barracks collecting donations for his bail money. “We’re trying to get $150 together to get Bumper out of jail”. Later that night their drunken sobs could be heard through the building. “We tried Man. We really tried for you Bumper. It just a sad state of affairs Man, but those cheap sunsabitches just didn’t cough up enough to get you out. We wish you were here Man. We only raised enough for two lousy quarts of Jim Beam. Poor Bumper.” they would sob. On one occasion they somehow blamed Bumpers sad state of affairs on the Admiral. They were all court-martialed for jumping up and down drunk and naked on the roof of the Barracks yelling: “Fuck the Admiral” when the Admiral and friends were out on the golf course. Bumper, like most of the rest of us were victims of the Draft and couldn’t wait to get out of the Navy. In retrospect, for some of us anyway, it was the best time of our lives. After Bumper got discharged he found it hard to leave and kept showing up at the barracks. He slept in the barracks for two weeks as a civilian before finally wandering off.

Some of the Officers were just as crazy, but they traveled in a different circle. Usually we didn’t mix company. There were officer’s hangouts in Coronado and enlisted hangouts. Theirs were watering holes where they usually showed up with their wives and girlfriends. Ours were just bars where we showed up looking for one night stands. We once decided to crash into one of their watering holes. We just intended on going in and acting obnoxious for a while then getting asked to leave. Ripper and his buddy had other ideas. We all crowded into the place and elbowed our way up to stools at the bar. We ordered drink after drink, getting louder and acting worse with each one. “I’m getting sick” Ripper yelled. “I think I’m going to puke.” He yelled. Soon he had the attention of the people standing around him, who started moving away as he progressively got louder and sicker. The crowd moved a few more feet back after he made a puking sound while clandestinely tossing his jar of chili sauce hidden under his shirt on to the bar. His collaborator, sitting next to him shoved him aside, where upon he made a big show of falling off his bar stool on to the floor. His collaborator then moved into his barstool and began picking through the sauce, acting totally wasted. “One meat, “ he yelled. “one Bean “ as he fingered the sauce. “Two meats…two beans” as he continued finger-painting in the sauce. Pretending to be in his own world. “Ahh! Tomato “ he screamed as he picked up a piece of a red glob and lifted it up in the air and dropped it into his mouth. That cleared the place.

Mr. Thurston. I don’t remember his first name but he was a full lieutenant at age 19 and so wild we wish he was one of us. We were all back aboard after a night of liberty in Yokosuka, Japan. “Where’s Thurston ?” I heard the Skipper asking one of his officers. “Dunno Sir” came the reply. “He’s not in his stateroom.” Soon the whole squadron was abuzz with the missing officer’s whereabouts. The ship was due to pull away from the quay wall and he was nowhere to be found. An announcement over the ships horn brought no reply from the missing lieutenant. We were all worried because missing a ships movement was an inexcusable offense in the Navy. If you missed a ships movement without a legitimate excuse you had better be either captured by the communists or dead. Everyone in the squadron was standing on the flight deck hoping he would show up any minute. Even the Skipper was there. Soon the dock workers began loosing the mooring lines that held the ship to the dock. As the ship started moving away from the quay a taxi cab came hauling down the dock toward the ship and screeched to a halt, doors flying open, three women yelling “You stay with us one more night ThurstySan. You stay please. You nummer one goodtime sailorboy Thurstysan! ThurstySan jumping out of the cab, hurriedly kissing each one, throwing a loose wad of yen at the driver, bills flying and swirling while trying to tear himself away and running toward the ship. “Throw me a line boys, he yelled. One of the ships bosons heaved a line at him with a loop in the end. He stepped into the loop and grabbed fast on the line and we quickly took up the slack and began running across the deck to haul him up the 100 feet or so. The distance from the ship to the dock by that time was about 30’ and with his foot in the loop he jumped off the dock and swung toward the ship. All the time the ship’s captain watching from the quarterdeck shaking his head. ThurstySan left the dock and swung toward the ship smacking full face into the hull. It knocked him out cold and his foot slipped through the loop. We hauled him up with the squadron’s Master Chief yelling: “Heave lads, Heave! Mr. Thurston was out cold and hanging upside down, cheap souvenirs and yen notes spilling out of his pockets as we hauled him aboard. “He so horny we fuck him all night!”, yelled one of the girls on the dock.

Officer or enlisted there was one place in San Diego where we all went. Fred Finn started a speakeasy type bar in an abandoned warehouse. He played rinkydink piano with a motley band to a full house every night- even with a $5 cover charge. The beer was $2.25 a pitcher. His wife Mickey played the banjo occasionally. He had a great repertoire and lots of tricks to keep the crowd entertained like a moving spotlight that shined from the ceiling to hi-lite the waitresses behinds as a shrill whistle sounded off. What a place that was. Fred and his crew would man an old fire truck they would ride in the parades and a big cannon they would shoot off at Charger games. We spent a lot of time at Mickey Finns swilling pitcher after pitcher and meeting girls. At that time in the early ‘60s $2.25 was an expensive pitcher of beer , but worth it. One night a waitress approached our table and announced that one of the patrons had bought us a pitcher. She wouldn’t say who. After we finished that one she came over with another, then another, then another. We never learned who bought us all that beer but we had to give up before he quit buying- whoever it was.

At that time my buddy Dan and I drove sports cars. He had an MG A and me an Austin Healey Bugeye Sprite. We bought them at the same time in L.A. The car lots had acres of them and you could have any one of them for $1000 each. There was a Bank of America about a block from Finns and on our way there one night Dan found a survival flare that I kept in the passenger door side pocket. He thought it would be a good idea to fire off the smoke end and hold it up while driving down the road, which he did. It got too much for him to hold and he threw it away. As chance would have it we were just passing that bank and the flare rolled right up to its outside marble façade. It was protest time in those days and the driver behind us must have thought that were bombing the bank. Un beknownst to us he got my license # and called the cops. We were working our way through our first pitcher when Fred announced that the cops were waiting to speak to the owner of the red Sprite in the parking lot. We both emerged from the back door to be greeted by three uniformed officers and a detective. The first thing they did was separate us and begin questioning. I yelled over to Dan: “They don’t have a thing on us Dan. Don’t tell them anything”. “Look Son. Your buddy over there is being straight with us and explaining what happened. Mean time you are over here playing sea lawyer. Just tell us what happened and we’ll go easy on you. Otherwise you will be causing a lot more trouble for yourself than you are in right now.”

That got my attention so I blamed it all on Dan. After getting our units, the name of our Skipper, addresses, drivers license numbers I managed to convince them that we had no intention of pulling a Berkley and burn down the bank. They said that if we went back and cleaned off the face of the bank they wouldn’t take us to jail, but they would still have to file a report with our unit commander. We had no cleaning materials but our tee shirts. There was a water spigot across the road from the bank and we spent the next three hours wiping the stain, wringing out the tee shirts and hopping across the road for more water. Occasionally one of the black and white’s would show up to say. “You guys are going to jail if you don’t get it all off.” And then again with “You guys are never going to get that bank cleaned.” All the while we are scrubbing and running back across the road thinking that they will throw us in jail for sure and the Chief will have to come bail us out. Around 2am we eventually got it looking presentable. The next day we spoke to our buddy Operations Petty Officer Hank. I won’t mention his last name, who intercepted the letter to the Skipper and sixed it. Whew!

Petty Officer Hank, our squadron Ops Petty Officer. There was a guy that had his stuff together. I never hung with him personally, but he impressed me as one smart cookie. Street smarts. He had a commercial pilots license and the Officers would let him fly the aircraft occasionally. I was a radar/sonar operator. Our squadron flew the S2 Tracker. It was a multi-engine sub hunter with R1820 1200 horsepower twin engines. I would be sitting in the back with the pilot and Hank would be up in the left seat doing touch and goes. What a time. Hank at that time owned 5 rental houses in Coronado, one of the richest areas in California. He had a 40’ yacht moored at the Coronado Yacht club, and him an E6. Hank was switched on. Once I heard him answer one of the Officers with: “Can’t handle that Sir? Want me to get a seaman recruit to do it for you Sir?” I didn’t think much of it at the time, but to deep-six the cops' letter addressed to the Skipper took confidence- and balls. Hank was a rare individual. I was fortunate to know him.

One day I was sitting in the Squadron Hangar Crapper reading the walls. I recognized one of the scripts and wrote an answer. Young and stupid doesn’t describe someone who would write on the Squadron wall, then sign his name to it, but there I was. About a week later I was called into the Leading Chief’s office and asked to sign my name on a sheet of paper, which I did. We then marched down to the head, the Chief and me and the squadron legal officer. The chief held up my signature next to my name on the wall and said: “Do you deny that this is your signature?” I looked at the legal officer and said: “Do I have to say anything Sir?”. “You don’t have to say anything Michael.” I got the impression that he was a little disgusted with the Chief trying to nail someone for writing on the shithouse wall. I looked at the Chief and said that I wasn’t going to say anything. He stepped back, put his hands on his hips and said. “Well, it looks like we will have to call in the CID in on this” The CID I thought. For writing on the bathroom wall?

I had all I could do to contain myself from breaking out laughing. A week went by before I was assigned to latrine duty. I scrubbed that head each day and was instructed to call the Officer of the Day when finished, whereupon he would arrive, inspect the head and announce: “Not good enough Michael. Do it over.” Young and dumb as I was, instead of just sitting there for a few hours and calling him again, I would actually do it over only to have him inspect and announce: “Still not good enough. Do it over.” Ahh Youth! Looking back I have little doubt that the Chief actually called the CID only to be drowned out in laughter as they hung up on him.

Being trained by the Navy as an avionics technician, I thought I would better my electronic skills by working in the shop rather than on the line. In the shop we actually got to dig into the radios and nav gear found faulty by the avionics techs that worked on the line. One day I was approached by the Warrant Officer in charge of the shop. “Michael! How many times have I told you to get a haircut?” It was never short enough, it seemed. “Michael, you go down to the base legal officer and show him your haircut.” I then trundled off to the base legal officer. “What can I do for you Son?” , he said after in entered his office, stood at attention and said: “Reporting as ordered Sir.” My shop Chief ordered me to report to you for a haircut inspection sir”, I replied. “What? What for?” “Dunno Sir. The shop chief is not happy with my haircut I think”, said I. He looked at me and seemed to come unglued. “Who sent you down here for me to inspect your haircut? What is his name and phone number?” He then got on the phone. “What in the hell do you think you are doing sending your men to me for haircut inspections? Do you think the legal office has nothing better to do than this? Chief if you can’t do your job its no concern of mine. If you send anyone else to this office for haircut inspections I will put you on report”. “Son. You are dismissed.” I did an about face and marched out of the office. Looking back, It is laughable, but at the time it was one more reason why I wanted out of the Navy. Those people were crazy.

Haircuts were always an issue. Once on the ship I got disgusted with always being pestered about my hair being too long. So I shaved my head. My mates helped me. Except for a little knot of hair about an inch and a half tall right in the middle of the top of my head. Somebody ratted on me and the next morning during muster on the Hangardeck the chief yells. “Squadron. Attenshun! Hats—OFF. The chief made a bee line for me. He was about 5’2. Looking up at me he began yelling. “What are you doing with a haircut like that Michael? Even though my haircut was more than regulation, the knot was more than he thought standard. I glanced over at the rest of the squadron. The officers were standing there shaking their heads. As if to say. “Pathetic, simply disgraceful”. “You get below and shave that ridiculous knot off your head!” “Yes Chief” I replied. I was worried. I did it as a joke but didn’t think anyone would worry about it. After all. It was regulation. I think it was around that time I got me a short-timers chain.

When we were little my brother used to follow me around. Being a typical big brother who held his little brother in contempt I kept yelling at him to stop following me around. One day I said to our mother. “Mom. Tell Jerry to quit following me around” whereupon she replied with: “Jerry. Quit following your brother around.” From that day on Jerry never followed me or anyone else around. At the grand age of about 4 jerry became his own man—and for approximately the next 8 years, my chief competitor. It seemed he spent his every waking moment thinking up ways to get me into trouble. What was really upsetting was he was successful at it. The only time he was caught was once when he was hanging over the balcony with his hands around his throat making choking sounds pretending I was beating him up and mom stepped out from under the staircase and caught him. There he was with his hands around his throat and me standing about halfway up the stairs. Small compensation for all the times he stood by smirking while I got swatted by Pop for something he had framed me for. In my frustration I would take a poke at him every once in a while. Pop once said to me: “If you hit your brother again I’m going to give you a backside warming you won’t ever forget.” That was music to Jerry’s ears. For fear of my father I never touched him and endured his torments without reacting. One day in Germany it got to be too much. I was sitting in my room doing my homework when he darkened my door with his typical litany of verbal torments. “Why don’t you hit me? C’mon. Pop’s sitting down the hall at the dining room table. Go ahead. Hit me. Whattsamatter Chicken? You’re chicken aren’t you. Cluck cluck acluck buck buck a cluck.” My patience at the end of its rope I got up, grabbed him by his shoulders, lifted him up and threw him against the wall across the hall. Even as he was sliding down the wall toward the floor he looked down the hall toward Pop at a loss for words, pointing at me, mouth agape. “Charlie hit me”, he gleefully announced. I came out of the room and looked at Pop. “Well, He probably had a good reason.” Was his reply. Wow! At that moment. My image of my Dad grew to immense proportions. Later when I was about 16 Jer and I became fast friends for life. But then he showed up to visit me at North Island.

I have no idea what he was doing in San Diego. I must have been around 20 at the time, which would put him at 16. The family was living in St. Louis, but here he was by himself in San Diego. I had no place to put him up so I hid him in the barracks. He spent about two weeks sleeping in the barracks. We would go out and party. I would take him out and we would meet girls and goof off, riding around in my Bugeye Sprite. But then I had to leave on a two week cruise aboard the Yorktown for a Carqual. That is short for Carrier Qualifications. We would float around off the coast of California practicing Operational exercises on the USS Yorktown. Innocently I told Jerry. “ok here is the keys to my locker. Just make yourself scarce and sleep in my bunk till I get back. I’m putting the keys to the Sprite in my locker but don’t drive it. Here is some money so you can eat at the gedunk, the base snackbar. They won’t ask you for any ID there.”

When I returned Jerry is under house arrest and I am quickly ushered into the office of the CID to explain all of the tools etc they found in my car after they stopped Jerry for as they called it “zipping around base” in my Sprite. I explained that he was visiting me, but denied that I had ever told him to sleep in the barracks. They said they were going to do an investigation and released jerry. I told Jer to leave the base and for the next few months friends were approaching me and telling me that the CID was around asking questions, trying to place the tools that were found in the back of my car. Truth is that if I found a tool on the mat or anywhere else I would inspect it for identifying marks and if I couldn’t find who it belonged to, throw it in the back of the Sprite. Apparently the CID came up with nothing and about two months later called me into their office. “There is the story on you” as he threw down a sheaf of papers about two inches thick on the table. As I was beginning to answer he said “Don’t say a thing. I don’t want to hear a thing out of you. Shut up before you get yourself in more trouble than you are already in. We have decided not to prosecute you so you are dismissed, but that is the story on you. Don’t touch that! Just leave and count yourself lucky” So I left and counted myself lucky while telling myself. “They didn’t find a thing on me.” Jerry joined the Army and went to the Nam where he got shot up a couple of times. The next time I saw him was in 1969. He got discharged from Walter Reed and the army and came to visit me while I was attending San Diego State. He lived a good life and worked in Ocean Beach for the next 40 years and died in 2008. He always told me that he led his life watching me and doing the opposite. I sure miss you Bro.