“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But you also recovered. It was the way you recovered. You stopped that spin like that and recovered from the resultant dive neatly and smoothly, with a minimum loss of altitude and still without squashin’ the ship. It was a beautiful piece of work and told me more about your flying than anything else you did, although I could tell in the first three minutes that you could fly.” I never saw a kid beam so much.
Johnny is now flying a regular run over the Andes in South America for Pan American Grace.
[“A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME....”]
I delivered a plane at a ranch in Mexico a few years ago for Joe and Alicia Brooks. I was to take back the ship they had been using. The ranch was about eighty miles over the border from Eagle Pass. The Brookses planned to leave with me and fly formation to New York. Both planes had approximately the same cruising speed. Alicia and I flew in one ship. Sutter, the mechanic, flew with Joe in the other.
The day we started didn’t look too good. Thick gray clouds were rolling in from the northeast. There was no way we could check our weather till we got to Eagle Pass. We had to take a chance on the eighty miles.
Joe led the way, and everything went fine at the start, but the nearer we got to Eagle Pass the worse the weather got. We were flying on top of a jerkwater railway, just missing the tops of the trees, when we bumped into a solid wall of fog. Joe disappeared into it. I stuck my nose in the stuff and pulled out: there was no percentage in two planes milling around blind. Too much chance of collision. I picked out a spot in between the cactus and landed. There was nothing to do but wait. If Joe came out he would come out on the railway and we would see him. Ten uncomfortable minutes passed. We heard a motor. Joe reappeared. He circled and landed alongside of us.
By this time the planes were surrounded by a herd of angry shrieking Mexicans. There must have been over a hundred of them. They didn’t seem to like us, but we couldn’t find out why. None of us spoke Spanish. Finally an official-looking fellow appeared with a lot of brass medals on his coat. He made us understand through the sign language that he wanted to see our passports. We couldn’t find them. The atmosphere was most unpleasant. We had visions of spending the next few days in a flea-bitten Mexican jail.
Then it occurred to me that I did know one Spanish word. Might as well use it, I thought, and see what happens. “Cerveza” I commanded. The Mexicans looked startled. “Cerveza” I commanded again. The Mexicans started to laugh.
The next thing we knew, we were sitting at a Mexican bar drinking beer with a lot of newfound friends. Cerveza is the Spanish for beer.