Move to California, May 1965
In January 1965 a "position open" notice caught our eyes. It was for the Assistant Airport Manager at Oakland International Airport. We thought it might be fun to see what a job interview was like, and there was was a Piper Cherokee 235 stranded at Reno that needed to be brought back to Springfield. We decided I should volunteer to ferry it back providing we could take it to Oakland on our way home. The owner agreed. So we were off on another adventure, spending the night in Reno, stopping at Lake Tahoe and at a friend's place near Sacramento on our way to Oakland. We had friends in Alameda so dropped in on them and partied for the weekend. Erral was having fun, and so was I.
The interview took place on Monday in downtown Oakland. There were 9 other candidates being interviewed and, after the interviews were over I was asked to join the selection committee at the airport. None of the others, just me. Neither Erral nor I had gone through anything like this before and I thought it was just a friendly get together. Since we had to spend another night, we were moved to an upgraded motel. Pretty cushy we thought. And the next morning a driver from the airport picked us up to take us to our borrowed plane. Treatment we'd never had before. He left us at the plane, saying he's sure he'd see us again. We had no idea at the time how prophetic his remark would prove to be.
About a month later the Airport Manager, Deward Hext, called to congratulate me, something we were not fully prepared for. I had been selected over the many other qualified candidates and now we had to decide if we really wanted to move. We had a nice new house, our kids were in school, and I liked my job. Erral was ready for adventure, though, and, ironically, another of her dreams was coming true. She had written on 7/12/46, "..... some day when you're manager of an airport or something." How could she have been so prophetic -- and so precise?
Erral quickly devised a plan. This was a great opportunity to move to California, on the San Francisco Bay, near the water, something she'd always dreamed of. And it was a chance to make more money -- always welcome for a growing family -- and more of a chance to move up in the aviation world. She would take full charge of the house, get ready to move when the kids got out of school, and sell or rent the house while I trudged off to California to find a place for us to live. I reported for work on April 1, 1965 and stayed in close touch with Erral. I was able to ferry a Cessan 172 to Salem one weekend, catch a ride in a Beech 18 another weekend, and West Coast Airlines got my business on two other weekends. Erral took the airline to Oakland one weekend, too, so she could help look for a house to rent and have some time to spend -- just the two of us. She was thrlled with the prospect of new surroundings and a chance to try life in the Bay Area. We found a house on the lagoon in Alameda, just what she wanted -- with the water at our back door and a bedroom for each child. The kids would like it too. It would be a new adventure for all of us.
The house didn't sell but Erral found a good tenant to take our place. I came back to Salem, rented a U-Haul truck, loaded up and off we went down I-5, Erral driving our Avanti and me behind the wheel of the U-Haul towing a cargo trailer.
(to be continued - Alameda years, changing jobs, travel adventures, living in the Middle East)
Debra learned how Erral handled her daughter and the police at the same time
I can't remember what we were riding in. It wasn't a route Mom drove regularly; it might have been Waldport (near our cabin in Oregon). She had just completed a turn when a siren went off and a police car drove up behind us. "Oh, dear," Mom said, and started pulling over. Thinking I was more observant or, for some reason, knew something she didn't, I said, "Mom, you ran a stop sign." Now, Mom knew exactly what she needed to do and she didn't need me flubbing it up for her. It was no time to show off how smart I was about traffic rules. In a calm, but firm voice she said, "Keep your mouth shut." She rolled down the window and was as pleasant and polite to that officer as you could imagine. She maintained that she hadn't realized why he pulled her over, then apologized sincerely for making the mistake. When we drove away, the officer was smiling and confident he made the right decision not giving her a ticket. I never mentioned that stop sign again.
An Unforgetable Weekend --Thanksgiving 1970
We were on our way to Portland to have our traditional Thanksgiving dinner with Erral's folks in Portland, following the same scenario as the year before. We had departed Oakland on the morning of Thanksgiving Day in our Cessna 195 and, because of poor weather inland, were flying up the coast where we could stay lower in warmer air and not risk icing conditions. We'd flown northbound almost 500 miles and had been able to stay clear of any real bad clouds, but it was raining, and there were strong headwinds. And, the rain got worse, and the clouds got darker, and they got lower. And the wind got gustier. As we got halfway up the coast in Oregon, we thought it was not a real good day to be flying, so maybe we'd better stop at our beach cabin which is on the Wakonda Beach airstrip near Waldport. It was the prudent thing to do, and we could go on up to Portland the next day and, at least, have leftovers. We arrived over our airstrip and tried an approach but the winds were so gusty I had to abort. We couldn't land there.
By this time the rain was coming down in sheets. The weather was not as forecast at all. We couldn't go north so did a 180 degree turn and headed back down the coast, stayingVFR as best we could. Florence, 27 miles south, was visible as we got closer. It was getting dark, but the runway was paved and longer than the grass strip at Wakonda Beach and there weren't as many tall trees near the runway to cause turbulence.
Landing at Florence was a good choice. The airport was deserted, but we had some friends in California, Lars and Diane Lind, who kept a Jeep station wagon in a hangar at the airport. Luckily, there was a pay phone at the airport so we called them, explained our situation and asked about the Jeep and would it be possible to use it to drive up to Wakonda Beach where we could spend the night. They were some of our very best friends and told us how to get into the hangar and find the keys to the Jeep. Whew! How lucky could we be? But, what a way to spend Thanksgiving!
We got the Jeep out of the hangar and drove to highway 101. We had no food but we lucked out and found a gas station open with a mini-store where we could get something to keep from starving. They had no turkeys so we settled for hamburger, instead. We added some bread, milk and other items and piled into the Jeep for our 45 minute ride up the coast, in darkness and pouring down rain.
By the time we'd parked and walked into our cabin, the five of us looked, and felt, like drowned rats. We got the door unlocked and, as quick as we could, started a fire in the fireplace. It was our only heat. We had a roof over our head and beds to sleep in so it wasn't all that bad. But we were missing our dinner on this Thanksgiving Day, the first time ever that any of us could remember. And it was getting late.
Erral, as upbeat and optimistic as ever, was not daunted in the least. She could always make the best of anything, no matter what. We were going to have a Thanksgiving feast after all. She took that mini-store hamburger and molded it into a turkey-shaped breast, found some cans of vegetables in the cabin, and baked that "breast" in our oven at the cabin. We were cold, it was drafty, but the fire was cheerful, and Erral had pulled off a real feast for us. It was DELICIOUS -- meatloaf -- a dinner I will never forget, and one where we had more to be thankful for than almost any other time. Just the five of us -- together, on Thanksgiving!
The next day the storm was still there. Rain, rain, rain. Bad winds and very low clouds. We were still about 150 air miles from those traditional Thanksgiving turkey leftovers. It was impractical to try driving and we sure as heck weren't going to try flying. So, it was another night in the cabin.
By Saturday morning, the storm had abated enough that we got into the air and made it on to Portland, landing at PDX, Portland International Airport, only a couple days late. We parked the plane and Erral's Dad, glad to see us, picked us up for a belated Thanksgiving visit with her Mom and Dad, sister Jeanne and brother-in-law George, nieces Gorjean and Pam, and nephew Brad.
Because of school for the kids on Monday and my work, we could only stay the night. It would be necessary to head for home the next morning, Sunday.
The trip back
Sunday morning, the storm had moved through and left nothing but clear skies in Portland. However, a call to the FAA for a weather briefing revealed a surprise. There was heavy, thick fog at the airport. It was zero-zero. The airport was closed. And the fog wasn't expected to lift until late in the morning, possibly not until afternoon. This meant we wouldn't be able to make it back to Oakland for school on Monday, or my job.
But wait! I had an idea. Hillsboro was open, in bright sunshine, with clear skies. Erral's Dad could take us to the airport, drop me off, and take Erral and the kids across town to Hillsboro. I could make a zero-zero takeoff at Portland and meet them at Hillsboro with the plane. Erral's Dad had difficulty understanding how I could take off when the airliners couldn't. So, on the way to the airport, I tried to explain the different rules for air carrier flights and the ones for non-commercial flights, and the fact that if I asked for a clearance for takeoff the control tower could not refuse. He was still shaking his head when he dropped me off.
I knew the fog layer was not very thick, and I'd done takeoffs like this before. However, it was better to have the airplane light and not have the distraction of passengers aboard. The takeoff was even easier than I anticipated. The wind was calm. I was on instruments as soon as the tail came up and the climb through the fog lasted only a few seconds. It was only about 200 feet thick -- just enough to keep the airliners grounded.
It was a beautiful day for flying. Very light wind and bright sunshine above the fog. We rendezvoused at Hillsboro, loaded up, and were on our way. Erral had assured her Dad I had not done anything wrong but the mystery lingered. He was still shaking his head in amazement as we taxied to the runway for takeoff.
We elected to follow the coast route again because of poor weather forecast for southern Oregon and northern California. It would be best to avoid higher altitudes. After about 300 miles, our fair weather began to deteriorate. It had begun to rain and, because of our late start, daylight was coming to an end. Since the forecast for the weather south was suspect, we decided to stop for the night at Brookings. Another night of togetherness, this time in a motel not far from the airport, and we'd be just a little late for school and my work on Monday. The last leg of our flight, Brookings to Oakland, should be only about 2 1/2 hours by Cessna 195.
Monday morning we were underway again. Visibility was good, ceilings were high, but the air was very turbulent and the winds were out of the south, right on our nose. It would be a rough, slow flight. We bounced our way along to about 110 miles south of Brookings when we encountered a huge cumulus thunder cloud in our path. The base was 5,000 to 6,000 feet above the ocean and we stayed under it, with my strong hand pushing forward on the control column to keep from being sucked up into the center of the rapidly rising, swirling air. We were three quarters of the way under it when, BAM! We struck a sudden downburst and the plane dropped instantly, forcing us against our seatbelts and my head into the crossover spar in the ceiling of the cockpit. Erral screamed!. I had never ever heard her do that before. She wasn't certain of what was happening but I couldn't even look her way; I had to stay focused on controlling the airplane and keeping the wings level to keep us upright. In a few seconds we were out the other side of the microburst and the airplane stopped going down just as suddenly as it had dropped. We'd hit bottom with positive G's and a shudder as we flew into benign solid air. The rest of the way to Oakland we saw no other thunder clouds, and the air was a little less rough. It took us the next two hours to calm down and recover enough from our bout with that renegade thunderstorm and tackle our final landing of the trip.
It took longer than we'd planned -- 3.2 hours instead of 2.5, caused by the rough air and strong winds. The landing was okay, and it was good to be on the ground as we taxied to our tie-down area on the North Field at Oakland International.
My airport car was where we'd left it five days ago, parked behind our tie-down spot. We piled out of the plane, thankful to be home, and began moving our things from the baggage compartment to the car's trunk. As I was back at my car, I saw a white sedan pull up next to the right wing of the plane and a man got out. He didn't wave or even look at us; just walked to the open cabin door and looked in. I hesitated, then walked over to him thinking he was just another curious onlooker who wanted to see the airplane up close. This happened all the time. The 195 was a special kind of airplane and it attracted a lot of admirers. I asked if I could help with any questions he might have. He still didn't look at me and, almost shrugging me off, said, "No, I saw five people get out of the airplane and I wanted to see if there were five seat belts in the airplane."
Then it suddenly dawned on me. I had seen a "G" license plate on the white sedan. It was an FAA car. The man was a GADO (General Aviation District Office) inspector. I was being ramp checked -- and he didn't know what a Cessna 195 was. I was still tense from the turbulent ordeal we'd just come through, and I snapped! He was standing next to the data plate riveted to the post of the open door. I told him in very terse terms there were five seatbelts in the plane in plain sight, and pointed to the data plate right in front of his nose. It stated very clearly that this airplane was certified, by the FAA, as a 5-place landplane.
Then I looked at his white sedan again. And fire came to my eyes. He had been driving on the airport ramp in an unmarked car, without a ramp flag. This was a violation of airport regulations. Suddenly, he was the one in trouble. And, it was serious! He didn't know I was the airport manager, and I wasted no time telling him he had violated a critical airport regulation and that he was on report. Erral was watching from the car and smiled, approvingly -- in full support.
Soon after, his facility manager concocted an ingenious punishment. The guilty inspector had to endure the humiliation of being made to write on a blackboard -- in front of all his fellow inspectors -- twenty-five times: "I will never ever drive on the ramp at the Oakland Airport again without a ramp flag on my car."
The punishment was most fitting, and we were never again bothered by the FAA keeping track of people getting in or out of our airplane.
It was a very satisfying conclusion to our 96-hour adventure -- our 1970 Thanksgiving Day weekend.
Claude tells about Erral taking him across the border from Jordan into Israel.
It was 1976, the year of our nation's bi-centennial. I was 18, just old enough to begin learning just how much I had to learn, worlds away from being a seasoned world traveler. Mom and Dad were living in Jordan while I was beginning college back in California. They arranged for me to visit Jordan for a month during a school break. Some misadventures along my journey to Jordan reinforced my notion of what a novice traveler I was. (Hey, how was I to know that you needed to confirm airline reservations. I figured that if you had a ticket you had a seat. I learned a valuable lesson in confirming reservations as I watched my flight leave Athens without me - leaving me, the young tyro, stranded in a strange land. After that, I had little trust for anyone. It took very convincing circumstances before I would allow ANY official to pry my passport from my grasp. Sometime paranoia is just good common sense.)
While in Jordan, Mom decided that she and I would take a little side trip across the border into Israel to visit Jerusalem. Mom likely thought that the trip would be an educational experience for me and probably hoped that it would pacify some of my teenage attitude. I suppose it's possible that even I, as a teenager, could have been just the slightest bit trying at times. We drove their boxy little Fiat that they'd purchased for getting around during their tenure in Jordan. Looking at that tired old Fiat, I internally fretted whether it was up to the task of transporting the two of us alone across the foreign desert wasteland. Externally, I adhered to the teenage code of conduct -- bored indifference. Mom seemed completely confident and at ease with the idea of the drive, so I took some reassurance from her. I remember being relieved at how handily their little conveyance tackled the hilly switchbacks of western Jordan. I also recall feeling a certain awe as we crested the last hill and were rewarded with a view of the Dead Sea. Its name alone conjures a reverence born of ancient myths. It also represented the border, the crossing from Jordan into Israel, two neighbors that had a history of not playing well together. I certainly had some apprehension of the bureaucratic scrutiny we would experience at the crossing.
The border seemed the quintessential middle of nowhere. It was nothing more than an arbitrary line drawn along the low spot in the desert of the broad valley that dumps into the Dead Sea. The road led to a small military-looking encampment that housed the guarded crossing. Extending from the border gate was a LONG line of middle-easterners that all looked resigned to spending their day standing in line unprotected from the desert sun. It looked like the line would take hours. Mom still appeared unruffled by the alien surroundings which continued to give me some reassurance. I've always been a bit uncomfortable around police and other officials that tend to strap pistols to their sides. All the uniformed dudes at the Israeli border seemed to be carrying automatic riffles. I was going to do what ever I was told - TO THE LETTER!
I started the hike towards the end of the line grumbling that we could be here the rest of the day. Mom didn't follow. Instead, she stood there studying the line and then the dudes with the machine guns at its head. After a couple moments, she turned to me and using a tone that sons don't question said, "Give me your passport." I dug out my passport and handed it to her. In that same enigmatic tone she said, "Follow me and don't say a word." With that, she turned and walked straight to the ranking official at the front of the line, a middle aged Israeli with an aura of self importance. You've seen the guy in countless B-grade movies playing the same over-confident, cigar chomping, third world military general. Mom, with a look of complete innocence, opened our passports on his table and asked something like "how do we get these stamped to cross the border?" Our B-grade movie general said something in Arabic and gruffly waved us to the end of the line. Mom didn't move. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. We just need to get these stamped" she explained. Now looking somewhat angered and threatening, he again said something and made a gesture that clearly indicated that we should join the end of the line and speak with him again in a few hours. Mom, not seeming to understand his universal language of rude gestures, just kept telling him that she could not understand him while easing the passports a bit closer to his stamp and ink blotter. Finally, with a look of unreserved frustration, he grabbed our papers, stamped them, and waved us on our way. Mom simply smiled and said "thank you".
Ten minutes after arriving at the border, we were driving on a highway in Israel. And suddenly I was much less anxious about the two of us venturing alone into a foreign land.
(to be continued - return to California, more world travel, and building a retirement home in Oregon)