"This is my friend Lane. She flew in from Northern California for the party."
The speaker is my friend Tony, an entertainment lawyer and manager in Los Angeles, as he introduces me to the host and various other guests at the holiday party we're attending. A party, I might add, at the Malibu beach house of an actor and backer of movies and entertainment "projects," as they are known in "the industry."
The house is a gorgeous mix of beachside airiness and California rustic retreat. It has broad, wood floors and big wooden beams arching over an open floorplan that spills out onto a sumptuous beachside deck, complete with cushioned, built-in seats along a protective railing. Outdoor heaters are set up in the sand at the bottom of the deck stairs, champagne flows freely, and delectable hors d'oeuvres are continually replenished by the efficient catering staff. Valet parking "elves" in red sparkling Santa hats are busily parking designer cars out front, next to large security bouncers who check would-be attendees against an approved guest list.
This is not, as they say, my typical milieu. It is, however, a place where flying 350 miles to go to a party isn't anything out of the ordinary -- judging from the casual nods and smiles that greet Tony's statement. But as I politely meet and mingle with the guests, I suspect they're imagining a slightly different scenario than how it really played out.
After all, it does sound pretty glamorous, the way Tony put it. And standing in such lovely surroundings, champagne glass in hand, I could almost fall for the image, myself -- the dashing jet-set sophisticate, flying in from San Fran (or Aspen, or Rio) for a smashing Hollywood party. Now, granted, some of those folks may have thought I was flown in for the party, in one of the shiny private jets that grace the ramp at Santa Monica. But I'll bet even the pilots on hand -- and there were a few -- envisioned something a bit more cushy or zippy than a well-worn Grumman Cheetah that needs a new paint job and goes 112 knots on a good day.
The truth, of course, is that "jetting down" for a party takes on a whole new dimension when you're a VFR pilot in a very basic GA airplane. The trip actually started the night before, checking the weather. I had two routes I could follow -- the more direct route, down Highway 5 through the San Gabriel Mountains into the San Fernando Valley and across the Hollywood Hills into Santa Monica. Or, the longer route down the Salinas Valley to Santa Maria, Santa Barbara, and in along the coast.
I even told Tony that I wouldn't be able to confirm whether or not I was coming until late morning, when I saw what the fog was doing -- fog being the single most challenging weather factor Northern or Central California has to offer. In the summer, the fog tends to cling to the coast. But in the winter, when the inland valleys cool down, they can get socked in by dense fog for days. Non-aviation friends who see all airplanes as cool, business-type modes of transport often puzzle over the idea that a friend with an airplane can't guarantee they'll actually get there.
But life as a VFR-only pilot means ending every "sure, I'd love to" with the cautionary phrase " … God willin' and the creek don't rise." I'm okay with that limitation, but it's still a challenge for nonpilot friends who are used to a world more insulated from Nature's unpredictable shifts and moods.
Friday morning dawned clear in Palo Alto, but Livermore, where I keep my plane, had lingering low clouds … and the San Joaquin Valley was totally socked in. That meant the only option was the coastal route ... and even that required waiting until after noon. I packed clothes for the party and finally headed out to the airport about 11:30. It's almost an hour from my house to the airport, so by the time I got there, fueled the plane, loaded, flight planned, preflighted and took off, it was 1:30. Sunset in Santa Monica was 4:41, and I was going to have some serious headwinds. I hoped it wouldn't be too hazy in LA. Dusk and haze are a bad combo.
I headed south, skirting the eastern edge of the San Jose airspace, and was almost to Hollister when a controller called out traffic to me. "Six o'clock, same altitude, he's pulled in behind you, and he's gaining on you," the controller reported. I looked back through the Cheetah's long back windows, and saw an alarming sight -- a sight familiar to any fighter pilot, perhaps, but not something any normal pilot should ever see: the sight of an airplane on my tail, closing fast, and way too big in the rearview mirror.
The eastern edge of the San Jose airspace is a popular route out of the Bay Area, and I was at a standard VFR altitude. So my guess is that the pilot on my tail -- who wasn't talking to controllers -- was headed south and simply never saw me. (REALLY?????? NEVER SAW A 2,200-POUND AIRPLANE HE WAS ABOUT TO EAT FOR LUNCH??? On the other hand … I can't even count the number of times traffic has been called out to me and I never saw it, even though it supposedly passed close by and I was looking for it. So … it's possible.)
In any event, I didn't stick around to debate the point. I banked hard left and got the hell out of the way. Heart pounding, I watched as the plane zoomed right by me and headed blithely down the valley, adding insult to injury as it left me in its proverbial dust.
Not exactly glamour at its most impressive.
Neither, for that matter, were the next two and a half hours, as I battled my way slowly down the California coast, watching my groundspeed fluctuate between a whopping 89 and 98 knots. The gods might be allowing me to make it to Santa Monica, but they sure weren't going to make it easy.
