Jet Setter
(continued) 
As a result, dusk was definitely settling as I cleared Santa Barbara and headed past Oxnard. The visibility had been pretty good for most of the trip, but 12 miles out from Santa Monica, looking ahead into the deepening eastern sky, it was as if Los Angeles had disappeared into the mists of Brigadoon.
I peered ahead as I got close to Santa Monica, finally spying the city pier jutting out into the water. According to the chart, if I turned inland there, I'd be on a perfect entry for downwind at SMO. But it wasn't until I turned that I finally saw the runway lights.
I landed and taxied in -- which at Santa Monica consists of turning off the runway/ramp pretty much wherever you like -- and went to what I'd been told was the only full FBO there … Atlantic Aviation. And only then, like Cinderella stepping into her carriage, did the glamour part finally start to kick in.
Atlantic, after all, is where all those shiny private jets park when they visit Hollywood. So you get jet-set service, even if you arrive in a Cheetah. A cart and three line guys showed up to help get me parked amidst all those big jets and transport my bags into the modern glass and metal facility. A sports car showed up, too -- a local pilot who wanted to show me his SIAI Marchetti S.211 jet in a nearby hangar. The desk personnel asked politely what time I wanted my airplane ready to go in the morning, and what services I might require. And then I relaxed in the black leather and chrome lobby to wait for my driver -- a.k.a. my friend Tony -- to come pick me up.
The party was a lovely affair, awash with both well-heeled and really creative people, starlight, champagne, and the gentle crashing of waves on white sand. Truly … everyone should get a chance to play Cinderella every now and then. It's fun.
Of course, all Cinderella parties come to an end, at which point the illusionary, glittering carriage turns back into a pumpkin. Or, in this case, a Grumman Cheetah. The next morning, clad in practical jeans once more, I made my way past all the shiny jets at Atlantic, drinking in a last few minutes of Hollywood glamour before attending to the same preflight, loading and flight planning tasks as every other working crew on the ramp.
The reality-check icing on the cake came when I climbed into the cockpit. As I closed the canopy, I detected an unmistakable odor of … jet fuel. I sniffed my clothes and pulled back in distaste. Oh, good lord. The only lingering result of my mingling with the jet-set was a dose of jet fuel mist that apparently settled on my clothing while walking around all those running jet engines. I sighed. So much for glamour. Cinderella was definitely back at her fireplace -- and covered by a substance far harder to wash away than soot or cinders.
But that's where the comparison stops. Because Cinderella actually would have given quite a bit to have my seat -- jet-A or no jet-A -- the morning after the ball. The Cheetah might not be a particularly glamorous airplane. But the flight home was a very long cry from kitchen duty.
The skies were cloudless and, heading back north, those horrible headwinds had turned into blissful tailwinds. Now that I had no schedule to keep and wasn't pushing dark, I was suddenly zipping across the landscape at 140 knots. Of course. But the air was smooth, and the visibility was crystal clear -- at least where I was flying.
In the Midwest, where I learned to fly, bad visibility tended to spread everywhere if it was anywhere in the weather picture. But weather in California can be almost unnervingly diverse, with sharp boundary lines delineating vastly different conditions. Over Paso Robles, conditions were CAVU (Ceiling and Visibility Unlimited). But one ridgeline over, I could see the San Joaquin Valley was still completely socked in with dense fog.
It was kind of pretty, actually -- tendrils of fog creeping along the tops of the ridges and flowing in cotton-ball waves of opaque white across the valley to the east, while sunshine bathed the rolling hills and vineyards beneath me in contrasting shades of gold. So, okay. "Kind of pretty" doesn't really cover it. And yet, "glamorous" didn't seem quite the right word, either. Why was that?
As I flew along, surrounded by some of the most beautiful landscape in America, it struck me that perhaps it's because glamour -- at least as I think of it -- has to do with man-made beauty. Clothing. Trappings. Image. Refined tastes. Ease and privilege. Usually with a big price tag attached. Glamour is about things -- including a lifestyle -- that money can buy. Flying a plane to LA for a party -- while fun -- isn't particularly glamorous unless the trip is relatively quick and easy and the plane itself is refined and glamorous -- which a used, 1977 Grumman Cheetah most certainly is not.
Having my own airplane certainly puts me far higher on the food chain than many people in America. I am fully aware that it is a tremendous privilege to be able to own and fly a plane, and to have access to the world it shows me. And it does shorten the distance between two points … sometimes. But I gave up owning my own home to buy the Cheetah. I pump my own gas, tie the plane down outside, and work hard to fly it -- sans autopilot or much electronic wizardry -- through challenging conditions. And to make that five-hour party in Los Angeles took the better part of two days.
Do I mind? No. Because I didn't learn to fly, or buy the Cheetah, to have an easier or more glamorous life. I did those things to have a more rewarding life. Which may include flying down to a glamorous party every now and then, but -- like the stunning, natural beauty of the California landscape -- is something far beyond, and far more valuable, than anything money can buy.
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