“Whiskey Whiskey, cleared to Jamma Intersection. Hold as published. … ” I hear this as we’re climbing out of Lebanon, New Hampshire, heading to Tampa, Florida, with my 91-year-old mother in the back and at least two low-pressure areas in front of us on the route down the East Coast. The widespread rain and low IFR weather have me glued to the Avidyne EX500, so I just barely hear “Whiskey Whiskey is requesting 10-mile legs.”
“Wait a second,” I think, “that’s Bill.”
