We came from all corners of the country at our own expense to Galveston, Texas, for a 15-minute ride in an ancient airplane. Nobody came away disappointed. The money spent and the vacation days taken meant nothing, you see, because the airplane was a B-17, the Flying Fortress. This one is in the careful custody of the Lone Star Flight Museum, and she is a beauty.
My host for this aeronautical treat was Commander Peter Hayes, then the Executive Officer at the Naval Air Field in El Centro, California. He had bid on a B-17 flight while attending an airshow convention, and he invited me to join him and three friends for the ride. I had not met Peter, but his mother and father-in-law are heroes of mine; our mutual admiration got me the spot. I had hoped to fly to Galveston from Tampa in our Cheyenne, but a huge mass of thunderstorms over New Orleans made the trip impractical. Circumnavigation to the north would have meant a fuel stop and delayed me beyond sunset, missing the flight. Circumnavigation to the south would have meant a swim. I called Peter to cancel, fully aware of the fact that I’d taken a seat and now I was not going to use it. He was generous with his understanding. “I never let my pride interfere with my life expectancy,” he said. I told him I’d try the airlines.
