When alphabet airspace was new and the amoeba-like "Bs" (the handiwork of ground-pounding bureaucrats) appeared on VFR charts, the Flight Standards District Offices were flooded with unintentional altitude violations. Some approach controls were more draconian than others about turning in violators to Flight Standards — Cleveland being one of the worst — and getting caught usually meant a six-month suspension. Creative contour flying actually saved a person who, mesmerized by the sight of the Cleveland lakefront, realized with horror she was at 2,200 feet where the Class B floor was at 1,900. I heard that this person flipped the transponder off and on several times to indicate an equipment problem and then, back on the 1200 squawk, flew law-abidingly around the edge of the airspace to a small airport and landed … well, almost. It was a good bet that Cleveland had tagged and tracked the target, then called the FBO where she landed to weasel out the airplane's N-number. So, on close final, this scofflaw turned off the squawk machine and "contour flew" southwest at a couple hundred feet all the way to Columbus, where it was safe to turn the box back on, climb to a civilized altitude and proceed home, safe in the arms of ATC. Please understand I relate this story (which I overheard from somebody) only rhetorically as a sort of philosophical exploration of the potential effects of overregulation. The art of contour flying is a heinous, abhorrent, sinful practice (I went to confession) that too often puts amateur and hotshot airpersons in the trees or the dirt or — worse — underneath.