Maybe I’m hung up on stories about flying ridiculously close to the bottom edge of the air (aka “the ground”) but some are just too improbable and too whacko to be lost in the FAA’s big computer in Plano, Texas. Most complaints to the feds involve real or imaginary low-flying objects — airplanes, lawn chairs, helicopters and UFOs, followed by calls from indignant Part 135 operators ratting out somebody else’s “134½” activities. If you’re the inspector unlucky enough to get the low-fly variety, you try to sound appropriately concerned and deeply sympathetic with the trauma inflicted on this irate citizen — even if the low-flying object is saucer-shaped and contains little green men. In the case of a real flying machine, unless the offender is stupid enough to come back on a regular basis or the caller was able to get an N-number (or something close), it rarely goes any further than your desk.
Alas, some unlucky offenders can be identified, and as out of character as it may seem, I was particularly adept at sweet-talking confessions out of suspect pilots: “Gee whiz, this isn’t serial murder, and since there are witnesses, do yourself a favor and just come clean. It’s your first offense … no big deal; we’ll handle it as painlessly as possible and you can get on with your life.” Note: Do not fall for this line. Remember — better, memorize — my Rules for Living and Flying formulated (mostly) from experience: Deny all accusations; fly old airplanes with really little N-numbers (or ones with weird paint schemes that make them unreadable); put nothing in writing that involves your signature; drive beige cars (or date guys who drive beige cars); stay low and aim for the light spots; and practice saying, “I don’t remember anything after I left 3,000 feet.”
