Sometimes She Cries in General

By the fall of 1989 I had already shot almost every weapon in the US inventory. I had made it through AOCS. I had started flight school. And I was wondering what the fuck I was doing.

I had “Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich” on cassette. I’d run every evening when the sun went down. Too humid and hot to run in Pensacola until the sun goes down.

This song would come on somewhere between the Naval Aviation Museum and the Mustin Beach Officers club. I knew I was running about a 6 minute mile if I got to the O’Club before “Sometimes She Cries” came on.

My running days are long behind me now. I am really hoping to get out of this life without a hip replacement. Things they don’t tell you in your 20s is all that running comes back to haunt you. And somewhere in the interceding years it grows teeth.

I got off the plane in April 1989. After 4 years in Las Vegas, Pensacola was like walking into a steam bath. I remember thinking “What have you done, jackass?”

I was separated from X1 at the time. Six months later I was back with her. That was a mistake.

But you really can’t second guess yourself. It fucking happened. Nothing changes that fact. The best you can do is keep your eyes on the road and perhaps make better decisions in the future.

I have been feeling better since I chose the path I am on. Because retirement bores the shit out of me. Maybe 20 years as a CFI will give me some purpose.

At least civilian flying is fun.

I’m jumping through the hoops to get all the medical stuff out of the way. Already had a physical. Another blood draw on Monday. Flight Physical on Wednesday. EKG on Friday.

I should be soloing again by the week after next.

In flight school in 1989 I was a fish out of water. Naval Officers are treated very differently than I had ever been treated. Check the flight schedule every day at 1700. Not on the flight schedule, flight simulator or SDO? You’re on your own. They just assumed you were studying or not getting thrown in jail.

I was 27. I had never had anyone trust me that much before.

Weird parallel to Maine Coastal Flight. I show up, park. Walk through the lobby. Put my water bottle in the break room refrigerator (flying makes you thirsty.) Walk back through the lobby, through the door that has a “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY” sign. Walk the quarter mile to the T-hangars. Frig around with the Hangar door sensors until I can get the door to open. Drag the plane out. Flip on the master switch and lights, drop the flaps.

One loop to check the lights. Turn off the master switch. Check the oil. The gas quality. Then gas quantity. Check the brake pads and tires. Then the flight surfaces.

Climb in, strap in, turn on the radios. Get the weather and wind. Frig around with the antique avionics and wait for the instructor.

There is literally nothing stopping me from starting the aircraft and just flying away other than it would probably be my last flight. Yep, steal an airplane, go to jail.

I don’t get all weird like this in real life. I am mostly looking forward. But there is something about coming “Diary Dearest,” or “Prosebox Dearest” as it were, that makes me look back.

X1 in 1985. She was 28, I was 23. She was such a doll. I didn’t stand a chance once she chose me. I carried that picture in my wallet for years. Makes me sad. Nobody chooses schizophrenia. I don’t even know if she is still alive.

Last updated June 08, 2018