I can dream, can't I?

It's just as well that I haven't been wailing and moaning about the "death of journalism" or the "lack of openings in my field."

My dad sent me an article the other day from U.S. News & World Report.

Written by experienced journalist and blogger Lynn O'Shaughnessy, the piece categorically states that journalism is not dead, and that the popular sentiment (which holds that journalism is going down the tubes, eclipsed by the Internet and whatnot) is just maudlin seepage originating from old-timers in the biz.

By networking, adjusting to new markets and media, and exploring every avenue now available to us (for there are so many more now than there used to be), we whippersnappers can ride high above the economic downturn and the supposedly-disastrous job market.

That was good news for me. I was feeling rather blue.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't been born in the 20th century.

I figure I'd have been better off living in the 17th, 18th or 19th centuries, when vast tracts of the world were still unexplored. When legends like El Dorado and Atlantis and Ultima Thule might just as easily have been true. When the maps were lumpy agglomerations of continents, oceans and half-dreamt islands. When the map-makers still drew sea monsters lunging out of unknown seas.

It doesn't seem like there's any romance in the world anymore. Every inch of land has been mapped and scanned into the satellites orbiting overhead. There are no more lost cities, no more uncharted islands, no more savage tribes, no more hidden valleys teeming with dinosaurs and cavemen. There's no underwater metropolis filled with fish-men at the bottom of the sea. There are no evil wizards to battle, mutants to destroy, dragons to slay, ogres to wrestle, flying horses to tame, zombies to flee, monsters to fear.

The days of adventure and mystery are long gone, they say. Indiana Jones and Saint George have polished off all the monsters and myths. Gone are the times when you could just board a flying boat for South America and trip your merry way through the jungle, linen suit, aviator shades, flask of brandy and all, dark-skinned porters toting your dancing shoes and swimming trunks. No more do Nazi agents stalk the globe, waiting to tangle the unsuspecting tourist in a web of espionage. Never again will Cthulhu rise from the watery ruins of R'lyeh and drive poor honest sailors crazy with fear. Edward Prendick has done his time on Dr. Moreau's island; he's back at home, out on the streets, suspicious and leery of his fellow human beings.

All the records have been broken; all the races have been run. Lindbergh, Balbo and Earhart have flown across the ocean; Barton and Beebe have gone to the bottom; Cottee has sailed around it without stopping. We've been to the darkest jungles, the harshest deserts, the highest mountains, the coldest tundra, the deepest oceans, even the heavens themselves. Attaining the impossible is no longer a job for Everyman. Pushing the boundaries is the office of scientists, engineers and millionaires now. The Wright Brothers built their airplane in their bike shop and flew it on a public beach; SpaceShipOne was developed as a joint venture between commercial interests, was piloted by a 70-year-old astronaut, flew from the fancifully-named Mojave Spaceport, and required licensing from the U.S. Department of Commercial Space Flight. (And it won the coveted $10 million X Prize.)

The good old days are gone, they tell me. In their place, I have to choke down reality, truth, practicality, rationality, pragmatism, tangibility, fact. I can just forget about roaming the world with my trusty plane and notebook, flying high and low and writing about it, living the dusty, muddy life of a pilot-cum-journalist.

To heck with that.

I can dream, can't I?

Most of you already know what I want to do with my life. For a good chunk of my finite existence, I expect to wake up in the morning in some far-flung place, climb into my battered airplane, deliver a shipment (or even a single package) to a deserving recipient, land in some other far-flung place, take out a notebook and pencil, and pen the day's adventures for posterity. Then I'll mix myself a drink and scribble a few more pages of my novel, and turn in for the night.

When you hear the phrase "a day in the life" what comes to mind? Coffee in the morning? Lazy afternoons with the newspaper and some crackers? The nine-to-five? Brushing the dog? Mowing the lawn? Taking the kids out for ice cream?

Probably, yeah. And there's nothing wrong with that. But I'm weird, remember? I seek adventure. Plus I'm a hopeless romantic. And I'm a little too obsessed with comic books.

So, when somebody asks me what MY idea of a "day in the life" would be, I immediately think of THIS:

(Just so you don't get confused, the guy in the red vest with the stretchy arms is me, your humble correspondent. The ugly dude in the fur coat and buckled shoes is the bad guy, trying to steal my cargo or assassinate my crew or block my novel from publication or whatever. Think of what a cool travel article this would make.)

I can dream, all right. Who says I can't? Who says I can't be a globe-trotting drink-mixing book-writing plane-flying travel journalist with his own airline (and novel series)?

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll have a big plane, capable of taking me to all sorts of amazing locales and exotic destinations. And if I'm really, really lucky, I'll have a crew of like-minded misfits with me.

And how happy we'll be, going wherever the trade winds take us, making deliveries, fighting pirates and thieves and raiders, singing in bars and saloons, lying on beaches, exploring the jungles and caves and valleys. And whenever I get a free moment I'll scribble, scribble, scribble. Travel articles, opinion pieces, blog entries, journals, whichever bits of mercurial effluence drop out of my brain.

But no, they tell me. That ship has sailed. Journalism is dead. Gonzo journalism is long dead. The time of the quick-witted, hard-drinking, hotshot cargo pilot is over. There's no way National Geographic's going to let you in. You'll be flying on a grueling schedule. There's a million wannabe travel writers out there, buddy, and you're competing with every single one of 'em. Travel and excitement? You'll never see anything but the inside of your airplane (and the stale white pages of delivery forms). You won't sleep. You'll hardly eat. The weather will be uniformly nasty. You'll work for peanuts. There's no money for travel budgets anymore. The most exciting thing you'll do is talk to air traffic control. You'll be lucky if you don't get kidnapped and crucified. Your existence will be soul-crushing, sedentary, stuffy. We're a bit short on romance around here, kid. You think you'll discover El Dorado while you're delivering 3200 Playstation controllers to Uruguay (and taking notes for your submission to Budget Travel)? Hah!

Oh, get stuffed. I've got a plan. And I'm taking the steps necessary to execute it. I don't care what gets in my way. Bad economy, hefty competition, ugly dudes in fur coats, whatever. I know where I'm going and I'm going to get there. I've got my bachelor's degree in journalism, don't I? And my bartender's safety certificate? And my private pilot's license? And my first novel written?

That's a start. 

I can dream, can't I?

Here's hoping your dreams come true. On December 25 and in 2011, both.

Merry Christmas, everybody, and a Happy New Year.

500 hours and a floatplane rating

There are definite fringe benefits to being friends with a Jedi.

Oh, wait, whoops. I was thinking of something else. (Ahem.) Excuse me. Let's start over.

There are definite fringe benefits to being friends with a pilot.

You remember the three boss-pilots who founded the company I work for? Dawg, Spud, and Mr. Mooney?

I haven't flown with them in a while. Due to exorbitant travel costs, they don't come down here too much. They hired some local pilots to take care of the UAV chasing business. Those pilots are JM-1 and JM-2. Both of them have the initials "JM," you see. I'll just call them J-1 and J-2 for short.

Both are obviously commercial pilots. J-2 acquired his commercial ticket back in May. J-1 has had his for a few years now. J-1's been flying a little longer than J-2 has (a couple of years) and has thousands of hours in all types of airplanes. He also owns his own business (industrial fasteners). This means that, well, J-1 has a bit of money. He owns not one, but two personal aircraft: a Beechcraft Sierra and a Piper Lance II. The latter is a nice airplane. Looks a bit like this. T-tail. Turbocharged engine. More expensive avionics on the dashboard than most commercial airliners have. Does 170 knots in a cruise configuration (nearly 200 miles per hour). Seats six. Joe got some beautiful soft leather upholstery put in, too. He put good money into that machine, folks.

He's an exemplary human being, J-1 is. Very generous. Looks out for me a lot. Always ready to teach me something about flying. Pays for lunch every day, too. He was nominated the program director for this UAV chase contract, since he's such a proficient pilot/manager. Even before that, though, J-1 pitched for me nonstop, making sure I got home safe every day and got my wages at the end of every fortnight.

And on top of that, J-1 is easily one of the best pilots I've ever flown with, if not the best. Certainly Dawg, Spud and Mr. Mooney are excellent aviators, and could pull maneuvers in fighter jets that would leave your hair standing on end and your breakfast hovering below your tonsils. But they are military pilots. And they fly like military pilots. Dawg at least is less susceptible to this quirk, since he flew before he was in the military, but Spud and Mr. Mooney? They fly small planes like they're jet fighters. Spud is double trouble because he flew Boeing 737s for United after he got out of the Navy. He's a jet man through and through. Reciprocating engines are repulsive to him and he makes no secret of it. (We're bringing him around slowly, though.)

Not like I have any room to talk, of course. I'm a private pilot with barely 100 hours. I'm a ways off from my goal of a commercial pilot's license, 250 hours of pilot-in-command time (where I'm the first-and-foremost pilot, responsible for the flight), 500 hours total time, and a floatplane rating.

That's not my only goal, rest assured. My eventual goal is to have about 10 billion hours in airplanes, seaplanes, helicopters, ultralights, gliders, and airships, with ratings to match.

Five hundred hours and a floatplane rating is my next most urgent goal.

Why?

That's the minimum requirement to become a flight officer (copilot, basically) for Kenn Borek Air, Limited.

Who're they, you say?

Well, I'm glad you asked.

Kenn Borek Air is an international charter and maintenance company (based out of Calgary, Alberta, Canada) which offers global air support. They're an air service which offers maintenance and travel services anywhere in the world, from the Maldives to the Antarctic. You remember the Maldivian Air Taxi? KBAL owns that operation. They do stuff like that everywhere: scheduled air taxi routes, charter services, overhauls and maintenance, and aircraft leasing. They even haul supplies and personnel in support of the U.S. Antarctic Research Program, shuttling back and forth between New Zealand and McMurdo Sound. If that doesn't sound like a fun flying job, I don't know what does.

KBAL operates an impressive fleet of propeller aircraft, including the de Havilland DHC-6 Twin Otter, turbine-powered Douglas DC-3, and Beech 99, 100, and 200 King Air. These things fly on floats, wheels, skis, whatever.

Damn sexy for a propeller enthusiast like me, let me tell you. I'd kill to fly any of those birds. Twin Otters are among some of the most iconic bush planes in the aviation world, the DC-3 is a reliable and legendary classic, and the King Air a sexy power-pack.

I just need the qualifications. To captain for Kenn Borek I need 2500 hours flight-time; to be a flight officer I need 500 hours total time (with 250 hours as PIC) and a floatplane rating.

Now, up until last week, this goal seemed unattainable. It'd be at least another five years until I got anywhere close. Even now I doubt I'll get 400 more hours of flight-time in less than three years. My commercial license (requiring 250 hours total flight time) isn't too far out of reach. I'm giving myself a timetable of six months for it. Now that I'm a private pilot I'm logging more time while chasing Predators than I was when I was a student pilot, so I should have the 250 hours racked up in no time. I just need to save up enough cabbage to fund some of the special training I'll need, like maneuvers. J-1 has to show me how to do chandelles, figures-of-eight and so on. I also have to do some loooooong cross-country flights, one of them 300 nautical miles or more. There's five hours of night work, including 10 take-offs and 10 landings...ten hours of instrument training...ten hours of work in complex airplanes...

...and all that costs money. Money takes time to save up. But I'll get it. Six months ought to do it, if I'm frugal. Then I can legally fly for monetary recompense.

It was the floatplane thing that was really bothering me. I'll practically need one if I'm going to go to Alaska, there's so much water and so little paved runway. It made sense to get it before I left California.
But where? Where am I going to get a floatplane rating around here? I live in the desert, for Pete's sake. The nearest ocean is three hours away, down the hill in Los Angeles. There's a seaplane base on Catalina Island, but it's not a school as far as I know. The nearest seaplane schools I'd heard of were in Alaska and Florida.

So, one day, J-1 and I were flying along, circling lazily over Victorville, waiting for the Predator to take off. And I happened to mention to J that I was interested in a floatplane rating.

Well, lo and behold, he knew of a school. Lake Havasu, Arizona. A hop, skip and a jump away by air. And better yet, J offered to take me out there. And better yet, he offered to pay for it!

On loan, of course. Fortunately I didn't have to take him up on it. My folks are also offering to lend me the cash, to be paid back in installments over the next few months. Bless their hearts. I just dropped a sizable chunk of change into my credit card account (Bose headsets and trips to England aren't cheap). Otherwise I'd have the necessary $1250 already. But J-1 is going to take the course himself, you see. He wants a floatplane rating of his own. And since he's already a flight instructor (CFI, CFII and MEI), once he gets his floatplane rating, he'll be a floatplane instructor too!

So there you go. J-1 is going to arrange everything through Sheble Aviation. (That means, of course, that I'll be flying THIS airplane...how cool is that???)

I have the next two weeks off work (the California Air Guard is taking a break, and both Christmas and New Year's fall on weekend shifts this year, it seems...so I'm off at the café too). I'll have plenty of free days to get this done.  J-1 and I are going to fly over to Arizona early one morning, spend the day learning how to fly floatplanes (in the classroom and in the air), and then get our ratings.

And after that...well, I calculated my total flight-hours yesterday (with a calculator and a pencil). I have 131.6 so far.

368.4 to go.

Kenn Borek, here I come...