Rotor in the Green - Chapter 1
TASTE OF FLYING
I guess there weren’t many thirteen year olds who knew what they wanted to do with their life, and I was certainly no exception. Other boys may have had a few ideas in their head, but not me. I had no idea what I was going to do. I only knew that I was not going to waste any of the opportunities my father worked hard to provide. Then a friendship developed with a school friend—a friendship which would lead to an event determining my ultimate destiny.
I was born Raymond Allan Dousset (but always called Ray) on 21 April 1950 at Chelsea, a southern suburb of Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. The first son of Leon and Joyce, and brother to two-year-old Pamela, we were joined two years later by Robert and a further two years later by Leon Jr. Dad was a butcher, like his father and his grandfather before him. We grew up in the Parkdale area, spending some years living behind Dad’s butcher shop in Warren Road, Mordialloc, before moving to a house in Mount View Avenue, behind the Parkdale State School.
Our home was several miles to the south of Moorabbin Airport and just to the west of the extended centerline of the main north-south runway. I can’t recall having any more interest in aeroplanes than any other curious youngster; yet no doubt due to our proximity to the airport I was soon able to identify by sight and sound the likes of the Tiger Moths, Chipmunks and DC-3s of the 1960s era as they came and went.
Following primary education at the nearby state school I undertook secondary education at Aspendale Technical School. It was here that I became friends with Bruce Smith, a fellow member of the school band where he played the trumpet and I played the side drum. Bruce was a member of the Air Training Corps and he told me of the fun he was having with the organization, and elaborated on some of the flights he had undertaken.
He invited me to join him at Moorabbin Airport one weekend to see if we could wangle a flight. I use the term wangle because, unlike paying for a ride, he simply asked a pilot if he could occupy an otherwise empty seat and showed proof that he had his parents’ permission to do so. This permission was in the form of an indemnity form signed by his parents, absolving the pilot and/or the flying organization from any liability in the event of death or injury. On one of his frequent trips to the airport Bruce obtained a blank indemnity form for me. Fortunately my parents had no major concerns about signing it, so with indemnity form in hand Bruce and I jumped on our bikes and headed for the airport one day.
We didn’t have much luck for a couple of weekends, though not for the lack of trying. But I did become familiar with the layout of the airport and the different flying organizations and types of aircraft operated there. Our weekends were spent wandering around looking for potential flights. Bruce and I would invariably go our separate ways in order to try to get a ride. By this time I had a different indemnity form for each organization, as you could only fly in their aircraft if you had one of their indemnity forms.
The plot would go something like this: I would observe a pilot heading for an aircraft parked on the flight line with the obvious intention of going flying. Approaching the aforementioned pilot, and clasping the appropriate indemnity form in my hot little hand, I would ask, “Excuse me, please, mister. Is there any chance of coming for a ride? I’ve got an indemnity form.” The responses generally ranged from “the plane is full” to it was “going away for the weekend” or more often than not “going on a training flight.” In the latter case there were some flights on which passengers could not be carried. There were many knock backs, but I knew it was only a matter of time.
Our efforts finally paid off on 21 September 1963 when Bruce and I were looking over an aircraft which we hadn’t encountered before, when the pilot and one other man came to take it for a flight. We helped push the plane out of the hangar then asked if we could go for the ride. This time the answer was yes. Despite the preponderance of Cessna, Beechcraft and Piper aircraft which dominated the light aircraft industry in those days, my first flight was in a Beagle Airedale, registration VH-DCP. Thirty years later I learned that only six of these aircraft had been imported into Australia, all between January and August of 1963. The Airedale was similar in appearance to the Cessna 172 with its high wing, four seats and tricycle undercarriage, but the main difference was in its fabric covering compared to the all-metal fabrication of the Cessna.
Above: Beagle Airedale VH-DCP
Bruce and I strapped ourselves in the back as the pilot conducted his preflight inspection. I tried to come to terms with mixed emotions: excitement at the prospect of going flying for the first time, but nervous as to how I would cope with this new experience. One thing was for certain: I felt no apprehension whatsoever about any potential dangers associated with flying. The pilot and his passenger strapped themselves in and set about starting the engine.
Shortly the propeller sprang to life, and the engine revs increased to get the aircraft rolling. As we commenced to taxi the tension began to mount, and during the engine run-up checks I began to wonder if I was doing the right thing. We taxied forward and waited for a take-off clearance—too late to turn back now. We taxied onto the runway and lined up; as the pilot smoothly opened the throttle the aircraft accelerated down the runway, and we were soon airborne. I was absolutely spellbound.
Many years later I heard of an aspiring army pilot applicant who was asked by the pilot selection board, “What makes you think you will enjoy flying?” His reply was simply, “I haven’t yet met a pilot who doesn’t like flying.” He was ultimately selected for pilot training, but obviously didn’t enjoy flying. After three weeks of solid ground school he went up for his first three flights, decided it wasn’t for him and promptly quit the course. Not so for me. I was hooked.
We took off to the south so I was able to identify all the streets and familiar landmarks around where I lived. I followed Warren Road along to Dad’s butcher shop then up Brownfield Street to Mount View Avenue, where I picked out our house. I could see the coastline almost down to The Heads, the notorious entrance to Port Phillip Bay. To the northwest was the Melbourne city skyline, and to the east the Dandenong ranges.
My first flight consisted of forty minutes of “circuits and bumps,” or touch-and-go landings. After the first few circuits I began to observe more closely what was going on in the cockpit—the control inputs, the power changes, the use of flaps for take-off and landing—and by the end of the flight there was no doubt about what I wanted to be. My head was still in the clouds as I jumped on my bike and raced home to tell everyone about my first flight.
The next day I scored a ride in a Cessna 172 and did circuits for forty-five minutes. The exhilaration of those first two flights stayed with me for weeks, which was just as well because it was a month before I got my next ride. In the meantime, Bruce taught me the phonetic alphabet so that I could refer to individual aircraft by their registration. I practiced by reading car number plates phonetically during the long rides to and from school.
Following my third ride I had not been outside the Moorabbin circuit area, and while I still enjoyed the thrill of flight I was looking forward to seeing some different real estate. Fourth time lucky, and in a Beechcraft Debonair, I finally departed the circuit area as we headed down the coast to the Mornington Peninsula. From that point on I began to go all over Victoria on various navigation exercises and private flights. The first time I landed away from Moorabbin was in a Piper Comanche when we went to the Bacchus Marsh Air Show in December 1963.
While the underlying thrill of flying was always there, it became a challenge to get rides in aircraft types I hadn’t yet flown in. With school holidays coming up I looked forward to spending plenty of time at the airport, mainly looking for rides, but hoping to pick up work in some form or another—anything just to be around aeroplanes. I could feel the call of flying but was unsure as to how it was going to manifest itself.
My ears soon became attuned to the different aircraft types, and I could tell if it was one I wasn’t familiar with. Early one morning I was doing my paper route when I heard an aircraft take off. As it came into view I noticed the twin engines, the high wing, the particularly high tail and the extreme noise, even for those days. It was definitely an aircraft I hadn’t seen before. I saw the same aircraft many times that morning and was curious as to its type. My next trip to the airport solved the puzzle when I identified the aircraft as Aero Commander VH-CAU and belonging to the DCA.
One aircraft which really captured my imagination, though, was the Mustang VH-FCB. Immaculately restored and painted red, its pilot was Jack McDonald who flew DC-3s out of Moorabbin but was better known for his exploits in the Mustang on the air show circuit. To hear the sounds of the Rolls Royce Merlin engine sent shivers down my spine. I would watch as Jack started the engine, with its massive four-bladed propeller, then wait until the Mustang began to taxi before jumping on my bike and racing down to the spectator fence to watch it take off. The graceful lines and beautiful sounds of this aircraft under full power will never leave me.
Many years later I had the opportunity to take a ride in a Mustang, but with a young family I couldn’t justify the hundred-dollar expense at the time. I wish now that I had taken the opportunity to experience a ride in this magnificent specimen of military aviation history. If every young teenager needed a hero, then Jack McDonald certainly got my vote. I admired him from afar back then and finally got to meet him in person about twenty years later at an air show when I was privileged to take him for a flight in a helicopter. A greater thrill for me than it was for him, I’m sure.
One day in early 1964 I was doing my rounds of the airport when I came across one of the most unusual aircraft I had ever seen. It had a high, gull-wing arrangement, with twin engines facing backward—an arrangement called “pusher-prop.” The wings had fuel tanks on the tips, and the main undercarriage retracted into the side of the fuselage. The registration on the tail told me it was VH-ACV, but I could find nothing to indicate the type of aircraft. Inquiries revealed the make as an Italian Piaggio and that it was going to be doing joy rides later that day. I thought I would stick around to see what eventuated. While sitting on the wheel of the plane that afternoon the pilot and a young boy arrived.
Above: Piaggio P166 VH-ACV
“Excuse me, sir. I heard you were doing joy rides today and was wondering if I could taxi around to the front of the airport with you?”
“Oh, sure. I’m Captain Jack Ellis, and this is my son Ted.”
Ted was only eight months older than I was, and a lifetime friendship began immediately. Ted told me he was born in Australia and had moved overseas with his family at a very young age. With his father they had flown the Piaggio from Genoa, Italy, to Australia where they had only recently arrived. I was green with envy. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the excitement of such a prospect. To me a circuit around Moorabbin Airport in a Cessna was still a great thrill, so the thought of sitting up in the cockpit of this great plane for all those hours, helping fly halfway around the world, landing in all those faraway countries was something beyond my comprehension. To do so at an age when most boys were still only interested in marbles would be the experience of a lifetime, certainly something never to be forgotten.
I finally got a chance to have a look inside the Piaggio. In the back were two rows of three seats facing each other, but the centre seat of each row could be removed for a roomier, executive arrangement. There was a galley, a toilet and a wash basin behind the rear row of seats—surely the classiest plane I had ever seen. I sat in the back by myself as Jack and Ted taxied the aircraft around to the spectator fence of the airport.
After shutting down the engines Jack turned to me and asked, “Ray, how would you like to help Ted sell joy-ride tickets for the afternoon?” Trying to hide my excitement I replied, “Sure, I'd love to.” I couldn't believe my luck. Who was to know this first encounter with Jack and Ted would lead to the realization of my dream?
With the initial load of seats sold I had the opportunity for the first time to watch the Piaggio take off. As noisy as it was, the aircraft had a totally distinctive sound. Toward the end of the day, and with a spare seat waiting to be filled, Jack asked if I would like to go for the ride; the answer was predictable. So almost six months after my first flight number eighteen was the first in a twin.
For the next few weeks my weekends revolved around helping Jack and Ted clean the Piaggio then selling joy-ride tickets for which I enjoyed the occasional ride in return. One Saturday night I received a phone call.
“Ray, Ted here. I just rang to see if you would like to fly to Tyabb and do joy rides with us tomorrow?” Tyabb was only fifteen minutes’ flight time from Moorabbin. The prospect of heading off in the Piaggio to sell joy rides for the day before flying home was more than I could bear. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Tyabb proved quite successful as a joy-ride venue, so much so that Jack decided to spend the whole of the following weekend down there, and this then became the routine for the next couple of months.
We stayed in a caravan on the airfield, and with nothing better to do at night Ted and I would sit in the cockpit of the Piaggio and fly ourselves all over the world or lounge in the back and pretend to hobnob like a couple of VIPs.
To eliminate the nonrevenue flying between Moorabbin and Tyabb, the Piaggio eventually remained based at Tyabb, and we would drive down each weekend. Invariably I would hitch a ride back to Moorabbin on the Sunday afternoon in one of a number of training aircraft which would come down for the day. Jack eventually set up the “Pilotmakers—EFTS” (Ellis Flying Training School) and became truly ensconced in Tyabb. At the time I was aware of a lot of opposition and politicking in relation to the establishment of Tyabb aerodrome but was too young to understand.
In late 1986 I was on a DC-9 Sydney to Brisbane and asked if I could visit the cockpit (ahhh! those were the good old days). The first officer was a Paul Spottiswood, and in the course of our conversation it transpired that he had learned to fly at Tyabb around 1969. Paul mentioned a recently written book titled Turbulence over Tyabb by Doug Thompson, owner of the Tyabb property. I wrote to Doug and eventually received a copy of the book. My eyes were certainly opened, as I read about and began to fully appreciate the rough times surrounding the establishment of Tyabb as the permanent flying facility it is today.
Above: With Jack Ellis at the controls of VH-ACV circa 1964.
There was always the odd charter flight in the Piaggio which Ted and I went on if spare seats were available. In late 1964 we headed off one Saturday morning to New South Wales to the Cootamundra aircraft auction, and later that day we went on to Albury to spend the night. The following day we flew to Corowa before heading home.
Around six months later we were minutes out of Moorabbin on a charter enroute to Adelaide for a wedding when we experienced trouble with one engine of the Piaggio. We returned to Moorabbin, where the faulty engine seized on touchdown. Keen to ensure his passengers still attended the wedding, Jack made some enquiries around Moorabbin in an attempt to arrange a suitable replacement aircraft, but to no avail.
A few phone calls later and we were making a mad dash to Essendon Airport, where sitting on the tarmac all ready to go was Grand Commander VH-EXZ. With Jack as copilot, we departed Essendon and were in Adelaide by midafternoon. Our passengers made their way to the wedding, and the rest of us filled in time until they reappeared for the return journey, which was to be made at night.
I’d always had a fascination for night flying; I would lie awake at night, especially when there was a full moon, and dream of flying off to faraway places while below me everyone was snuggled up in bed asleep. Sometimes, in the stillness of the night I would wake as the Flying Doctor aircraft started up and imagine myself as the pilot of Beechcraft Twin Bonanza VH-CDE with its rowdy, twin, piston engines. I would listen to it taxi, hold for the engine run-up checks then enter the runway and take off. I would think to myself, “Wouldn’t it be great to have a job like that—flying off into the night to help someone in need?”
Well, we weren’t about to fly off to save someone, but I was about to pass another milestone by undertaking my first night flight. We departed Adelaide around 2200, and I was fascinated by the fairyland which passed beneath us as the Grand Commander climbed away over the city and suburbs heading east for Melbourne.
After an hour or so we had supper; then the cabin lights were dimmed, and most of the passengers dozed. I couldn’t. I was transfixed as I observed the pilots go about their business by the dim glow of the cockpit lighting. I watched the towns thousands of feet below us come and go, and all too soon the lights of Melbourne appeared on the horizon. We began our descent, landing at Essendon around midnight. In years to come I would fly close to five hundred hours at night, while fulfilling that dream of flying off and saving lives. Never once did I lose the thrill and enjoyment dreamed of while lying in bed as a young teenager and experienced on that first night flight.
Over the next couple of years I would look for work at the airport each school holiday. Christmas 1964 I was employed as a “gofer” (go for this, go for that) at Piper Aviation. I would make the tea, run errands, clean and polish aircraft, and do any other odd jobs they could find for me. I even got paid for it. This was surely heaven. The smells of that place will stick with me forever: the avgas, the thinners, the fungicides from the crop-dusting aircraft which came in for servicing. A whiff of these smells today brings the memories flooding back.
Flight seventy-five was my first in a helicopter. Hughes 300 VH-IHF was operated by Victorian Helicopters, who served the many people frequenting Moorabbin Airport on weekends to take joy rides. The Hughes 300 was a small, three-seat machine with the general overall appearance of a grasshopper. I had been hanging around the helicopter joy-ride area for sometime watching the flights come and go.
Late in the day the ticket seller was having difficulty making up a passenger load and asked me if I would like to go for the ride. Of course I was happy to oblige. It was a whole new adventure for me, and the sensations were very different from those I had experienced in aeroplanes. The view through the vast expanse of perspex was absolutely breathtaking, and I would watch the pilot manipulate the controls but couldn’t understand how they worked. The secret would be revealed many years later.
Following that trip I was given a weekend job selling joy-ride tickets for Victorian Helicopters, the boss of which was Doug “Blue” Margetts. A short, slightly balding red-headed man, Blue was a Royal Air Force fighter pilot during the war. He would fascinate me with his war-time stories, including how he spent many hours in the freezing cold water after being shot down one day.
Blue gave up school teaching to fly helicopters, and as well as managing the organization he was also the CFI. For a few months I sold joy-ride tickets in opposition to a number of aeroplane operators along the main public fence at the airport. I was paid a ten-percent commission on sales and had the occasional joy ride thrown in for good measure whenever we had a spare seat. This sure beat the heck out of the morning paper route.
Utilizing the obvious advantages of a helicopter we would attend school fetes and other special occasions to conduct joy rides. The Stamford Hotel on the corner of Stud and Wellington Roads was one place we frequented on a regular basis. It wasn’t the patronage from the hotel we relied on so much as the passing traffic on busy Stud Road. One day we flew to the Springvale Monastery where we took two cub packs for a ride.
The pilot remained at the controls while I loaded and unloaded the passengers. My responsibility also included ensuring they were strapped in securely and always approached the helicopter from the front and departed the same way. This ensured there were no accidental encounters with the spinning tail rotor.
The Springvale Monastery was built on a hill, and its tall church steeple was a prominent landmark from the ground as well as from the air. Because it was so conspicuous, the monastery was marked on the Melbourne Visual Terminal Chart (VTC) by its proper name, “Corpus Christi”. In assisting to guide aircraft safely to and from Moorabbin Airport, the monastery played the important role of keeping pilots clear of Melbourne controlled airspace.
Eventually, Corpus Christi was acquired by the state government and utilized as the Victoria Police Training Academy. Whilst appearing on subsequent VTCs as “Police Academy”, to me and to many others it would always be affectionately known by the nickname given to Australian police, “Coppers Christi”.
During school holidays in late 1966 I worked full time at Victorian Helicopters, and one of the contracts they had was to conduct morning traffic patrols for a local radio station. I went along on a few of these patrols, and as we flew over the main arterial roads at low speed the pilot reported congested traffic areas and accidents over commercial radio.
In December I once again worked full time with Victorian Helicopters and during this period I made my one hundredth flight, in Hughes 300 VH-IHF on traffic patrol. One of the young pilots I flew with in those days was Howard Bosse, and we would fly together again twelve years later, at which time I would be in the pilot’s seat.
During my association with Victorian Helicopters I was to learn a good lesson, one which equally applied in many situations. One day Blue was on a training flight with a student and was conducting hover training on the far side of the airfield from the hangar. I observed the helicopter undergo a number of rather erratic maneuvers, obviously out of control, before impacting the ground and scattering bits and pieces of rotor blade everywhere.
Both pilots walked away unscathed; but instead of going in and having a good stiff drink to steady the nerves as one might expect, Blue simply got another helicopter out of the hangar, and they went flying again. Today when I hear people talk about “getting back on the horse that has just thrown you” I relate this incident as an example to drive the point home.
By the end of 1966 Jack had replaced the Piaggio with an eleven-seat DH Dove, VH-CTS. The Dove was a low-wing, conventional twin-engine aircraft, with tricycle undercarriage and a far more environmentally friendly noise signature than the Piaggio. My first ride in the Dove was with Jack and Ted after we traveled by train to Albury to fly it back to Moorabbin.
I later became intimately acquainted with the seats in the Dove when we were involved in a search for a trimaran, Bandersnatch, missing on a voyage from Melbourne to Sydney. Although some wreckage was sighted, the search was unsuccessful in terms of locating any survivors. I did, however, manage to log 12.5 hours in the attempt.
The last flight I ever recorded in those days was number 135 on 13 January 1968, in Auster J5F VH-AGM from Geelong to Tyabb. In just over four years I had wangled rides in thirty different aircraft types and accrued 117 hours and 40 minutes of passenger time.
In late 1966 Jack made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Because I was still a school student whose only source of income was commission from selling joy rides, Jack offered to teach me to fly at cost rate. The old Auster was cheap to operate, but even at eight dollars per hour solo and twelve dollars dual (with an instructor) it was a lot of money in 1966.
I spoke with my father who was well aware of how much the opportunity meant to me, and he offered to lend me the money. I promised to pay it back in time but got the impression that paying the money back was more important to me than it was to Dad. I couldn’t believe flying was about to become a reality for me. After hitching rides all over the country and dreaming of flying myself one day, it was all about to come true.
My first lesson with Jack was in Auster Mk III VH-BYJ on 24 September 1966. We covered preparation for flight, aircraft familiarization, air experience and effects of controls. Even back then the Auster was not everyone’s choice of training aircraft. Compared with the shiny Cessna it was fabric covered, slow, noisy, draughty and smelly, and had to be started by hand. It also had a tail wheel, although this was not necessarily a disadvantage, as anyone who learnt to fly a “tail dragger” could easily handle a tricycle undercarriage but not necessarily vice versa.
Above: Auster Mk III VH-BYJ
I came to feel quite at home in BYJ over the next few months, as Jack and I covered taxiing, straight and level flight, climbing, descending, climbing and descending turns, and stalling. We flew plenty of circuits and looked at the procedures for engine failure after take-off. Then came the glide approaches, flapless approaches, missed approaches and go-around procedures.
On 27 December Jack put me through the hoops, consolidating what we had covered to date. We flew several circuits and had just completed a landing roll when Jack turned to me and said, “Just pull off the runway and stop for a moment, Ray.” Without saying a word Jack got out of the aircraft and resecured his seatbelt. “OK, now I want you to go and fly another couple of circuits like the ones you’ve just shown me. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back. Good luck.”
The reality of what Jack was doing eventually sank in. He was sending me up for my first solo. Here I was at sixteen years of age and only three years after that very first flight. After seeking all those rides, watching pilots as they finessed the controls, washing planes, sweeping hangars, making numerous cups of tea, it was my turn at last.
With a grand total of seven hours and forty minutes of flight instruction under my belt I taxi to the end of the runway and methodically go through the pre-take-off checks. I line the Auster up on the runway and gently open the throttle. Acceleration is slow at first. The tail wheel comes off the ground as the aircraft builds up speed; then I’m airborne. I raise the flaps and reduce power, and it’s time to turn crosswind. Leveling at circuit height I promptly turn downwind.
Then, and only then, do I have a brief moment to reflect on the magnitude of this most significant event in my life. After all the dreams of what could be, here it is finally happening. I am alone in an aircraft and completely in charge of my own destiny. I’m on cloud nine, literally and metaphorically.
My reverie is fleeting, however, as I again concentrate on the job at hand. There are downwind checks to complete and turning point references to spot. Turning crosswind I reach for the flap lever. Now, while flying the Auster Mk III from the left hand seat, selecting flap is no easy task, for the lever is located above the right shoulder. My left hand is on the throttle, and my right clasps the control column or “joy stick.” I swap the control column into my left hand, grasp the flap lever with my right and lower the first stage of flap.
Turning onto final approach, and established on the correct glide path I select full flap using the same hand-swapping procedure and continue the approach to a successful landing. Whilst in the landing roll I raise the flaps to take-off setting, apply power and become airborne again in typical touch-and-go fashion.
Following that first solo flight I alternated between dual sorties with Jack and solo sorties, where I got away by myself and concentrated on accuracy. I found that learning to fly was like learning anything new; if you got the basics right early, everything was that much easier later on. We would leave the circuit more and more often to concentrate on forced landings. Jack would take me to French Island, about ten miles away, where he would simulate an engine failure and I would fly a glide approach to a paddock.
Whenever I went to French Island on my solo sorties I experienced a tremendous feeling of being in control. To launch off from Tyabb and head out of the circuit to French Island, spend an hour or so over there by myself and return to Tyabb was, to me anyhow, a great achievement at seventeen years of age.
Thirty-eight hours and fifty minutes of flight time later I was awarded a Restricted Private Pilot Licence, in November 1967. This allowed me to take up passengers but only within the Tyabb training areas. Over the next couple of months I undertook a number of private flights, and the situation was quite paradoxical; I could take my mates up for a fly in an aeroplane, but I was still six months away from holding a car licence and had to hitchhike the twenty miles each way from home.
To continue training for an Unrestricted Private Pilot Licence required undertaking a number of navigation exercises. These varied in duration from two to five hours, both dual and solo. Then there were considerably more hours required for the issue of a Commercial Pilot Licence (CPL). I was not prepared to ask my father for a loan of the amount of money involved to achieve this unless I had some guarantee of my eligibility for a CPL at the end of it all. A CPL would, I hoped, lead to employment and therefore the ability to repay the money in time. So I arranged to undertake the medical examinations required for the issue of a CPL.
Eventually I found myself in the office of ophthalmologist Dr. John Colvan. I understood Dr. Colvan conducted the eye examinations for both the RAAF and for QANTAS so he was obviously well respected in his field. He commenced a series of tests, repeating some, before dropping a bombshell. “I’m sorry, Ray, but your eyes do not come up to the standard required for the issue of a Commercial Pilot Licence.”
I was shattered.
In my initial shock I barely made out what else he was saying—something about suffering from “squint” where one eye is much stronger than the other, in this case my right over my left. This squint was supposed to affect depth perception, or judgment of height—not a very good trait for someone aspiring to become a professional pilot and be responsible for many lives.
As he talked I recalled having an operation when I was very young to correct a turning eye. Back then I had worn a patch over my right eye to try to strengthen my left. I asked Dr. Colvan what other area of aviation I may be suited for and he suggested air traffic control but I had to be nineteen years of age. He also suggested I get a second opinion. But I was only seventeen at the time, a little naive, I guess, and certainly in awe of his qualifications.
I figured it would be a waste of time and walked out of the door.
The bottom fell out of my life.
