DAVE AND THE FAT MEXICAN
by Ron Fox
After hearing a few of my border flying stories my best
friend Dave Parks, of recent Air Texana fame, wanted to fly
south with me “just to get the feel of it,” as he would say in
his Call-of-the-Wild voice. Dave was the sort of maniac
dare-devil who could easily set aside any common-sense
concerns of life and limb when adventure reared it’s ugly
head. Unlike our infamous “long and short trips”, the fact
that this was a planned event did not subtract from the
excitement he contemplated.
Dave appeared to be in top form. He had a good tan and
was sporting a long Pancho Villa type mustache that almost
reached the edge of his cheeks. His black hair was stylishly
long and curly, but cropped just below the ears to maintain
an “airline” look. He had recently been dating a beautiful
Muse Air flight attendant by the name of Susan. She was
tall, slim and built for speed, Dave would say. She had
honey blonde, shoulder length hair with bangs and curls
around the edges. She had a very cheerful smile full of
perfect teeth and the high cheekbones of a successful model.
She was very beautiful but didn’t take it too seriously as
many beautiful women do. Her cheerful smile was quick
and easy and she made everyone around her feel as though
they had known her for years. She was just the head turner
Dave would love to strut with for the weekend at the Hilton
on South Padre Island. These were the days when we all
still had credit cards with ever-increasing credit limits and the
income to feed them.
Dave and Susan arrived in McAllen about mid morning
on a Saturday. Charlotte and I picked them up from their
Southwest Airlines flight and we all immediately fell into the
camaraderie of conspirators on a lark. High level partying
was the order of the day and we immediately drove to the
island, looking forward to the Hilton’s swimming pool bar.
Dave and I were changed into our swimming suits first, so
we headed for the bar finding several poolside stools empty.
A quarter of the bar was stretched out over the swimming
pool and about a half-dozen bar stools were located in the
water, their seats being about a foot under water. It
certainly made falling off your barstool a painless event. As
we sloshed around on our seats, turning from side to side to
take in the fauna of the poolside, I remarked to Dave how
absolutely smashing I thought Susan was.
As Charlotte and Susan made their entrance to the pool
through the hotel lobby back doors, the turning heads
around the pool confirmed my assessment. One beautiful
girl in a sexy bathing suit will turn heads around a pool, but
two create an event much noticed by all. Dave and I were
riding a wave again, knowing they were coming to join us.
Our group’s mood was elevated yet another notch when we
started talking about the night’s planned activities.
First, after poolside drinks, we would spend the
afternoon on the beach. We would then all try to get some
sleep in preparation for the rest of the night. After a rest, we
would cross the border to the Drive Inn Restaurant, it’s name
belied it’s status as a very chic, high-roller place which
served the best steaks and Australian lobster tails south of
the Rio Grande. Then we would go back to Charlotte’s and
my apartment and get ready for our mission south.
Later that evening, Charlotte and I were able to get a
good long nap. I was used to getting plenty of sleep just
before a flight south. Dave was not. I’m afraid he didn’t
sleep at all that afternoon. “Sleep when you get old”, he
used to say. “I’ve been doing important stuff.”
When we picked them up at the Hilton, Charlotte and I
could tell that rest was the farthest thing from Susan and
Dave’s minds. The party was to continue. Knowing the
Drive Inn didn’t take credit cards or checks, I surreptitiously
slipped a C note behind the seat of my car as we were
crossing the border and hit Dave in the knee with it.
Accepting the money, Dave’s mood was elevated once more
into yet another higher gear. Starting with salads, fresh
jalapena peppers, breadsticks and light wine, the table was
soon overflowing with a wide variety of foods from all over
the world. It was truly one of the finest dinners any of us
had ever had. Dave and I were both spending money as if
there were no tomorrow, I suppose because both of us
realized down deep in our minds that there may not be.
We drove back to my apartment just a little after
midnight to prepare for our mission. Dave and I changed
into jeans, boots and jackets. The excitement everyone was
enjoying was enhanced at the time by Rickie Lee Jones, an
album which was very popular at the time. In particular the
song Night Train. I can remember us all brushing our teeth,
bouncing up and down to the tune, acting like lunatics over
the edge.
The partying mood continued right up until the girls
dropped us off at the locked gate behind the Hunt Pan Am
hangar. After romantic good-byes, the walk through the
dark to the flight line was like passage through a time warp.
It was very quiet at the airport, now just after 2:00 am. As
we walked through the rows of old aircraft well past their
prime, I explained to Dave just what we would be doing. I
told him we would be in our T-Bone, hauling mostly car
stereos and a few TV’s. Mr. C’s cousin would also be with
us for a free ride home to Mexico. I told him the seat would
be a little crowded, but that we would all fit. Mr. C had
granted his cousin the space of two 25 inchers. It would be
enough. We would be flying into the Jalapa Valley strip, a
dirt road near the southwestern crest of the Jalapa
Mountains. I had been there twice before. It was an easy
trip. The entire small valley could be seen from the air, so
the possibility of getting jumped at the strip was remote.
“It’s a cake walk, Dave. No sweat,” I told him reassuringly.
I could tell from his silence that his adventurous spirit was
being smothered by his sense of impending danger.
As we rounded the corner of the hangar and approached
the flight line, we walked past our two DC-3’s and alongside
our old Beech 18 to where our T-Bone was parked. A small
group of Mexicans were putting the last of the contraband
into the cabin, talking quietly to themselves in Spanish. The
car stereos and TV’s had been taken from their retail boxes
and wrapped with plain brown paper. This was to save both
weight and space. At seeing us, our ground crew chief
hailed hello to us and upon recognizing me, issued a
boisterous and friendly welcome. He introduced Mr. C’s
cousin to me and I introduced Dave to them. Mr. C’s cousin
stood only about 5 foot 7 inches tall but looked to weigh at
least 300 pounds. After greetings and after Dave looked
into the front seat of our T-Bone he looked at me and said,
“Well, I guess I’ll have to make it another time.”
I replied, “No way, man. There’s plenty of room. I’ve
checked the weather and it’s clear all the way. The air is
smooth and our load is within the envelope. We’ll be a little
cramped up front, but there won’t be anything on the front
bench seat but the three of us. Besides, you won’t be able to
afford another trip like this for awhile. It’s now or never,
Dave.”
Dave followed me around the airplane as I performed a
thorough preflight inspection. When we were through and
ready to leave he said, “Well, let’s see if we all fit in the
airplane.”
I got in first, then Dave. Last, Mr. C’s cousin was
assisted up on the right wing of the plane and, grabbing the
top edge of the door opening, eased himself down onto the
seat beside us. To say the front seat of the plane was full
was an understatement, but we all fit comfortably, albeit
shoulder to shoulder. As usual in this tightly packed an
airplane, we all began to sweat, but Dave was sweating
bullets, perhaps due to the apprehension he was feeling. I
remembered the first time I had gotten into a fully loaded
airplane just before my first solo run south and I spoke
reassuringly again, “No sweat, Dave. This is going to be an
easy run.”
“OK, Fox. I’m just a little nervous, no problem.”
I fired up the old T-Bone as I had many times before.
Her engines growled their familiar growl and I felt
comfortable that it would be a good trip.
The takeoff was long, but not unusual. I was busy telling
Dave all about our procedures for departure and cruise
phase as I cleaned up the airplane and called McAllen Radio
to open and close our flight plan, “McAllen Radio, this is
Beech 4908 Bravo, please open and close my flight plan.”
“Beech 4908 Bravo, McAllen Radio, Roger.”
I explained to Dave, “You see, we are required by
regulations to open a flight plan for flights into Mexico. In
this flight plan are our destination, time enroute, fuel
onboard, souls on board and other information. Normally, a
flight service station will pass this information to our
destination airport. If anything goes wrong and we don’t
arrive at our destination within a reasonable time, they know
we are missing and are supposed to begin search procedures.
By closing our flight plan immediately, the information is not
forwarded. The regulation does not specify when one can
close a flight plan, so we close them right away. No sense
anyone looking for us in Vera Cruz, anyway. We’ve just
changed our minds as to where we’re going. This will be the
last legality we have to worry about until we get back.”
I could tell Dave was much relieved as our flight
progressed into the night sky without incident. He was used
to flying with me, having accompanied me on many a night
flight out of Beaumont before with Air Texana and he was
settling down comfortably. I explained our slow climb due
to our weight and explained our flight path out over the gulf,
still in sight of the east coast of Mexico. The sky was clear
and the air smooth as our little T-Bone strained to gain
altitude. The night was black and when we got away from
the lights of Brownsville and Matamoros, the stars sparkled
brightly. I pointed out the constellation Southern Cross and
how we would be following it all the way due south.
I explained to him how it would be nearly impossible for
anyone to see us, especially at night with all our aircraft
lights turned off when he turned to me in an excited voice,
“Ron, the lights are still on!
“Jeez, Dave, I forgot to turn them off”, I replied as I
began switching them off: the three red, green and white
navigation lights, then the red rotating beacon. “Now we’re
invisible, Dave.”
Dave slapped his forehead and just said, “Whoa.”
After reaching our cruise altitude of ten thousand, five
hundred feet, we just kicked back and watched the lights of
Tampico slip by in the darkness. Our chatter had dropped
to an occasional comment. We just enjoyed the steady
drone of the our engines and the steady snoring of our
Mexican passenger. Mr. C’s cousin was fortunately leaning
against the door, fast asleep.
Around five in the morning, or so, the blackness of the
night sky started turning to light gray on the eastern horizon.
We could just begin to see the city lights of Vera Cruz in the
distance in front of us. Slowly, it seemed, the blackness
turning gray began to turn to light blue, then a darker, more
familiar sky blue. As the light gobbled up the night sky it
wasn’t long before we lost the lights of Vera Cruz and could
see the Jalapa mountain range at about our two o’clock
position out the windshield.
We were looking for a dirt road located in the southwest
portion of the mountain range about 100 miles east of
Mexico City. It was in a small valley just below the upper
tips of the range, just outside the plateau we called the
“Hacienda Plateau”. We called it this because of the
hacienda air strip we used which was inside the plateau
ringed by these and other mountains. The elevation of the
tips was about 9,500 feet, and the small valley just east of
these tips had an elevation of about 9,000 feet. Our road
was uphill from the south, running almost north and south,
and its straight portion extended uphill for about a half-mile
right up to a large tree just off to the left side of the road.
On the southern boundary of our “strip” was a group of hills
only about 300 feet high, but which effectively marked the
usable surface. The road was only about one foot wider
than the track of our T-Bone’s wheels on each side, so
directional control was essential. It’s edges were curved
upward into grass covered ground on each side, so that, if
one’s wheels got up into the grass, directional control could
easily be lost.
The approach always had to be from the south, uphill,
which required an unusually high sink rate in order to clear
the hills from that direction and allow a touchdown early
enough to get the aircraft stopped. The aircraft had to be
stopped before the large tree near the top of the hill to avoid
tearing off a wing, because the wings protruded past the
edges of the road and the left one would not clear the tree.
I had been into this strip twice before with no trouble
other than the dance I had to perform on the rudder pedals
to keep the aircraft on the road. Each time one wheel or the
other would begin to enter the upwards curve of the edge of
the road, the aircraft would yaw wildly in that direction
requiring a healthy stomp on the opposite rudder pedal and
brake to bring the aircraft back, thus increasing the takeoff
roll. This dance would only decrease my landing roll, but it
made taking off a little dicey.
Our trip was uneventful until we came within sight of the
mountain range, about three hours into our trip, close to
dawn. Most of the tops of the range were about 80%
covered with clouds and fog. I didn’t believe finding the
strip would be much of a problem, so we pushed on.
Arriving over what I thought was the location of the
road, we could not see the road or even the valley it was in.
We were talking to the receiver’s crew on the ground with
our hand-held FM radio and they could hear us, but they
couldn’t see us. Unfortunately their sense of direction was
completely confused. We could not understand which
compass direction we were reported to be from them.
“You’re to the left of us, very close!”
This didn’t help us at all.
After several passes over what I thought was our fog
shrouded valley, I decided to try to run downrange for a
short time and try to find a connecting valley below the
clouds. Looking at my watch, reminded of our point of no
return, I told Dave: “It’s 0615 now, we need to be heading
back to Brownsville by 0630 to ensure we have enough fuel
to return.”
Dutifully, he checked his watch and made a mental note
to remind me of the time and continued looking out of the
windows for a break in the cloud cover.
After a short flight west of the crest of the range and
descending, we found a small valley running obliquely to our
valley, northeast to southwest. It was clear of clouds at its
northeast end. We jumped into it at the clear end and got
below the clouds.
Descending in a heavily loaded aircraft in the thin air of
these altitudes was easy. We soon remembered how
difficult if was to climb under the same conditions when the
floor of our little valley began ascending up into the clouds.
At METO power (maximum except takeoff), we were able
to climb at the rate of only about 50 to 100 feet per minute –
not good, considering the rising elevation of the valley floor
beneath us was at least that fast and ahead of us it
disappeared into the cloud layer. This would reduce our
forward visibility to squat. About this time, Dave looked at
his watch and it read 0635. We needed to be heading home.
Dave was upset. I was very uncomfortable. The fat
Mexican was still asleep, crowding us both with his bulk,
and we still hadn’t seen our valley.
The sides of our little valley were getting closer to us,
making a turn back impossible due to the turning radius of
the aircraft, increased due to our heavy condition in the thin
air. I had made a rookie mistake. I had gotten so caught up
in looking for a way forward through the valley that I had
neglected to keep a “situational awareness” of where we
were. We were trapped. Pushing on at METO power, we
entered the mixture of fog and clouds, staring through the
windshield barely maintaining contact with the rising ground
in front of us. As we approached to within about 100 feet
above the ground, I applied takeoff power, not knowing how
much more the ground would rise in front of us or at what
rate it would rise. I figured we would have about 10
seconds visible warning before slamming into a steep
mountainside should there be one in front of us. At about
50 feet above the ground, with forward visibility
deteriorating, I could just barely make out the crest of the
valley edge which, with great relief, I realized we would
barely clear.
Our little T-Bone was shaking with effort, it’s engines
roaring. Dave pounded me on the shoulder and pointed out
the left window. There, not a quarter mile off the left wing
was a steep rising mountain, it’s many pine trees poking up
through the fog and it’s shrouded slopes well above our
altitude. Had we been just a little to our left, we would
have hit it.
As the new valley’s floor in front of us dropped away, we
were able to descend once more out of the clouds into clear
air, following it out of the mountains to the east towards the
gulf. Dave was sweating bullets and shaking all over. I was
sweating myself and my knees were shaking. The fat
Mexican was still asleep. It was 0645.
Immediately turning north when we reached the water, I
climbed as best I could to 11,500 feet to cruise homeward
bound with a max range fuel burn. This was about as high
as I could get.
“Dave, that was a close one,” I said, breaking the relieved
silence between us. The engines were now purring along at
a reduced power setting, making almost normal conversation
possible.
“You ain’t shittin’, pal. I’m still shaking. Are we going to
have enough fuel to get home?”
“I tell you what. Take this calculator, and we’ll figure a
time and distance solution off the Posa Rica VOR as we
pass the station.” I knew it was important to keep Dave busy
doing something because the thought of running out of fuel
over the gulf was making him physically ill. I knew we had
at least two hours of fuel left and wouldn’t face that problem
until then. My immediate concern was to fly smoothly and
keep the aircraft headed exactly towards Brownsville.
“When I tell you, mark your watch. After a ten degree
swing of our navigation radio’s needle off of Posa Rica, we
can calculate our speed, estimate our distance to
Brownsville, and see if we have enough fuel.”
When we left Brownsville with full tanks, I knew we had
about 8 hours of fuel. With our trip to take 3 1/2 hours each
way, we should have about an hour of reserve. Our search
for the strip had taken about a half hour and too much of
that search was at near full power. We had used a lot of gas
in a short time. I knew it would be close.
Looking at our fuel gauges which were located on the left
side panel close to my left knee, I remembered how
inaccurate they were. They were the type of gauges you see
in a ’55 Chevy. Small fat needles pointing only to F, three
marks showing quarter tank levels and E. On top of that,
the needles bounced around, rarely telling you anything but
an approximate level. Worse still, as the needles approached
a level less than a quarter tank, they stopped bouncing at all
and just rested very close to E.
Fortunately, a good knee slam against the side panel
would make the needles bounce around the quarter full mark
for 10 or 15 seconds before resting against E again. This
falls into the category of “knowing your airplane” and this
knowledge probably saved us all a lot of grief. Every time
Dave would turn his head and lean towards the fuel gauges
to read them, I would give the side panel a knee slam much
to Dave’s relief. I had to do that quite often.
“OK, Dave. That’s 10 degrees. How much time has
elapsed?” I said in a calm voice. I knew that “command
presence” was important to instill and calm was important to
establish.
“Four minutes and fifty seconds,” he replied in at least
one octave higher than his normal voice. Ever since our
“fog valley” experience he had been talking that way.
After some quick calculations, I realized we were making
a ground speed of just under 120 knots. Not bad at this load
and altitude. Wanting to keep Dave busy concentrating on
what he perceived to be an important task, I gave him the
formula for figuring out our speed. Using the sectional map,
I had him assist me in identifying landmarks on the coast to
approximately fix our position. With this he would calculate
how much time it would take us to get home. After
completing this task he would lean over again, to look at our
fuel gauges and I would give it a knee slam.
“How much time in fuel do we have, Fox?” he would
ask with great intensity.
Always keeping one step ahead of his calculations, I
would fudge and say, “It looks pretty good, Dave. Close,
but I think we’ll have enough. You just keep calculating and
keep your eye on things.”
Still over an hour from Brownsville, well out over the
gulf about 50 to 75 miles from the east coast of Mexico,
during one of Dave’s calculating sessions, without much
warning he looked over at the fuel gauges. Before I could
slam the panel, he gasped: “Shit!, we’re out of fuel, Fox!”
Now, two octaves higher, “We gotta, do something! We
gotta lighten this load!”
Suddenly his eyes narrowed and his tone shifted to
conspiratorial and in a low but fierce voice said, “Ron, I can
have that door open and that fat Mexican in free fall before
he wakes up! Then, I can get into the back and start
throwing TV’s overboard. We might make it! Head for the
beach!”
“Dave, we can’t throw him overboard! He’s Mr. C’s
cousin. If we show up in Brownsville without him, there
will be hell to pay. There ain’t no place we can hide from
Mr. C. And what are we gonna tell the cops? That we were
smuggling electronics into Mexico, ran low on fuel and
threw an illegal passenger out the door?”
“OK, OK. But what are we gonna do? We’re almost
out of fuel!”, he said, still desperate. He began to
hyperventilate and I had to calm him down.
At that point I told him about the fuel gauges, and how
the needles reacted and were very inaccurate. I told him of
our total fuel being about 8 hours from departure and that
we would have enough to make it. I even told him we
would slide over a little closer to the coast just in case we
had to make a dead-stick landing on the beach.
“Ron, they don’t call it a dead-stick landing for nothin’,”
he wailed.
“Relax Dave, no sweat. We’ll just glide on down to the
beach and set her down real slow and easy. Then the fat
man can hike south, and we’ll hike north. We’re less than 90
miles from home”, I said reassuringly. I’d never done a
dead-stick landing, much less one on a curving, sloping
beach. I didn’t even know if the tide was in or out. I made a
mental note to get a tides schedule later.
Wanting to get Dave off this subject, I asked him, “Dave,
can you hold that empty orange juice jug for me? I have to
take a piss.”
Dave found the jug on the floor and, taking off the cap,
held it in front of me while I inched up in the seat and
unzipped to pee into it. As I was peeing, Dave began to gag
from the smell in the closed cabin and the enterprise was not
entirely successful. Things did calm down, however, and
Dave didn’t throw up, so I was happy.
We punched through the ADIZ (Air Defense
Identification Zone) and called up Houston Center for
clearance to Brownsville. We also called up McAllen Flight
Service to open our inbound flight plan and requested U.S.
Customs to meet us at the sterile parking area in Brownsville
for our inbound inspection.
The rest of the flight was uneventful. We landed from a
high downwind approach (just in case) and cleared customs
without a hitch. Mr. C’s cousin had an in with customs and
he had no problem returning.
When we called the fuel truck to top our tanks, the plane
took 181 gallons of gas to fill up. The book says the
airplane only holds 180 gallons so the fuel trucks gauges
must have been off a little. Dave was impressed with how
close we came to disaster.
As usual, when I returned with a good story, we headed
for the airport bar with the girls in tow, to tell anyone there
who was interested the story.
“How was your trip, Dave?”, Susan asked. You could
see her excitement, wanting to hear the story.
“No sweat, doll. Piece of cake,” he replied in a voice
without a hint of concern.
Everyone had a good laugh at the story. Then it was time
for Dave and Susan to make it back to Dallas, so we all
went over to the terminal to see them off.
As Charlotte and I were driving to our apartment on Billy
Mitchell Boulevard just outside the airport, she remarked,
“Sounds like it was a close one.”
“Yeah, it was,”, I replied, “but no big deal.”
She knew otherwise.
Copyright 1998, BUSHPILOT, all rights reserved