"Yes, ma’am, I’m a German citizen, and I’m looking for some counsel because I’ve run into a few... issues. Deportation to a black hole of a facility that no one’s ever heard of—and likely doesn’t exist—is honestly the least of them."
I was on the line with a cretin at the German embassy in Los Angeles, though calling her a “cretin” might have been overly generous. She sounded like an au pair on her gap year, possibly no older than twelve, armed with the diplomatic awareness of a houseplant. The conversation thus far had been about as productive as yelling at a potted fern, except the fern might have had the decency to stay silent instead of parroting useless platitudes in a tone that could barely pass for human.
Of course, I knew better than to expect any meaningful assistance from the German Embassy. My last brush with their so-called "service" had been during my unplanned sabbatical in an airport prison in Nairobi—a charming establishment where, for all I know, I’m still on hold on their emergency hotline, despite the minor inconvenience of nine years having passed. Their version of help back then had been about as practical as a box of erotic lingerie at a Home Depot: confusing, out of place, and utterly useless for the situation at hand.
Still, I wasn’t ready to give up—not just yet.
I clung to a shred of hope that, for once, the German taxpayer-funded embassy might extend something resembling legal guidance instead of blowing their budget on schmoozing with B-list celebrities over cocktails on Sunset Plaza. Surely, I thought, this wasn’t too much to ask.
After all, the absolute train wreck I found myself living through—the aftermath of shaking hands with the USDA’s messenger of misery himself, Dumpy Director Dick—wasn’t entirely my fault. My gullible stupidity, while glaring, wasn’t the sole culprit. No, this was a team effort, and it was about time someone else played their part.
“What do you want us to do?” she asked, her tone dripping with a practiced blend of boredom and insincere politeness. For someone who sounded like she’d just been plucked from a middle school debate team, she was disturbingly skilled at lobbing my plea for help back into my face like a professional dodgeball player aiming for the nose.
"Well," I said, the frustration starting to seep through my otherwise charming demeanour, "call me crazy, but I thought you might have some ideas. Surely I’m not the first silly sod to find himself as collateral damage after dealing with the almighty U.S. government. This is America, after all—why not sue everyone? Isn’t that the national pastime? And while we’re at it, can you remind me what exactly you do over there, apart from sunning yourself in Beverly Hills on the taxpayer’s dime? Are you paid to breathe, or does that come as a bonus?"
My patience was wearing thin, and the claws were coming out. This glorified receptionist—German or not—was proving herself a worthy contender for the International League of Ineffectual Bureaucrats. Her apathy was indistinguishable from her American peers, a bland cocktail of indifference and smug detachment that made me wonder if embassies issued standardised handbooks on how to stonewall people in need.
To her, I wasn’t a stranded citizen in crisis—I was just an inconvenient interruption. No doubt, she was multitasking, maybe buffing her nails or scrolling through Instagram, pondering whether her avocado toast aesthetic was on point. I could almost hear her eyes rolling as I spoke, the universal signal of a bureaucrat who’d already decided they weren’t lifting a finger to help.
I left her to her manicure and hung up, resigning myself to the fact that I was as much a priority to her as a chipped nail. The next step in my descent into legal purgatory was venturing into the treacherous realm of pro bono lawyers. Now, “Pro Bono” has a pleasant ring to it, doesn’t it? It conjures images of benevolence and warmth, like soaking in a bubble bath after a long day. The slogan is equally soothing: “Don’t worry about a thing—we’ve got you covered, and it won’t cost a penny.”
Here’s what I learned: pro bono lawyers are about as genuine as that cheerful landscape painting in your dentist's office—a purely decorative illusion no one actually believes in. After contacting every "pro bono" attorney listed south of the polar circle, here’s how many were willing to help: zero, nil, none, nada, zip.
Like toilet paper made from chilli pepper leaves, pro bono attorneys are a painful exercise in futility that’s best avoided entirely.
After days of relentless, soul-crushing attempts to find a lawyer who would take my case without demanding a blood sacrifice, we finally landed on a lady from the East Coast. We tracked her down during her lunch break—likely between bites of cabbage-and-quinoa soup—and managed to squeeze an hour of her time.
Her contributions consisted mostly of an impassioned monologue about how utterly vile and incompetent the government was, spewing disasters and bureaucratic catastrophes into the lives of anyone unfortunate enough to cross paths with it. She made her disdain for the system crystal clear: to her, the government was the embodiment of all things despicable.
That said, she did leave me with one useful (and only marginally comforting) nugget of wisdom: “Marcel, you’ve got a 180-day grace period after your visa expires. After that, you either get out or find yourself in the mothership of misery, Guantanamo Bay.”
Only later did we learn—after futile attempts to contact her again—that she had taken a job with the DOJ as a lawyer. So much for despising the system. Despicable must pay better than I thought.
Eventually, we abandoned the fantasy that anyone was going to pay for the catastrophe we found ourselves in. Holding the USDA, the lawyers, or even the German Embassy accountable was as pointless as trying to nail water to a wall. Fine. If the system was hell-bent on hanging us out to dry, we’d at least make a spectacle of it. With our pride slightly crumpled but intact enough to keep us going, we pointed the car toward Thermopolis, with an overnight stop in Jackson Hole.
Jackson, however, had changed. Or at least the motel we once stayed in had taken a hard left turn into dystopia. Under new ownership, it had transformed into a motel-slash-mockery that wouldn’t have been out of place in a war zone. The lobby smelled like despair and disinfectant, the kind that barely masks the underlying rot. The lights flickered ominously, and the atmosphere suggested that this was less a place to stay and more a spot to get rid of a body—yours, if you weren’t careful.
Nobody spoke English. That included the two receptionists, who seemed more invested in their phones than in the disoriented travellers glaring at them across the desk. A group of dubious characters—looking like a casting call for "Narcos: The Motel Edition"—lounged in a dark corner, smoking weed with the casual air of people who had nothing better to do, or perhaps no papers to worry about. They weren’t guests. They were the staff. Housekeepers, janitors, maintenance workers. The full motley crew of a motel that had clearly decided to skip background checks and go straight to importing its workforce wholesale.
I finally managed to corner one of the receptionists—a woman whose English was as shaky as the ceiling fan creaking above us. In a moment of morbid curiosity, I asked the question that had been gnawing at me: how had she, with her mangled sentences and general indifference, managed to secure a working visa while I, with my supposed qualifications and obsessive adherence to immigration rules, had been chewed up and spat out by the system?
She beamed, as if I’d complimented her on her manicure. “Oh, easy. Uncle took care.”
Uncle. Of course. The mythical fixer. The Gandalf of visa wizardry. The man who could summon legal documents from thin air while the rest of us were buried in bureaucratic quicksand. I glanced toward the group of smoky misfits in the corner and wondered which one of them was "Uncle" or if Uncle even bothered with personal appearances. Maybe he worked remotely, emailing miracles from the comfort of his undoubtedly lavish setup.
I fought the urge to laugh. Not because it was funny—nothing about this was funny—but because laughing was better than screaming into the void. All it took to navigate the labyrinth of American immigration, apparently, was the right shady connection. Meanwhile, I was out here playing by the rules like a fool.
So, we turned on our heels and left the lobby—without a room and with a newfound clarity. Forget outrage. Forget self-pity. We’d been out-gamed, and the game itself was rigged. If I couldn’t get an Uncle, I’d settle for finding a way to beat the system on my own terms. And if that didn’t work, well, at least I knew where to find a Venezuelan weed-smoking workforce for my next business venture.
We found a charming hotel just a few blocks away, the kind of place that exuded warmth with its crackling fireplace and the faint smell of cinnamon wafting through the lobby. It was a rare oasis in the frostbitten chaos, offering complimentary coffee and biscuits that we took full advantage of while indulging in our favourite pastime: drinking coffee and watching people.
The fireplace flickered, the coffee was hot, and the guests were a parade of personalities ripe for silent commentary. It felt like a reward for almost stumbling into the previous motel misadventure—when we miraculously managed to leave the establishment in one piece and arrive here instead.
But the real entertainment came the next morning. Before heading back to Thermopolis, we decided to check out the breakfast room. It was there, amidst the clinking of cutlery and the hum of small talk, that I noticed him.
He stood out like a clown at a funeral—a young man with a weathered face that seemed more accustomed to herding goats in the rocky hills of Afghanistan than navigating the quiet luxury of Jackson Hole. His presence was so incongruous I half expected a camel to be tied up outside the hotel. Something about him screamed “fish out of water,” and I couldn’t resist the urge to engage. It was like imagining Elton John and Ozzy Osbourne starting a new band together: utterly bizarre, but too intriguing to ignore.
Dusting off the remnants of Arabic I’d learned as a child, I greeted him cautiously: “Hal tatakallam al-arabiya? Do you speak Arabic?”
Mistake.
His expression shifted immediately, from mild confusion to outright suspicion, as though I had just flashed a badge and demanded to see his papers. To my horror, I remembered—Afghans don’t speak Arabic. This young man, in particular, didn’t seem to speak much of anything. He stared at me, his eyes narrowing, trying to decide if I was a friend, a foe, or an undercover immigration officer.
After a long pause, he finally responded with the only words he seemed to know in English: “H2B work visa, Sir.”
That was it. That was the sum total of his contribution to our conversation. But those words hit me like a punch to the gut. H2B work visa. My visa, except that unfortunately, pilots weren’t qualified for it. Apparently, cleaning toilets trumped flying planes in the great hierarchy of America’s immigration system.
I glanced around the room, taking in the context I’d missed before. The quietly industrious housekeepers ferrying trays of breakfast, the janitor polishing the already-spotless floor, the whispers of conversations in half a dozen languages. And this young man, with his thousand-yard stare and two-word vocabulary, likely here on the same H2B visa as the others, transported thousands of miles for the glorious opportunity to scrub toilets and wipe down tables.
Suddenly, it all made sense. My mistake hadn’t been asking him if he spoke Arabic. My mistake had been choosing the wrong career. If I’d skipped flight school and aimed straight for a mop and bucket, my chances of securing a visa would have skyrocketed. All I had to do was pick up a squeegee, a towel, and let some shady "Uncle" handle the paperwork.
As I walked away, coffee in hand, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. But one thing was clear: the American Dream wasn’t a promise; it was a cosmic joke. And you had to be asleep to dream it.
Friendship means little, when it is merely convenient.
Apart from my wife—who, despite her best efforts to stay clear of the chaos, was often dragged into the wreckage I’d left in my wake—it has always been my true friends who provided fleeting moments of comfort and sanity, depending on where in the world I was facing my latest calamity. They were my lifelines, scattered across the globe, stepping in depending on which corner of the planet I happened to be imploding in at the time.
In Kenya, there was Shlomi, a man whose chaos almost rivalled mine, but in a way that felt absurdly functional by comparison. He somehow managed to juggle a family while doling out advice that was equal parts well-meaning and catastrophic. Giving me advice, however, is like handing a parachute to someone who insists on flying straight into a thunderstorm without an aircraft—it’s a noble gesture, but destined to be ignored.
In Los Angeles, my sanctuary came in the form of Lolita. No matter how spectacularly I had managed to collapse my life, I could count on her fireplace and a bottle of wine, sometimes even the sanctuary of her backyard when my tribulations reached their zenith. She’d seen me at my worst, yet never flinched—her back garden had been my refugee camp more than once, her kindness a steady balm against the razor-sharp edges of my self-inflicted setbacks.
Here in Wyoming, there was Karen, affectionately nicknamed Mrs. Claus—though not only for her love of festive cheer. She had, somehow, turned my unintentional year-long occupation of her house into an act of charity that rivalled sainthood. Whether she was driven by a deep reservoir of kindness or morbid curiosity about how much worse I could screw things up, I couldn’t say. But without fail, she’d check in daily, sending upbeat texts or calling to see how things were going—or derailing, as they usually were.
Karen had also assumed the role of our personal meteorologist. With the ruthless precision of a guillotine blade and the zeal of a disaster film narrator, she’d update us on road closures, blizzard forecasts, and icy death traps masquerading as highways. I suspect this wasn’t so much out of altruism as an acute awareness that I approached "planning ahead" with all the skill and caution of a squirrel playing chicken with a semi-truck.
Normal pilots—you know, the ones with a shred of sense—wouldn’t dream of ignoring weather reports. They’d treat impending blizzards and thunderstorms like gospel, planning every detail to avoid nature’s wrath. But me? I saw extreme weather as an invitation. Much to my wife’s horror, I relished driving headlong into hellscapes of snow and ice, treating them less as obstacles and more as opportunities to audition for the lead role in a low-budget disaster movie.
If Karen ever thought of staging an intervention, she never let on. She just kept the texts and calls coming, as though sheer persistence might one day penetrate my foolproof system of chaos management.
Thanks to Karen’s logistical wizardry—navigating us through open roads, dodging closed passes, and side-stepping blizzard warnings like some kind of meteorological chess master—we eventually rolled back into what we generously still referred to as home: Thermopolis, Wyoming. A three-horse town that felt more like a stubborn mule on a good day.
The snowstorm had been so ferocious that the road leading to the house looked like it was auditioning as a ski jump for the Winter Olympics. Drifts had piled up to the second story, turning the place into a frosted wasteland that would make Siberia look tropical. After several failed attempts to wedge our clanking, gasping Range Rover into the carport, we enlisted the help of Rod and his trusty little 4x4. He attacked the mountain of snow with the ferocity of a man personally offended by its existence, plowing and piling it so high that Mount Everest itself would have looked like a kiddie hill in comparison.
At last, the Rover was parked, the snow was conquered (for now), and we collapsed, letting the chaos of the past two weeks crash over us like the hangover of a particularly bad idea. If there had been a medal for surviving that journey, I’d have demanded mine be delivered with a stiff drink and a warm blanket.
Unexpectedly, someone else—who would later become a trusted ally—reached out with a curiosity as sharp as his wit: John, the Flying Tiger. With razor-edged intellect, an exhaustive grasp of history, and a radio communication skillset that bordered on artistry, John possessed an uncanny knack for cutting through the static of life with one perfectly aimed question. He’d caught wind of my apocalyptic entanglement with Utah’s USDA and, with the precision of a surgeon, wanted the gritty details.
He called while we were battling bad weather and even worse roads on our way back home, the kind of journey that had you questioning both your life choices and your vehicle's warranty. Within minutes, we found ourselves in instant, mutual agreement: a world without fear-inducing bureaucracy was a utopia worth praying for.
John, with his encyclopaedic knowledge of world affairs, profound understanding of classical music, and uncanny ability to weave humour into even the grimmest topics, was excellent company. Music, however, was where our conversational symphony faltered. I’m utterly useless in that realm—barely able to tell the difference between Mozart and Madonna without a cheat sheet. Despite my tone-deaf contributions to the subject, we ended up chatting for over an hour, a much-needed distraction from the literal and metaphorical storms around me.
The inescapable question loomed over our heads like a Damocles sword, teetering on a thread that mocked our every move: Now what? Was this the end—again? Licking wounds and tallying up losses, a process in which I am, at this point, practically Olympic-level, revealed a few options. Only one, however, seemed even remotely viable, though that’s being generous.
Enter John—ever the entrepreneur—who shared that he was gearing up to start a solar project at Cody’s airport come spring, still a good two months out. He invited me to join in. I suspect it was less a serious business proposition and more a strategic move to keep me from plunging headfirst into my own abyss of despair, but it worked.
Anyone who’s ever found themselves in a pit so deep it echoes, or standing with their heels hanging off the edge of a cliff overlooking a void of self-pity, despair, and sheer terror, knows the inexplicable relief when someone extends a hand. It doesn’t matter what they’re offering—be it a lifeline, a Band-Aid, or even a roll of duct tape—it’s the act itself that shifts something inside.
Because here’s the thing: when you’re drowning, what you don’t need is someone standing on the shore, yelling, “Well, I wouldn’t have swum out that far!” Or some voyeuristic bystander gawking like they’re rubbernecking a pileup on the interstate, hoping for a closer look at the carnage. No, what you need is someone who silently wades in, no fanfare, no judgment, and simply says, “Let’s get you out of this mess.” That’s what John did—not for glory, not to lecture me later, but just because.
And in that moment, the offer of something—anything—felt less like a job opportunity and more like a flashlight in a cave. It reminded me that maybe, just maybe, there was still a way out of this dark, godforsaken hole.
Another option would’ve been to venture back to Nate’s workshop and pick up where I left off. Of course, there were glaring problems with this plan—chief among them, my lifelong, cellular-level commitment to never going back to something I was thrilled to leave behind. It’s like taking back an ex you couldn’t wait to kick out, just because you’ve discovered being alone has its own special brand of misery. There was a reason you ended it, so stick with it. Going back is like reheating coffee from the morning for your afternoon break—stale, bitter, and a reminder of every bad decision you’ve ever made.
Returning to Nate would’ve been no different. While I had nothing but respect for Nate’s wizard-like ability to fix anything mechanical, I also distinctly remembered the euphoric relief I felt when I finally walked out of that workshop. Don’t get me wrong—I loved the cheap jokes, the camaraderie over greasy Friday burgers to celebrate the arrival of the weekend, and the unspoken rhythm of the place. Nate was a man of precision—punctual and strict to the core. If he had been just a friend and not my boss, I imagine he’d be the kind of guy who’d always have your back, loyal to a fault when the chips were down.
But therein lay the problem. The very qualities that made him an excellent mechanic and, arguably, a solid friend also made him an insufferable person to work with. His unrelenting need for perfection, paired with a talent for finding fault in even the most trivial things, was like living under a storm cloud that occasionally rumbled passive-aggressively just to remind you it could strike lightning at any moment.
Sure, the jokes were fun—until they weren’t. There was a thin line between playful ribbing and a subtle sting of condescension, and Nate loved to toe that line like a tightrope walker with an audience. Despite the burgers and the laughs, there was a cost to being around someone who operated on a lower frequency. His constant critique and quiet discontent weren’t just draining—they were suffocating. No matter how curious, adventurous, or full of life you are, spending time with someone whose world revolves around rigid rules, immovable worldviews, and an almost religious adherence to order will grind down even the most optimistic spirit.
So yes, I respected Nate, and yes, he was brilliant—and I genuinely liked him. But stepping back into that workshop would’ve felt like walking straight into quicksand and I had no interest at all in letting him tinker with my patience again.
Instead, I decided to take a gamble on friendship, to see if it could stand on its own legs without the scaffolding of shared routines and daily proximity. It’s only after you leave someone behind—after you’re no longer showing up every day and sharing the minutiae of life—that you find out if the connection was genuine. Were the jokes and offers of help heartfelt, or were they just a byproduct of circumstance, an obligatory civility because you happened to be there? Some people fade the moment you’re out of sight, their presence in your life vanishes as swiftly and unceremoniously as steam rising off a dog’s turd on a frosty winter morning.
The truth is, keeping people in your life takes effort and, more importantly, a desire to do so. Friendship doesn’t survive on nostalgia alone. It requires tending, like a fire that only burns if both parties are willing to feed it. Nobody sticks around if it feels one-sided, no matter how good the memories might be.
Time would reveal whether Nate would transform into a true friend—a figure who’d check in, share a laugh, or lend a hand—or if he’d simply become a pleasant memory, a character from one of life’s many fleeting episodes. Either way, I figured it was worth finding out. After all, even the best stories deserve a proper ending.
That being said, when one door closes in life, they say, another one opens. What they fail to mention is that behind those new openings in the wall, something far worse might be lurking—a snarling beast of misery waiting to drag you to rock bottom and then gleefully stomp on you for good measure.
This time, that loitering menace arrived in the form of an email. Not just any email—oh no—but a message from my former flight instructor. The man who had singlehandedly instilled sheer terror into my soul during my first flight training back in Germany. This was the guy who, in his infinite wisdom, decided to "spice up" one of our lessons with an unannounced aerobatic manoeuvre that left me gripping the yoke and questioning every decision that had led me to that moment.
The result? A fear I’d never had before: the fear of heights. Not some fluffy psychological nonsense about a “fear of dying.” No, this was a visceral, spine-chilling terror of plummeting out of the sky in a catastrophic spiral, ending up as a flaming, crumpled wreck in some poor family’s backyard. A smouldering monument to arrogance, eternally etched into memory as "that guy who overreached and paid for it in flames", a grim testament to ambition turned to ash.
I still remember the moment vividly—how I nearly reached for the passenger door mid-flight, ready to boot my pesky instructor into the void with a well-placed kick. Parachute optional. Of course, this would have solved one problem while creating a brand-new one, as I had no earthly clue how to land a plane at that point. So, I endured, gritting my teeth and clinging to my dignity—or what was left of it.
But I digress. The email, this unexpected ghost clawing its way out of the past, came bearing a proposition cloaked in temptation. He was recruiting me for what sounded like a dream—or more likely, a beautifully wrapped disaster. A chance to return to Kenya, one of my favourite places on earth, and take to the skies in an antique biplane taildragger, offering scenic rides over the sprawling wilderness. A machine straight out of aviation’s golden age, when the sky stretched forever, radios were reserved for emergencies, and pilots weren’t just mortals—they were gods.
It was tantalising, undeniably so. The kind of opportunity that beckons like a siren, singing promises of adventure, nostalgia, and a taste of glory. But there’s always a catch—a glint of steel hidden behind the charm, a trap laid beneath the glamour. The question wasn’t whether I wanted to do it; it was whether I was ready for the inevitable chaos that would follow when that knife inevitably found my back.
And of course, I knew it. By email number two, the catch had already slithered out from behind the tempting offer, hissing its sinister little truths.
“Marcel, where are you and what are you doing at the moment?” began my former instructor, with the faux innocence of someone dangling bait on a hook they know you’ll bite. “I have a great job opportunity for you. Flying a Waco Biplane for scenic flights. A friend of mine”—and here it was, the name I recognised immediately, a man I wouldn’t trust to babysit a potted plant, let alone orchestrate my livelihood—“desperately can’t find anyone who knows how to fly his antique plane. Considering your experience and penchant for old-school, stalwart flying, I think this could be perfect for you! All you have to do is get into the air a few times a day with some starry-eyed honeymoon couple and give them a little taste of Out of Africa. What do you say?”
What did I say? I said nothing, because I was too busy imagining the multiple ways this could go horribly wrong. His “great opportunity” had all the trappings of a glittering death trap, and the fact that he thought a connection to that guy—his dubious “friend”—would sweeten the deal was almost insulting. Still, I read on, morbidly curious to see how deep the rabbit hole went.
It took exactly two more emails to confirm my worst fears. The pay wasn’t just low—it was downright insulting, the kind of offer that makes you wonder if you’re the punchline of some elaborate joke. Even a McDonald’s pay-check for flipping greasy burgers would seem like a ticket to a private island by comparison. And if that wasn’t degrading enough, the deal required me to sign a two-year contract, shell out my own money to convert my licenses, cover the cost of accommodation during the process, and endure the bureaucratic hellscape that is Kenya Aviation. Having dealt with them before, I can confidently say that a month in solitary confinement with a sadistic prison warden—strapped upside down to a cold, damp wall and forced to endure endless reruns of The Love Boat—would feel like an all-inclusive resort getaway compared to this offer. But the real gut punch? Flying the biplane—a job that actually excited me—would be a mere 30 minutes of my day. The rest of my miserable existence would be spent as a charter pilot in one of his Cessnas, shuttling passengers from point A to point nowhere. For anyone who doesn’t know me, let me spell it out: I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Cessna. And if one did plummet from the sky and flatten me, well, I’d call that poetic justice served cold. Touching a Cessna isn’t on my to-do list—not even if my life depended on it. Yes, I get it—Cessnas are solid, reliable workhorses, the poster child of FAA accident statistics. Great on paper, sure. In reality? Let’s just say I’ll pass, thanks.
I’ve spent years avoiding those glorified lawnmowers with wings, giving them a disgusted wide berth whenever possible. To me, they’re less airplanes and more vindictive jokes—a cruel invention by someone who hated pilots and wanted to see how much misery they could cram into a single cockpit. The idea of spending my days trapped in one of those death traps was enough to make me reconsider my entire life’s trajectory.
So naturally—much to my instructor’s utter bewilderment—I declined. To this day, I imagine him scratching his head, baffled by my refusal to follow the noble, sensible path he envisioned. You know, the kind of plan that “grown-ups” like him preach with a straight face: go there, grit your teeth, work your way up, and trust that life will somehow graciously unfold its wonders. Or, in his words—or at least how I heard them—“blahblahblah.”
It wasn’t that I lacked ambition; I just had no interest in the kind that involved soul-sucking monotony, endless compromise, and burning precious hours of my finite existence with people who might seem charming and intriguing during a two-week vacation—the extent of my instructor’s experience with this so-called “friend"—but turn into walking nightmares the moment the mask of hospitality slips and the greedy, soul-crushing employer emerges.
However, brighter, more promising days were allegedly just around the corner.
One of the many customers flying into Thermopolis Airport was a man named William. Naturally, he was a flight instructor. Because in America, flight instructors seem to outnumber regular pilots. Honestly, the odds of meeting someone at a U.S. airport who isn’t a flight instructor are about as slim as stumbling upon an ancient Egyptian tomb with free Wi-Fi.
This man, however, was cut from a different cloth. He wasn’t some underpaid cog in the machinery of a random flight school, showing up with a wide-eyed student in a battle-worn Cessna 172 held together by safety wire and sentiment. Oh no, William was in a league of his own, instructing the crème de la crème of private pilots—the celebrities and business moguls who could casually afford aircraft with price tags that could rival a colony on Mars.
His specialty? The TBM 960, a cutting-edge flying marvel that makes most other planes look like glorified lawn darts. Gone are the days when collapsing behind the yoke meant an express trip to becoming a smoking crater. No, this beauty—optional upgrade, of course—boasts a "HomeSafe" emergency auto-land function.
That’s right. Suffer a heart attack? Stroke? Or even an uncontrollable bout of catastrophic diarrhoea mid-flight? No problem. Just press a button, and the plane will calmly take over, landing itself at the nearest airport with all the grace of a seasoned pro. It might even go the extra mile and call the doctors, your lawyer, estranged relatives, and probably your spouse—depending on the severity of the situation—or the coroner, all before you’ve had time to regret your last in-flight meal.
Naturally, I was suspicious when we first met. A flying iPad with an autopilot represented the antithesis of what I considered real flying. To me, the TBM 960 was less of an aircraft and more of a tech nerd's fever dream. However, my opinion of William began to shift when I learned he had recently acquired a Piper Super Cub—a machine that embodies the essence of pure, unfiltered aviation.
Owning a Cub, he explained, had been a lifelong dream come true. Even though he lacked experience with it, he was determined to learn. Admirable, sure—but also borderline naive. Most pilots, regardless of their credentials, seem to think flying a Super Cub the way it’s meant to be flown is child’s play. It’s not.
In fact, transitioning from a Starship Enterprise-like TBM to a Cub is about as seamless as expecting a Formula One driver to saddle up and expertly handle a horse. The only thing the two have in common is a tendency—under ideal circumstances—to move forward.
William had a quiet, gentle demeanour—a walking embodiment of politeness. His conduct was utterly pleasant, almost disarmingly so. But beneath that calm exterior, I could sense a subtle, simmering ferocity, just waiting to be unleashed if circumstances demanded. He reminded me of a well-trained Rottweiler—adorable and composed, but with the undeniable potential to transform into a force of nature in an instant.
Perhaps it takes one to know one, but that was the vibe I got from him right away. Besides our mutual appreciation for Super Cubs, we discovered another shared passion: an unfiltered, barely contained love for handguns. Because nothing says camaraderie quite like bonding over finely engineered tools of controlled destruction.
I had almost completely forgotten about William, along with the fact that we’d exchanged numbers before I left Nate’s workshop to begin my ill-fated predator control pilot career with the USDA. So, it caught me off guard when my phone rang one day, and there was William on the other end, checking in and asking how the new job was treating me.
A quick recap of the catastrophic debacle that was my USDA experience left William utterly speechless—and possibly even mildly concerned for my mental stability. After a moment of stunned silence, during which I suspect he reconsidered calling me in the first place, he pivoted. Soon, he was peppering me with questions about his plane, clearly eager to soak up whatever insights I could offer. Despite being an expert in his own right—albeit in the tech-laden, luxury-aircraft world—William seemed genuinely interested in what someone who lived and breathed Cubs might have to say. Someone who didn’t just know about Cubs but understood them on a visceral, gut-level that no amount of fancy avionics training could replicate.
Then came the kicker.
His shiny new Cub was safely tucked away in a hangar in Cody, Wyoming, while he was off roaming around South Carolina on a month-long family reunion tour. All fine and dandy—except for the small inconvenience that the Cub was in desperate need of servicing. Nate could handle the maintenance, of course, but unless Nate had suddenly developed the ability to clone himself or perform miracles at a distance of 80 miles, the plane wasn’t getting to the shop on its own.
That, as it turned out, was William’s current dilemma. But William, being William, had a plan—a cunning, slightly audacious plan.
Perhaps I—the so-called Super Cub expert—could be persuaded to ferry his precious baby to Nate’s workshop for servicing? And maybe, just maybe, since the plane had a brand-new engine, I could stick around to run the motor in for 30 hours. You know, give it the best possible start in life before handing it back over. No big deal, just me babysitting his pride and joy while he sipped sweet tea with distant relatives.
Naturally, I agreed. Let’s be honest—I would have postponed my own funeral, flower arrangements and all, for the chance to take that beautiful bird up for a few hours. The opportunity to fly a pristine Super Cub? It wasn’t just tempting—it was non-negotiable.
That very same day, Nicole and I set off on the journey to Cody, armed with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Before we hit the road, I muttered a quick and silent prayer to the automobile gods, begging for mercy on our decrepit vehicle. Its latest party trick—a charming combination of rattling, vibrating, and what I could only describe as a death rattle courtesy of a disintegrating drivetrain—didn’t exactly inspire confidence in our chances of reaching Cody in one piece. But optimism (and a good dose of denial) won the day, so off we went.
How this seemingly never-ending story finally wraps up—with me piloting one of the most stunning Super Cubs I’ve ever had the privilege to fly and fumbling my way through the utterly alien task of installing solar panels alongside my friend John—is a tale best saved for the final chapter of this Wyoming saga.
Stay tuned,
Marcel Romdane
Roaming the skies in the perfect plane
Wyoming, God's Country. My buddy John, Passion impersonated... Temptation with wings...The Waco... Second to none: The Piper Super Cub
Kommentar hinzufügen
Kommentare