*     *     *     *     *

     Alright, dear reader, enough with the run down on my dinner companions – what about me? (He said selfishly.)

     As I indicated before, Val covertly approached Golden West Airlines (Goldy) and got me an interview with the Chief Pilot Abe August.  Who made it clear to me that, if I was serious, I’d have to visit Toronto, Canada, and take the manufacturer’s ground school course on the Twin Otter – all on my own nickel.  So I zipped off to Toronto, attended De Havilland’s DHC-6 Twin Otter Ground School, passed their written exam, got their graduation certificate and presented it to “Goldy.”  At which point the chief pilot on 20^th May, 1977, had me take an “evaluation hop” with Capt. Singleton in the “Twatter” – to see if I could actually fly it.  I did...and it was love at first sight!

     The De Havilland DHC-6 Twin Otter possessed two Pratt & Whitney PT6A turboprop engines, had a max takeoff weight of 10,500 pounds, and cruised along at an average 150 mph while carrying 18 passengers.  The captain and first officer had their own doors for easy cockpit access, and the throttles were mounted overhead – on the cockpit’s ceiling – which you could “twist” at touchdown – hydraulically reversing the pitch on the propellers – entering reverse thrust and stopping on a dime.  It had a tough, fixed, tricycle landing gear with outsized wheels, and a high wing design - keeping the engine’s propellers well off the ground – making it the most practical rough-field-bush airplane I had ever flown. 

     God Almighty, dear reader!  How I wished I’d had this amazing aircraft in Africa!

     DHC-6 Cockpit with both doors open.

     DHC-6 basic instrument panel.

     DHC-6 overhead throttles with twist-grips.

     Requiring the FO (me) to have a long arm to reach them.

     DHC-6 passenger cabin.

     At this time “Goldy” had a fleet of eleven Twin Otters, plus three Short 330s; another twin turboprop with an average cruise speed of 200 mph and a 30-passenger capacity.

     Short 330. Golden West was based at the old LAX historical terminal.

     Upon landing from my “evaluation ride,” I was hired by “Goldy” and given a class date.

             *     *     *     *     *

     In late May of 1977, I stepped inside a darkened, shabby banquet room at a run-down motel on Century Boulevard, near the entrance to LAX.  This was where Golden West Airlines was holding their first new-hire ground school in ten years.

     At this location I initially laid eyes on Julie Clark, dear reader, as she was also in this group of twenty new-hire pilots.

     As the actual ground school had been held at the factory in Toronto, “Goldy’s” Ground School was basically a joke – reduced to merely a paperwork exercise for the FAA; filling in the required FAA hours.  We new-hires not learning anything we didn’t already know regarding the aircraft, airline operation and the FAA’s FARs.

     There was one informative high, or low, spot – depending on how one looked at it – which occurred.  This was when I inadvertently learned that “Goldy’s” pilots were represented by a union: the “Teamsters.”  Having never been involved with a union – I was a total babe in the woods. 

     Right in the middle of ground school, the chief pilot got up on the stage and informed us that our “shop steward” was here from Detroit; prompting the chief pilot and all the instructors - including the FAA inspectors observing our class – to vacate the dark banquet room en masse.

     And as they did, dear reader, two questions erupted in my new-hire brain:  What the fuck is a “shop steward?”  And why is he coming all the way from Detroit in Michigan?

     A man took the darkened stage, and when he stepped into the solitary light over the podium, I instantly sensed I’d been dropped in a movie: The Godfather. 

     He wore a tailored, expensive, steel-blue sharkskin suit with red silk tie, matching hanky, and gaudy-gold Rolex.  His aquiline nose had been broken, while his curly black hair appeared to contain a full quart of motor oil, and his upper lip sported the hint of a pencil-thin mustache.

     Valerie’s caricature sketch of “my” shop steward.

     It was his voice, however, that held us spellbound.  For we all heard Marlon Brando’s whisky-pitched whisper from The Godfather!

     I nearly burst my bladder, dear reader, trying not to laugh.  Surely this joker was having us on.

     He never introduced himself.  Instead, he got to the point, stating, “Welcome to da Brotta-hood a Teamsters.  Youse are all on probation for a year and will be paid seven hundred clams a month.  Youse paycheck will be docked twenty-five clams a month.  Dat’s da union dues.  Any questions?”

     This, dear reader, was no joke.  All stateside airlines at this period placed new-hire pilots on probation for a year and paid them chump change – even before their paycheck got raped by the IRS, state and unions.  And at any moment, if you didn’t part your hair correctly, the airline could dump you.  To put up with this bullshit...you really had to love flying.

     One of the new-hire pilots in the back raised his hand.

     “Yeah, buddy,” our shop steward said – motioning towards him.

     The new-hire asked, “So twenty-five dollars will be taken out of our paychecks automatically each month by the Teamsters?”

     “Yeah...dat’s right, buddy.”

     Another hand went up.

     “Yeah, buddy.”

     Another new-hire asked, “D-During our probation if the company should fire us...will the Teamsters represent us in court.”

     The shop steward shook his head in the negative, and said, “No, buddy.  If youse on probation da Teamsters don’t represent youse.”

     Again, another hand went up.

     “Yeah, buddy.”

     The hand’s owner asked, “But we still have to pay the twenty-five a month during our first year of probation...even though the Teamsters won’t represent us?

     “Dat’s right, buddy.”

     A last hand went up.

     The shop steward nodded towards it.

     The hand’s owner nervously inquired, in a squeaky voice, “I’m not certain of the others...b-but twenty-five dollars is a lot of money.  W-What if we don’t want to join the Teamsters?”

    I saw the shop steward flinch – as if being gut-shot – then he pulled himself together, straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and said, “Den how’s youse gonna fly wit broken wrists?”

     Magically; all questions abruptly dried up.

     If I hadn’t needed the flying hours and airline experience, dear reader, I would have gotten up and walked out.  Alternatively, I reluctantly bit the bullet, and got in bed with the mob out of Detroit.  I still have my Brotherhood of Teamsters laminated I.D. ...somewhere.  Which, whenever I’ve seen it, has always made me wonder - did the Teamsters actually manufacture hot dogs out of Jimmy Hoffa?  Then sell them at a Red Socks game? I’m told what made the “dogs” so tasty was the special mustard.  GO SOCKS!

     

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