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     Not too long after getting checked out on the line, in February of 1978, I heard a strange piece of scuttlebutt circulating among the pilots.  It was the saga of “Grind them in the rug Gambetty” (I’m not using his real name to protect his family).

     Gambetty was hired as a first officer on the DC-9 the previous year.  And - upon getting type-rated and checked out on the line - had applied to National Airlines, which was a successful Miami based air-carrier that had been operating since 1934. 

     Currently they were running a successful ad campaign using the cutest flight attendants in the biz; who’d appear on TV, and state, “Hi...I’m Cheryl.  Fly me.”  Then she’d wink. 

     This caused the National Organization for Women to raise hell for being “sexist.”  The “stink” only sold more airline tickets.

     Gambetty was a clever, young lad in his late twenties, with a college education, who possessed a solitary flaw; he needed glasses.  National refused to hire any pilot needing glasses.  So during his interviews, Gambetty wore contact lenses.  When he took National’s physical - and it came to the eye exam - our “enterprising boy” passed it with flying colors.  But as the doc turned his back to pick up his penlight, to examine each eyeball up close, Gambetty popped out his contacts and ground them in the shag carpet with his shoe.  Turning round, the doc scrutinized Gambetty’s eyes...and found nothing out of the ordinary.

     As National paid better, had a solid future with superior management and benefits, Gambetty bailed out on Air Florida and joined National as a flight engineer on the Boeing 727.

     The flight operations manager at Air Florida was so incensed at Gambetty’s move, he contacted the chief pilot at National and “blew the whistle” on Gambetty’s need for glasses.  And, because he was still on probation, National promptly fired Gambetty for “misrepresentation.”

     Oh yes, dear reader, the airlines can be that petty.

     The airline industry is actually a small community that thrives on gossip.  Thus the legend of “Grind them in the rug Gambetty” evolved - sweeping the industry like wildfire.  As Gambetty was soon to find out when applying to airline after airline; discovering his “legend” preceded him and was the kiss of death.

     Which I personally thought was odd, dear reader, as the majority of the airlines during this period accepted pilots needing glasses if their vision was corrected to 20/20.

     Finally, out of desperation, “our boy” winds up on the West Coast and applies to PSA (Pacific Southwest Airlines) based at San Diego’s Lindbergh Field.  And then finds himself in a shabby, second-floor, cramped office on the back end of a drafty hangar. 

     PSA’s drafty hanger.  

     Seated across from him, behind a beat up desk, was PSA’s pleasant chief pilot, in his late thirties, who’s scanning Gambetty’s application and resume.  As he does so, the chief pilot began mumbling to himself.  ”Gambetty...Gambetty...”  Then he added, “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

     At this point Gambetty’s heart was enveloped in a shroud of doom.

     Abruptly the chief pilot looks up at Gambetty, as the light bulb of recognition goes off in his eyes, and asks, “Are you ‘Grind them in the rug Gambetty’?”

     Glumly, Gambetty shrugs...and nods in the affirmative.

     PSA’s Chief Pilot then closes Gambetty’s file.

     Resigned to another rejection, Gambetty stands and begins to pack up his briefcase.

     Surprised, the chief pilot asks, “Where are you going?”

     “I think we’re done here...aren’t we?” Gambetty replies.

     “Far from it,” the chief pilot counters.  “For someone to wade through the bullshit you’ve been wading through...tells me one important fact.  You must really want this job.  When can you start?”

     Don’t you just love happy endings, dear reader?  Unfortunately, in the airline biz there is a definite paucity of these.  Stick around.

     So Gambetty gets hired by PSA and is checked out on the line as a B-727 flight engineer. 

     Of course he’s once again on probation for a year and being paid chump change.  Nonetheless, he got a modest apartment in L.A. and totally began to enjoy his job; one of the perks being the stews.  As PSA hired the most attractive and dressed them in the shortest of miniskirts and hot pants; a sexual gimmick that appealed to businessmen commuting up and down the West Coast. 

      The burning question is: How short is short?

     PSA’s future looked very bright indeed, as did Gambetty’s.

     Unfortunately, this all changed on 25^th September, 1978, at 9:01 A.M., when one of the worst aviation tragedies occurred in the airspace over San Diego.  A PSA Boeing 727 tri-jet, Flight 182, was on a routine descent into Lindbergh Field when it collided with a light, single-engine Cessna 172 at 2,600 feet. 

     Cessna 172.

     Striking underneath the B-727’s right wing, the Cessna broke in half as it destroyed sections of the B-727’s leading and trailing edge flaps, plus tail section, while slicing open its wing fuel tank – catching it on fire.  The Cessna fell to earth in a residential area – killing both its occupants.  Six blocks away the B-727 impacted, comparable to a ballistic missile, travelling in excess of 300 mph.  The explosion was horrendous, sending a fiery mushroom cloud skyward - that could be seen for miles – resembling a miniature atom bomb!

     Veteran first responders – cops and firemen – were horrified as body parts seemed to be everywhere: on roof tops, in tree tops - uncovering one alley literally filled with arms, legs and feet!  One twenty-year veteran cop found the torso of, what used to be, an attractive stewardess imbedded in a car!  Up to this point the cop felt he had been exposed to everything in his long career.  But upon this grisly discovery he began puking in the middle of the street - amid the heat and stench of kerosene and burning flesh from the numerous fires.

     One hundred and forty-four died that day, including five women and two little boys on the ground – merely going about their mundane business in a “safe neighborhood” where nothing bad ever happens.

     PSA Flight 182 originated out of Sacramento with a stopover at LAX, where it picked up 30 PSA employees “deadheading” to work at San Diego.  Among them was our boy “Grind them in the rug Gambetty.”  They confirmed he was on the flight using the crew’s manifest at LAX, where he signed in.  As for his body, they never recovered enough for a positive I.D.  Remember this was before they had DNA.

     So why do we pilots do it, dear reader?  Why do we attempt to traverse such a sea of bullshit, obstacles and risks - at lousy pay – to fly for the airlines?  I’ve analyzed this frequently - regarding my own motives – resulting in one simple conclusion.  When one loves something too much - such as a woman or flying – it makes one nuts.  So the next time you fly to grandma’s house for that Thanksgiving dinner – be it first, business or economy class – don’t give the nut-jobs in the cockpit a second thought.  Simply fasten your seatbelt, tilt your seat back, put up your feet and order another vodka straight-up.  The odds of you getting to grandma’s safe and sound are in your favor...maybe.

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