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     Returning to the Santa Monica Police Department - patrolling in the Sky Sentinel throughout that summer of 1973 – I witnessed a strange phenomenon.  Nude sunbathing!  It exploded along the Santa Monica and Venice Beaches in literally epidemic Black Plague proportions! 

     Honestly, dear reader, I’d never seen so many naked roasting bodies in my life.  And I never would again – it must have been something in the water.

     Every roof top along the beaches - be they private homes, apartments, condos or hotels – was covered in naked flesh.  Bottom line (pardon the pun) it apparently was one of those idiotic California fads that caught on for one summer – then vanished like a June fog out to sea.

     In the middle of all this naked madness there was, however, one location that always returned my senses to sanity. Immediately south of the old Davies-Hearst Mansion (now the Sand & Sea Club) stood twenty-odd, long, narrow homes jammed together on the beach. 

     In the center of these homes there proved to be one particular house I found absolutely fascinating, or, more accurately, the long rectangular pool behind it.

     Every afternoon, between two and three P.M., I’d locate with my optics the perfect specimen of the female form.  Her tanned body cut smoothly through the turquoise pool - as if she were a creature of the sea – with jet-black hair streaming straight back like wet silk. 

     Obviously from the perfection of her nude body, and the graceful way she used it, she had to be either an athlete or dancer.  There was absolutely nothing lewd about what I was observing – I had discovered true beauty in all its natural, unpretentious wonder.  Gratefully, because of the Sky Sentinel’s silence, I never intruded on her solitude. 

     And, dear reader, I never pointed her out to the other guys.  Selfishly, I kept her all to myself.  That’s what one does upon finding hidden treasure.

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     Usually, for some strange reason, September, although “fall,” is the hottest month of summer in L.A.  This particular September proved to be no different and, about the middle of the month, on a really scorching weekend, there was a mass exodus from L.A. to the beaches.  I wasn’t flying that weekend, but I remember reading about, and seeing on TV, the un-washed masses flooding the beach at Santa Monica.

     Also on this weekend a lot of sport flyers (we called them “Winged-Weekend-Weenies”) likewise converged on the Santa Monica Airport – launching their various aircraft out over the beach before departing the area.  Needless to say there was one big bunch of human activity that weekend, both on the ground and in the air.

     In mid-afternoon on Sunday, this one gentleman lifted off from Santa Monica Airport in his aerobatic Pitts S-1 biplane.  He requested a straight out departure with a right turn at the beach – intending to go up the coast to a practice area where he could perform loops, rolls and spins – all those mindless maneuvers “Weenies” engage in for that adrenaline rush.

     Pitts S-1    

     Pitts departure path: straight out, right turn at the beach, then engine failure glide.

     His compact, maneuverable little biplane rapidly gained altitude, however, just as he was crossing the beach, his engine died!  He scrambled in the cockpit to fire it up again – double checking everything.  No go.  It was dead – stubbornly remaining in that condition.  He glanced back at the airport.  At his current altitude it was too far away – he couldn’t stretch his glide that far.  He looked down at the beach...and cringed. 

     Stretched out for miles was that wet strip of hard-packed sand, along the surf line, that would easily support the weight of his little craft without flipping it over.  Only problem was - where his glide would bring him back to earth – it’s jam-packed with humanity beating the heat and frolicking on that same surf line.  They would never hear him coming – with his dead engine he was now in a silent glide - at 70 to 80 mph indicated airspeed.

     Holy crap, dear reader, he was more silent than the Sky Sentinel! 

     Very reluctantly “our Weenie” turned his biplane, lined up on the beach, and told the tower he was going down.  With his heart turning to water, and his knees to jelly, he fully realized he was about to chop up some poor bastard and his family on that beach – they’d never know what hit them.

     As “our Weenie” struggled to find some patch of sand without any people – to no avail - from out of nowhere the Sky Sentinel abruptly cut in front of him in a powered-dive!

      It continued this dive as it raced ahead and lined up on the surf line, then pulled out at 200 feet above the mob of people, while activating its police siren with the dual PA system!

     At first people froze – but then the sound of a wailing banshee caused them to look up and see the police airplane flash by overhead.  After which they spotted the Pitts biplane silently descending on them – causing them to snatch up their kids and run like hell!

     In all truth and honesty, dear reader, the Sky Sentinel parted that mob of people like Moses at the Red Sea!

     The little Pitts biplane touched down on empty, hard-packed, wet sand and rolled to a halt.  The pilot shakily climbed out, stepped onto the sand and collapsed.  Sitting on the beach, surf lapping at his feet, he began to weep; so grateful was he that he hadn’t killed or injured anybody.  People crowded around his aircraft and patted him on the back - telling him what a great job he had done.  Somebody even brought him a Coke.

     The next day the Evening Outlook, Santa Monica’s local newspaper, ran a front page story on this event, with the headline: “Sky Sentinel’s Crew Heroes.”

     On the following day the same newspaper ran another front page story; announcing the FAA (Federal Aviation Administration) was making a move to suspend the Sky Sentinel pilot’s license for breaking the 1,000-foot rule.

     Oh my, dear reader.  How quickly a person’s “15 minutes of fame” can turn from chicken salad to chicken shit!

     The rule to which they were referring was the following FAR (Federal Aviation Regulation):

91.119   Minimum safe altitudes: General.

Except when necessary for takeoff or landing, no person may operate an aircraft below the following altitudes:

(b) Over congested areas. Over any congested area of a city, town, or settlement, or over any open air assembly of persons, an altitude of 1,000 feet above the highest obstacle within a horizontal radius of 2,000 feet of the aircraft.

     The pilot in question was a kid I had hired fresh from Vietnam - an ultra-sharp ex-Huey driver - who hadn’t been with us very long.  He and his observer had been patrolling close to the beach, when they heard the Pitts’ distress call to the tower – spotting the Pitts, the kid worked it all out in a flash as to what had to be done.  In my book he did exactly the right thing – saving people from injury.  After all, that’s what the good citizens of Santa Monica had hired us for.

     The F.A.A. Inspector making the move on this kid’s license was a gentleman I had a little history with and, quite frankly, didn’t approve of his methods.  In order to protect his identity, I’ll refer to him as “Inspector Chicken Shit.”

     Let’s return to the summer of 1965 for a moment, dear reader.  I was a brand new Flight Instructor working at Valley Pilots Flying Service on the Van Nuys Airport.  And as I came and went – teaching students in my Cessna 150 – I’d catch glimpses of an immaculate Bell 47D-1, on wheels, operating out of The Helicopter Center across the runway from my flight school.  Inwardly I coveted that little helicopter – aching to learn how to fly it.

     When our Czech insurance agent got the second installment of my father’s life insurance - I split it with my mother - taking $1,500 to get my Commercial and Flight Instructor’s Helicopter “add-on” Ratings. 

     Waltzing into The Helicopter Center, I found its owner and only full-time Flight Instructor, Bill Dehnke, behind his desk.  When I dropped the $1,500 in cash on his desk, I instantly became his new best friend.  None of his students had ever paid up front in cash before. 

     Bill stood about 5-9, had crisp blue eyes, with a lean-fit physic, and was a natural salesman.  Despite his bullshit, Bill also possessed experience and knowledge - having been a production test pilot for Bell Helicopters.  In short he proved to be one of the best Flight Instructors I’d ever come across.  He also had an LAPD cop, assigned to its Helicopter Unit, who instructed for Bill part-time.  His name was Ed Coulter and, between the two of them, basics were pounded into me that would quite literally save my life in the future over and over again.  Meeting up with these two gentlemen, was one of the luckiest breaks in my curiously-strange aviation career.

     Since I had lost my dad the previous year, Bill took me under his wing and became my father-figure.  Aside from the flying, Bill taught me how to survive in the jaded, corrupt world of general aviation.  Techniques I would go on to use in law enforcement and eventually the airlines.

     Bill also got me the interview with PHI, which landed me the job of flying helicopters over the Gulf of Mexico.  I owed Bill Dehnke big time.   

     After I returned to the West Coast from Houston, I was shocked to learn of Bill’s son, Dale, who was a couple of years younger than me, being killed in Vietnam in the spring of 1971.

      Bill’s son, Dale.

     Upon visiting Bill at his home to offer my condolences, he took me into Dale’s room.  I was a bit overwhelmed by the way he had set it up as a shrine to his son.  All the walls were covered with photos and trophies from grade school, through high school – football, baseball and track – boot camp in the army, plus his induction into the Green Berets.  Letters, mementos and clothing were all in its proper place - waiting for Dale’s return.  Dale was on his third tour of duty when he got the chop.  A red light went off in my head – this wasn’t healthy - only at the time I hadn’t a clue how to deal with Bill’s grief.

     Before I left, Bill asked a favor of me.  He had been hired by Western Airlines as a simulator instructor, using this as an excuse to curtail his activities with his helicopter flight school.  To help him out, he wanted me to become the school’s FAA Designee.  Bill would relinquish his Designee’s Certificate and, after a paperwork shuffle with the FAA, I’d be issued the Designee’s Certificate instead, authorizing me to give oral and check-ride examinations for Private and Commercial Helicopter Ratings on behalf of the FAA.  Instead of paying me for giving these check-rides, Bill would give me block time credit on his helicopter; a kind of barter arrangement allowing me to take the school’s helicopter out anytime for my own pleasure.

      At this point, Bill had removed the wheels and placed his 47D-1 on skids.

     This was the same type of helicopter used in the successful TV show “M*A*S*H.”

     Despite my heavy workload at World Associates, to help Bill out, I went through the red tape with the FAA and took on this part-time job.  I was assigned an FAA Inspector to “handle me” out of the Van Nuys FAA GADO (General Aviation District Office).   

     And guess who it was, dear reader?  You’re absolutely correct: “Inspector Chicken Shit!”

     Later, in the spring of 1972, two tragedies ran over me like a Beverly Hills DUI hit-and-run driver.  Had I not been so busy flying for SMPD, building the Sky Sentinel and giving FAA check-rides for The Helicopter Center, I might have been truly shattered by these events.

     First of all, I got a phone call from Dixie, Bill’s beautiful wife, that an accident had befallen my old Flight Instructor, and good buddy, Ed Coulter. 

     Bell 47J Ranger.

     Ed had retired from the LAPD and was flying full-time for the city’s transportation department in their Bell 47J Ranger.  The same type I used to fly for PHI, only it was on skids instead of pontoons.  Ed had flown a city official to a downtown heliport on top of a tall building.  Two hours later, having completed his business, the city official returned to the helipad, only to find Ed lying under the tail section of the helicopter in a pool of blood, with both main and tail rotor blades stationary.

     There was a gash on his head, and blood was found on the tail rotor.  Apparently Ed had walked back to the tail section, while the blades were coasting down, to inspect something back there. 

     Ed remained in a coma for three days before passing away. How the tail rotor could have possibly struck him in the head has remained an unsolved mystery.

     Within days of this event, I then received a call from Ron McClymont, my loss of license insurance agent.  Ron had also insured Bill Dehnke and was a good friend.  Ron informed me that this was the date that Dale was scheduled to return home from his third tour of duty.  To “celebrate” this anniversary, Bill had apparently taken a bottle of Scotch to Dale’s grave, poured a stiff drink on the grave for Dale, and then proceeded to consume half the Scotch himself.  After which he placed the barrel of a snub-nosed .38 in his mouth and pulled the trigger!  Bill was another victim of the senseless Vietnam War.

     At first I was devastated by the loss of both Ed and Bill.  The two men who had properly introduced me to helicopters and, through their tutelage, had saved my life so many times.  Thank God I had too much on my plate at the time, and was able to bury my grief in work.

     Much later, in February of 1973, I was called into the Van Nuys FAA GADO for another regular review of my work as an FAA Designee.  Inspector Chicken Shit had really nothing to bitch about: My paperwork was always in order, none of the pilots I had licensed were involved in any violations or accidents, and there had been no complaints from anyone regarding my integrity or performance as an FAA Designee. I was upholding the FAA standard.

     However (and believe me, with the FAA there’s always a “however”) the one thing Inspector Chicken Shit was unhappy with was the fact I had no “Pink Slips” in my file.  A “Pink Slip” is issued by a Designee whenever a pilot fails an oral exam or check-ride.  Requiring the pilot to get more instruction before taking it all over again; costing the pilot more money.

     I tactfully pointed out to Inspector Chicken Shit that if he would examine all of the pilot’s files that I had licensed, he’d see that every one of them was a U.S. Army trained, Vietnam Vet, with over a thousand hours of helicopter time in combat. 

     My helicopter “students.”

     They all far exceeded the FAA’s requirements in knowledge, flight time, skill and ability for an FAA Commercial Helicopter License.

     But Inspector Chicken Shit was adamant; “Pink Slips” would look so much better in my file and his file – even though the pilot didn’t deserve it.

     After going around and around with him over this issue – seeing he was totally unmovable – I finally stood up, took my FAA Designee Certificate out of my wallet, tore it in half and  dropped it on his desk – then walked out. I refused to screw the Vietnam Vets.

     So tell me, dear reader, how does one deal with a Federal Government that fucks-over its Vets who are willing to sacrifice life and limb to keep it in power.  I’ve never been able to get my head around that one.

     By this time Dixie, Bill’s widow, had already put the flight school up for sale and found a buyer.  So she really didn’t require my services in future – I was relieved to know I wasn’t letting her down.

     Later that summer Inspector Chicken Shit was transferred to the FAA GADO at Santa Monica.  Oddly enough, a month before, World Associates rented an office in the same WWII Quonset hut that the FAA GADO was based in on the Santa Monica Airport. 

     Consider yourself now up to date, dear reader.

     The day after it was announced in the Outlook, that the FAA was going after my boy’s license for breaking the 1,000-foot rule in the Sky Sentinel, I decided to pay the FAA GADO a “neighborly visit.”  After all they were just across the hall from my new office.

     It was around 10:A.M. when I casually strolled into the FAA GADO, wearing my dark-blue jumpsuit, since I’d be flying patrol later that afternoon.  To appear totally harmless, and indifferent, I carried a large mug of freshly-brewed coffee.  Immediately I spotted Inspector Chicken Shit in his office at the far end of reception – behind his desk, head down, buried in paperwork. 

     I swear, dear reader, FAA Inspectors would rather shuffle paperwork than have an orgasm.

     I stepped into his doorway and politely knocked on his doorjamb for permission to enter.

     Inspector Chicken Shit looked up from his pile of paper and wrinkled his brow and nose – as if a vile smell had just entered his office.

     Oh what “joy” I was about to bring into his life, dear reader.

     Holding up his hand, Inspector Chicken Shit said, “I’m not in the mood for any of your crap, Pete.  I will not discuss your pilot.”

     Taking a sip of coffee, I cleared my throat and replied, “I’m not here to t-talk about my boy.  I’m here to admire your big brass balls.  I honestly had no idea you p-possessed such an impressive set.”

     Inspector Chicken Shit gave my remark some thought – clearly I had dropped him in the dark.  At last he said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

     “I’ve just come from the D-Deputy City Attorney’s office,” I began, sipped my coffee, and continued, “where I had the most interesting m-meeting.”  I shook my head in awe, “Man...that Deputy City Attorney is one young, hungry c-cannibal.  He’s really c-champing at the bit to get you and the FAA in court.”

     “In court?” Inspector Chicken Shit blurted out.  “Why in hell would he want me in court?”

     “You really don’t g-get it...do you?” I observed.

     Puzzled, Inspector Chicken Shit merely shrugged.

     “Then l-let me enlighten you,” I said.  “Who owns the Sky Sentinel?”

     “World Associates,” he replied.

     I shook my head in the negative. “Wrong-go in the Congo,” I countered, and took another sip of coffee.  “The c-city owns it and has merely hired World Associates to crew it.  In the city’s eyes the Sky Sentinel is merely another e-emergency vehicle like a police car, ambulance or fire truck.  And like any emergency v-vehicle that runs red lights and breaks the speed limit, the Sky Sentinel can b-break any laws, either civil or f-federal, when it comes to protecting their citizens.”

     “No they can’t!” Inspector Chicken Shit exclaimed.  “The airspace above the city belongs to the Federal Government and the FAA enforces its FARs.”

     The burning question is this: who “owns” the airspace above Santa Monica?  The city...or the FAA?

     “Aah...” I said, as I held up an index finger.  “And when you suspend my boy’s l-license that’s when the city will use it as an excuse to d-drag your ass and the FAA into court.  They want to use this as a t-test case to set the precedent that the airspace above Santa Monica belongs to the c-city...not the Federal Government.”

     “But...but that could take years,” he observed numbly.

     “Not to worry old sport,” I added.  “S-Santa Monica has unbelievably deep pockets from its high taxes, and is p-prepared to take this all the way to the Supreme Court.  At least that’s what the D-Deputy City Attorney tells me.  He’s so excited about this p-possible lawsuit he practically came in his pants.”

     “Why would he be excited?” Inspector Chicken Shit asked, in a troubled daze.

     “You c-can’t be that obtuse, think...” I replied. “This legal action will make his c-career!  Every attorney on the West Coast would sell their m-mother for a crack at a lawsuit this big.  The only thing I worry about is you.”

     Inspector Chicken Shit removed his glasses, looked up at me and stared very hard.  I was still standing (the putz hadn’t even offered me a chair yet).  Then he said, “What do you mean by that crack?  Why are you worried about me?”

     I took my sweet time as I sipped more coffee and cleared my throat (I was coming down with the flu).  After letting him sweat a little more, I finally said, “How do you t-think the FAA is going to feel towards you a-after you present them with this big, fat, expensive...and unnecessary lawsuit?  That’s w-why I’m here admiring your brass balls.  You must have quite a pair.  Otherwise why would you be throwing your career and p-pension away?”

     I had made my point, so I turned and left without another word being exchanged between us.  I’m happy to say that was the last time I ever laid eyes on Inspector Chicken Shit.

     Two days later, buried on the fourth page of the Outlook, I stumbled upon a very interesting short column of print under the headline: “Sky Sentinel Pilot OK.”  It read that the FAA was no longer seeking to suspend my boy’s license.

     It’s truth time now, dear reader.  No...I never met with the Deputy City Attorney.  No...there was never going to be any lawsuit.  Yes...I lied to Inspector Chicken Shit.  Yes...I’m not a very nice person. 

     All the same, you can now appreciate what nearly all American commercial pilots feel the FAA actually stands for: “Fuck All Airmen.”

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