*     *     *     *     * 

    Valerie, Clint’s daughter, possessed her father’s striking features - along with a stunning figure - that turned many a head when she entered a room.  Living with her for nearly seven years, I was continually surprised by the fact she never fully realized how extremely beautiful she was.  This child didn’t have a vain bone in her body.  Instead, she possessed a quiet, regal quality – in the way she moved and deported herself – coupled with a natural, down to earth warmth that drew people to her.

     Hey get off my case – this was the seventies – that’s how we dressed way back then.

     Rick and Julie nicknamed her “Sheena.”  As in the gorgeous comic book heroine: “Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.” 

     And when they’d say it, dear reader, I’d picture Valerie swinging through the jungle on a vine – in a skimpy leopard G-string – blond hair resembling a banner flowing out behind her, with tanned, hard body glistening in the tropical sun.  Wow!  What an erotic vision! 

     Valerie hated the nickname.

     Val’s parents split up when she was sixteen – as my parents did when I was sixteen.  Finding herself a ship without a rudder, she could have easily fallen in with the Hollywood brat-pack; immersing herself in booze, drugs, sex and trouble with the law – she had every excuse and opportunity.  Alternatively, Val would steal out of her room and spend all night at the Van Nuys Airport dozing - dreaming of flight – in the spacious cockpit of a parked California Air National Guard C-97 four-engined transport.

      Armed military security never discovered her – she was that stealthy.  Similar to myself, Val immersed herself in aviation – which proved to be her savior – booze, drugs, sex and scrapes with the law didn’t fit her aviation career plans.

     Val was also a talented artist – the illustrations she created in acrylics took my breath away – far exceeding my own artistic abilities.

     While she served as Managing Editor for Plane & Pilot, during the early 1970s, it would prove to be the last days of general aviation’s golden age - when Cessna, Piper, Beechcraft and Aero Commander all produced new models of airplanes each year – comparable to car manufacturers.  For publicity, these aircraft manufacturers would literally give Val their latest models to test fly; in exchange for a positive story on their “wonderful” new aircraft in Val’s magazine.  She’d fly them, analyze them, and write the story – while I went along and took all the photos – my artistic eye for composition at last coming in handy.  Using spectacular backdrops, we took these factory-new airplanes everywhere: Mojave, Palm Springs, Santa Ynez, Giant Rock, Bishop, Monterey, etc.  Where I’d always get incredible shots of Val making low passes on me – the woman was skilled and fearless.  We made a great team – here’s an example of our work:

     Aero Commander 112.

     Piper Seneca

     Piper Aztec

     Valerie also did stories on WWII War Birds and USAF trainers:

     The B-25 at Giant Rock – Val’s at the controls in the left seat.

     USAF T-34 Trainer.

     Once again Val’s at the controls.

     Shortly after we met, I cut a deal with the Helicopter Center, which owed me some block flying time, and trained Val for her helicopter commercial rating in the Bell 47D-1. 

     Since I had over 4,700 hours in helicopters - with 1,500 hours as a helicopter flight instructor - I could tell within the first five minutes whether a new student was a “weenie” or a “hot dog.”  Val was the latter and ate that helicopter up!  She was one of the most naturally gifted pilots I have ever come across.

     With that flight training experience, we used the helicopter to explore each other – one learns an awful lot about a person in a life threatening situation.  It resulted in solidifying our genuine love and respect for each other.  Following that, I remember one particular night when we rented a Cessna 150 and flew up to Santa Ynez Airport for a weekend at the picturesque Scandinavian village of Solvang. 

     Solvang, California.

      Cessna 150

     Val flew as I kicked back and placed an arm around her.  It was a snug fit in the two-place cockpit of that little 150, and since we wore dark blue nylon, kapok-filled, flight jackets with synthetic fur collars, they gave us the sensation we were wrapped together in a warm, soft comforter – safely drifting through space with lights floating by below - as our very souls fused.  I can’t begin to describe how right it felt.

     So much so, that to our families’ and friends’ shock and horror - we ran away to South Africa and were married by a magistrate in Pretoria.

      For a honeymoon, we rented a single-engine Piper Cherokee Arrow and flew to the Khwai River Lodge in Botswana. 

     It was something out of a Hemingway novel – exotic as hell up to our eye balls in wild African critters – tracking them down in that Piper for amazing photos.  We refused to kill anything – even the strange creepy-crawlies wandering in our hut – preferring to shoot the flora and fauna with our Nikon.

     Val comparing notes with a British artist in Gaborone, Botswana.

     By the spring of 1975 both of our jobs had dried up and we found ourselves working with By-Air Corporation - owned by a Western Airlines captain – running an air taxi for the Piper dealer at the Long Beach Airport.  We hauled chartered customers in light twins: a Piper Seneca and Navajo Chieftain.

     Piper Navajo Chieftain.

     Subsequently, we also obtained our FAA Airline Transport Ratings in a worn out C-47 (the cargo version of the legendary Douglas DC-3).

     In the autumn we were hired by a new airline cranking up at Long Beach, called: California Internationale (Yes, with an “E”).  They planned on operating two, tired Martin 404s up and down the coast and to Vegas.  Unfortunately for us, they couldn’t get financing and went belly-up during our third week in ground school!  So back on unemployment we went. 

     As I’ve indicated before, dear reader, anything to do with airlines is always flaky.  Hence the expression: “dice-shoot.”

     Even so, it’s always darkest before the dawn.  Due to Val’s contacts she had an incredible piece of luck, she, along with five other girls, got hired by Western Airlines as pilots in 1976!  These six were the first females to be hired by Western for such a position.  It was Western’s response to the affirmative action pressure they were getting from Washington D.C. - how else could Western file for new routes?

      And, oh yes, dear reader, there was male resistance dumped on these girls.

     I remember one afternoon - when Val was in the middle of Western’s Ground School – her coming home to our cozy apartment in North Hollywood, totally down in the dumps, treading on her perfect lower lip.

      Cozy Apartment – North Hollywood, California.

     We constructed a “Battle of Britain” chess board with RAF and Luftwaffe warplanes.        

     Some male chauvinistic pig had been ragging on her - bitching: “How dare you take a good flying job away from a male pilot attempting to support a family!”

     So I sat down with her, analyzed it, and came up with a snappy comeback – just in case it should happen again.

     Would you believe, dear reader, barely three days later an opportunity presented itself for her to use my comeback. 

     Her 20-member Western Ground School class was on a field trip to the old LAX Control Tower built in 1961 – an exercise in air traffic control familiarization required by the FAA. 

     As they rode in the slow, fourteen-story elevator to the glass enclosed cabin on top of the tower, it stopped at the third floor and a slightly obese, short gentleman - with Coke-bottle glasses - in a suit and tie stepped on board.  As the doors closed he scanned the shiny, handsome young faces surrounding him, and asked if this was the Western Airlines Class.  Everyone nodded in the affirmative.  Then he zeroed in on the six girls amongst the men and, sure enough, started bitching regarding women taking away male flying jobs.

     At that point Val piped up and, according to our prepared script, stated, “Well, if you really feel strongly that way...I can give you the name of a good surgeon in Sweden...where you can get a sex change operation like I did.”

     An audible, collective gasp rippled among the classmates – which dissolved to snickers - as Mr. Coke-bottle glasses did a double take on Val – scrutinizing this five-eleven, statuesque, beautiful blond towering above him as his jaw dropped open.  The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Mr. Coke-bottle glasses got off.  Then spun round and pointed at Val – shaking his head - saying with a chuckle, “That was an excellent zinger.”

    The elevator’s doors closed and the class laughed their collective asses off!

     I had also applied for a pilot’s position with Western, dear reader, but was shot down because Western had an “unwritten policy” against hiring either spouses or siblings of pilot employees.  Years later they’d eventually be forced to ease this policy – by then far too late to do me any good.

That summer, while Val was in training, I got briefly hired by Aero Spacelines as FO on their Supper Guppy.

 The Guppy’s cockpit was huge and the FE was “King.” He ran everything. Unfortunately the job only lasted a month.

     To avoid the above from happening; we were restricted to day operation below 10,000 feet, at 250 knots (287 mph), while avoiding clouds and rough air. It had no autopilot. I was the “autopilot,” flying it manually by hand as co-pilot.

     Val sailed through ground school; got checked out on the B-737 as second officer (“ALPA,” the pilot’s union, requiring Western to operate the B-737 with a three-pilot crew).

     B-737.

     Later she got upgraded to the B-727 as a flight engineer. 

  

     B-727.

     Requiring her to return to ground school, pass an FAA written exam, FAA oral exam, FAA flight simulator check-ride, followed by an FAA check-ride in the actual B-727 - to receive the flight engineer’s certificate with a “Turbojet Powered” rating.

     As you can appreciate, dear reader, this was no easy feat.

Val at the Flight Engineer’s panel: B-727.

The Flight Engineer’s Panel on the B-727: Val was not just another pretty face.

As FE, Val was required to perform the pre-flight inspection; looking for damage, breaks, cracks and leaks.

     During this period we moved to a cute, second-floor apartment in Studio City, and got her a new ’76 Honda Civic for work – as the fuel-crunch was still on.  I also built a mockup of the B-272 cockpit out of cardboard boxes – covered in poster reproductions of all the dials, instruments and switches – so Val could teach me what she was learning in Western’s Ground School concerning the electrical, fuel, air conditioning/pressurization, hydraulics and power plant systems.  It helped her greatly – since the best way to learn complicated systems is to “teach” them.

My B-727 Mockup.

     In addition it helped me, dear reader, as I was also attending private ground schools on my own nickel - in order to get my B-727 flight engineer’s certificate – hopefully making me more desirable to the airlines.  These hours Val and I spent together taught me Boeing engineering logic – which in future proved a valuable tool when checking out on SAUDIA’s Boeing 707 as first officer.  Thank God for Val and Western.

     After Val completed her check out on the B-727, and started flying the line, People magazine did a brief story on her – which placed her on the airline map.  This publicity, coupled with the fact she was Clint Walker’s daughter, got her past the gate-keepers guarding other airlines.  And I’ll be go to hell if she didn’t get me interviews at Golden West Airlines and Air Florida; flying jobs that would both change my life and direction in aviation.  For they would launch me from being a ragged-assed helicopter pilot – to an international airline pilot on the Boeing 747 – allowing me to literally explore the world.

     God bless Valerie Walker indeed, dear reader.

     Unfortunately, in the years to come, both of our airline careers would place unbelievable pressures on us – pulling us apart.  In the final analysis, Val was fated to drift from man to man - as I would drift from woman to woman.  She also ended up becoming a closet alcoholic – similar to any other run of the mill airline captain - unable to deal with the job’s stress.

Capt Valerie Walker, Delta Airlines, B-767.

Valerie and Cindy Rucker.

     The stress that Val faced came in many forms.  One, which may have led to her drinking, was the loss of her good pal, Cindy Rucker; also one of the original six girls hired by Western as pilots.

     Cindy got a Starduster and performed acrobatics at air shows.

     Unfortunately it led to her death, and was a real blow to Val.

     Looking back at this historical fork in the road, dear reader, I wish we had fought harder for our marriage.  For I sincerely believe we both lost something truly precious – never to be found again. 

     Hey, air-whore, snap out of it and nut-up!  Don’t waste your life feeling sorry for yourself.  As they say in New Orleans: “Two tears in a bucket...mother fuck it.”

                   *     *     *     *    *