INTERNATIONAL
GUEST COLUMN Hervé J. Marchadier II
Pilot’s Lounge Ponderings
People have asked me what my favorite kind of flying is, and my stock answer is “Why, ALL of it!”
A 24 | agairupdate.com
Before I became a full-time ag pilot, I used to go to Iowa for a couple months in the summer to fly for Boyd Morgan and then go back to being a corporate pilot/CFI/delivery pilot/FBO coffee repository for the rest of the year. The corporate side gave me a lot of chances to see new places and meet new people, which is one of the reasons I put up with it as long as I did. Before long, I knew the birthdays of the FBO girls at Lakefront, the bartenders at the W in midtown Atlanta knew me by name, (and how to make a pretty good sazerac) and I spent enough time in Destin to qualify for residency. I had one pretty good gig flying for a couple of guys who made a pile of money in pharmaceutical sales, and one day I had to take the wife of one of the owners up to Little Rock, Arkansas for a few hours. Since it was an out and back, and I really didn’t know how long my passenger would be gone, I decided against grabbing a rental car and going to see my good friend and mentor Stan Ferguson. Instead, I planned to head to the pilot’s lounge to catnap and catch up on some reading. When I walked in, there were two people also playing the waiting game. They were both wearing black slacks and brilliant white shirts. The gold embroidery on their epaulets positively lit up the room. The two could have looked like Before and After. The captain was older and looked as if he could have been sent by Central Casting to fill the role of professional pilot. The first officer was younger, perhaps in his mid 20’s. Clean-cut, polite, and quiet. I felt a little shabby by comparison in my scuffed boots, worn jeans, pearl snap shirt with a frayed collar, and Southern Aire hat. I took my styrofoam cup of coffee and settled in a chair, then
got on my iPad to see what ForeFlight had to say about my trip home. Around this time, the captain looked over at me, and we started making small talk. He asked what I was flying, and I told him that I was flying a Cirrus. He asked some questions about it, then we talked a little about the jet he and his partner were flying. After that, he asked where I got my hat. I told him my buddy Stan gave it to me. Then he asked me if I was “one of those crop duster pilots.” I’ve never been ashamed of what I do, so I looked him in the eye and said, “Yes sir, I am.” Now friends, when I have these conversations, they usually follow one of two predictable patterns. Pattern (1) goes something like this: “My girlfriend’s grandmother’s son’s cousin knew a guy who was a crop duster and he died of stuff he caught being around all those chemicals.” Pattern (2) usually sounds like: “Man, that’s cool. I grew up in the delta/midwest/etc and I loved watching them fly. You guys do some crazy stuff, man!” Turns out Eddie Epaulets was a Pattern (1) guy. When I said that I was indeed an aerial applicator, his reaction made me wonder if I should have told him I had leprosy instead. He started reciting a litany of experiences with ag pilots not using radios, or not flying the same traffic pattern as everyone else, and various other sins for which I was guilty by association. The word cowboy invariably came out a few times. After he vented, he started giving me career advice. I’m sure he meant well. He started by saying I needed to go and get my multi, and then I could maybe one day get a job in a jet. He made sure to tell me that unless I got a good bit of multi turbine time, I’d never get a job at an airline.
