Excerpts from The Rogue Aviator
Friday afternoon happy hour at the O Club served to function again as a magnet for attractive, young, single women. Each of these intrepid aviators was regarded as a prime catch, and as the attractive young lasses cavorted in their sundresses with their provocative, tanned bodies, the soon-to-be-steely-eyed killers could not defend themselves against the alluring ladies. Fortunately, there was no training during the weekend.
This scenic jaunt involved a close-formation flight at treetop level at 450 knots across the Florida peninsula to Miami Beach—followed by an unsolicited fly-by for the sunbathers along Miami Beach.
Where was that back-seater? He now bobbed like a fisherman’s cork in the frigid, four-to-six-foot seas of the Pacific Ocean. Unfortunately, trying to find a person in rough seas with only a head visible is like trying a turd in a pepper shaker.