Andy McCutcheonPie In The Sky
July 6th 2007 02:18
Chapter 4
Pie In The Sky
In the weeks that followed my release from the military, Carmen and I left Petawawa and returned to Brampton.
We left the comfort of our three-bedroom home on base, to discover a less than one percent vacancy rate, forcing us to join long waiting lists just to get an apartment. In the interim, we were welcomed to sleep on a pull out couch in the basement of Carmen’s parents home.
This situation, while suiting Carmen’s desire to be close to her parents, was uncomfortable at best and a less than desirable alternative to having our own place.
Carmen immediately reclaimed a sense of equilibrium returning to her former job, while I endeavoured to find employment closely matching my unique skill set.
Many employers recognizing the diversity of my newly acquired skills - were also quick to criticize them, for being “too aggressive” to incorporate into a business model.
I managed to land a job at “Johnston Equipment,” dealers for Raymond forklifts. After spending nearly six months there, I could barely drag myself out of bed in the morning – I hated it that much.
In looking for a viable alternative, I responded to an ad at nearby CS Yacht Sales, where I worked for a sailboat manufacturer. I didn’t know the first thing about selling, sailing or boats, but quickly adapted to my new role. I was taken under the wing of then president Jim Flannery and owner Paul Tennyson, who taught me everything I needed to know.
I rose to the challenge and was soon the top salesman in the organization, flanked by three seasoned brokers. Money was now plentiful despite being paid by commissioned earnings and we saved enough money for the down payment on our first house.
By 1990, an economic downturn in the Canadian economy, led owner Paul Tennyson to a decision to close the factory – two weeks after purchasing our new home.
With mortgage payments looming and Carmen unable to carry the debt herself, it was unlikely we could sell and come away unscathed, so… I humbled my expectations and frantically looked for work.
In an effort to save the house, I took a menial contract job, paying less than I was earning as a student, five years prior to going into the military.
It was demoralizing and I couldn’t help but wile away the hours of monotony consumed by feelings of having made the biggest mistake of my life.
Under normal circumstances I would have turned to my mum for advice, but she had been sick and I didn’t want to burden her further.
It was March and my employment contract had ended – along with my income. The pressure of having to find another job was compounded by the news that my mum had just been diagnosed with brain cancer and it was uncertain how long she had left to live.
I wanted to spend every moment with her, but because of the situation I couldn’t.
My back was against the wall – what was I going to do?
My life seemed to be going from bad to worse and I looked back to my days in the military for inspiration.
I had two things left in life – ‘my balls and my word, neither of which I was prepared to break.’
It was spring of 1990 and homeowner’s thoughts were turning to outdoor pursuits.
During the winter, I had worked with a guy named Jim Mehta and we were now both unemployed, as our work contracts had been seasonal.
He had been employed the previous summer building fences and decks and we partnered together to try and capture a share of the available work in nearby developing subdivisions.
Over the next twelve months we did exactly that and managed to earn enough money to purchase two new trucks, a skid-steer loader, pneumatic tools - and still take home roughly $50,000 each in wages.
The company grew exponentially and by our fourth fiscal year, we were earning over $500,000 – followed closely by a nomination in the “Entrepreneur of the Year” awards. As the company flourished it grew – but as it grew, our ideals for the future of the company seemed to diverge.
Carmen had made the transition from her previous job at the hospital, to working for the largest police force in North America, as an executive assistant to the Superintendent in charge of information technology.
This promotion and subsequent pay rise allowed us to explore long-term solutions, to what had been an abysmal employment crisis ever since the decision was made to leave the military.
The stability of her new career and my earning capacity also had us thinking about having a family, while her parents continued to secretly fuel Carmen’s ambition to get pregnant.
In looking at future employment opportunities, we decided I would sell my share of the company to Jim and spend the next fourteen months obtaining a commercial pilots license.
I enrolled in ground school at the Cessna Pilot Training Center, shortly after Carmen announced we were going to have a baby.
By 1991 Carmen returned to work following maternity leave and I balanced the remainder of my studies with caring for my newborn daughter Mackenzie. I would often take Mackenzie flying with me, while she slept in her car seat harnessed into the aircraft’s cockpit.
Many commercial operators start out as bush pilots and I was no exception.
I spent several weeks acquiring a float endorsement and began building time flying fishermen into remote lakes.
The water aerodrome I departed from in Orillia was a mere eight-minute flight from several friends’ cottages and after an early flight into a remote lake one morning – I decided to pay them a visit.
I glanced at my watch – it was 0500h. Was it too early to drop in? ‘Nah!’
I looked over my right shoulder and scanned the horizon before banking the aircraft gently to the west. Reducing the throttle, I bled off altitude in a controlled descent, spotting my intended target ahead.
I could see the lake and indeed knew the water very well having spent a great deal of time there, nonetheless, I would still do a low altitude pass to ensure there were no floating deadheads or rock outcroppings before landing.
As I descended through fifty feet over the cottage, I changed the propellers pitch to coarse, applied full throttle and pulled back on the column making the props bite hard. The sound was deafening. I watched the altimeter and leveled off at eight hundred feet – laughing, as I prepared to land.
By the time the floats had gracefully touched the water and I was smoothly taxiing over to the dock, there were three people standing there in their pajamas – arms crossed.
I switched off the magnetos and the engine sputtered to a stop. As the aircraft coasted silently, I jumped out onto the floats preparing to tie off.
I glanced coyly and smirked.
‘What’s for breakfast?’ I blurted.
‘You son of a bitch’– ‘you probably woke up everyone on the lake.’ ‘When you flew over the cottage, I sat straight up - I thought you had landed on the fuckin’ roof!’
I hadn’t woken up everyone on the lake – but I nervously watched as his neighbours [who owned a funeral home] strolled curiously down to the water to see what the excitement was all about. I smiled graciously, nodded and waved in their direction.
After lunch, I offered to take a few cottagers for a joyride around the lake and the incident was quickly forgotten. As the afternoon sun began to set, I cast off the lines, fired up the Lycoming engine and taxied for takeoff.
The wind was negligible and the water surface calm. As I applied full throttle and held the column to my chest, I rotated the ailerons slightly to raise the starboard float, breaking the surface tension of the water.
As I flew past the cottage - I looked down. Everyone was waving and I tipped my wings as I disappeared over the tree line.
Summer solstice soon gave way to the brightly hued autumn landscapes of Canada’s rugged north country and northern lakes began to freeze over. Work for floatplanes slowed and I sat down with Carmen to discuss the future direction of my flying career.
Commuter airlines were hiring, but only select pilots with at least 500 hours of turbine time and going straight onto a jet simply wasn’t plausible with my hours.
Given my experience in remote areas however, an invitation was extended as a co-pilot, flying a twin turbine air ambulance out of Fort McMurray, 800 kilometers north of Wainwright, where I had done my basic military training.
The money wasn’t spectacular, but it was sufficient to live on, raise a family and acquire the needed turbine time to secure a job with a major airline – it was temporary.
It was my big break and the short-term solution we had been praying for.
Carmen was excited until she discovered that Fort McMurray was nearly 3500 kilometers away from her family - her enthusiasm was short-lived.
She was adamant – ‘she wasn’t going to move.’ I couldn’t believe it! A sense of déjà vu overshadowed the conversation. Adding fuel to the fire, she had the audacity to cite she was the one with the stable career at Peel Police, deadlocking us further into an impossible situation.
‘If you can’t get a job as a pilot in Toronto – then I guess you’re not going to be a pilot’ She snapped.
‘You’ll see,’ ‘you fucking bitch.’
‘Yeah – we will see’ She said tauntingly.
After thawing from mind numbing exposure to my newfound reality, I contacted every aircraft hangar within a one hundred kilometer radius, trying to network my way into any flying position I could.
I accepted a position with FEDEX, the American based cargo conglomerate.
The CEO of FEDEX was an ex-military pilot who preferred to hire ex-military personnel. The bad news - was I had to start as a cargo handler, but once employed, I was able to move around and I was quick to point out my intentions to management.
Within a few months I was gaining both knowledge and flight hours, as training crew aboard FEDEX flight #1239, a Boeing 727-200 that serviced the Toronto – Grand Rapids – Indianapolis corridor five nights a week.
It was excellent experience, but there was no future there. Flight operations were U.S. based and I needed a “green card” to be hired on as a career pilot.
An opening soon became available elsewhere and I took on the role of base operations manager for Skycharter, an air charter operator on the north side of the field.
Skycharter operated a fleet of Dassault- Falcons and a Lear 25, concentrating on corporate on-demand charter and air ambulance operations.
This role was pivotal. It was the last time I would ever work for anyone other than myself again – I just wasn’t aware of it yet.
It many ways, it was the catalyst that compressed the breadth of my experiences into a meaningful collection of relevant, marketable services.
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