A Touch of Light (In memory of a friend and an airman) By Roger Rose As published in Aviation International News, February 1999  Throughout our careers we fly with hundreds of folks--some for hours, some for years. Sometimes the ones on the shorter end of that scale turn out to have effect and depth far beyond the apparent brevity of our encounters. For me, such was the case with George Metts.  I connected with George from the day we met. Perhaps it was the dulcet timber of his Mississippi Delta accent—home of my mother’s side of the family. In one of those coincidences that underscore how tiny our world is, both George’s father and my mother’s dad had been well acquainted.  He needed a G4 pilot and I needed experience to validate the new rating on my license. Hence, George presided over my introduction to the wonder-jet, which was then quite a handful for all of us. His blend of common sense and science served as a prudent role model for living with technology and always spawned down-home, folksy stories and comments. His pathos and humor also assisted my re-introduction to a country I had not lived or worked in for a dozen years.  From our dual bases, in Austin and Lago Vista, we flew an aging G1 and one of the earliest G4’s for several months until the operation passed away along with its owner. George and his wife, Frances, stayed behind in the Texas hill country to "switch out the corporate lights", while I returned to Florida. We did our best to keep in touch, over the phone, although I sorely missed the long nights quietly shared in deep thought, over dark waters.  Following the demise of that department, it had taken months in business aviation’s dark ages of 1990, to find a new home. Nearly a year later my new crew and I were winding up a long day. It looked as if our last leg was going to be a clear, moonless November night flight all the way from Miami to California. That was a relief, since we had already flown several sectors in South America then up to Florida for Customs. At least we were an augmented crew—Frank, Ray and myself. Ray and I had flown only weeks and Frank and I only once before. Nevertheless, we settled into the comfortable camaraderie and silence known to airmen and mariners. As we climbed into the upper thirties and coasted out over Sarasota we were cleared direct to some VOR surrounded by cactus. It wasn’t until we were at altitude and settled into the cruise that I began to figure out where the "direct" route would take us. Having spent most of my career living and working abroad, I don’t always know where things are in my own country.  Still, it didn’t take long to figure out that our route was going to pass just north of Austin, Texas. More specifically, we were going to pass right over Lago Vista and the living room of George and Frances. A plan was hatched. About thirty miles east of the house, I dialed his number on the Flitefon. I could already see the sparse sprinkling of lights and the hilltop beacon of the small airport where we had kept the G1. Two rings and "bingo", I got him. "Hello George, it’s me," neither of us needing introduction or reminder. "Hello, yer’self", he inflected half way up the Natchez trace.  "Where are ya?" "I’m in a G3 about thirty east of you and in a few minutes I’m gonna be forty-three thousand feet over your back yard. Might even be able to see me if I put the lights on." I could hear the screen door slide open and his steps across the decking as he scooted into the yard with the cordless phone. He probed the night skies, allowing his eyesight to adjust to the near total darkness of Lago Vista.  I began to wonder if I had figured my position wrongly when he suddenly blurted, "I think I see you but you’re waaaaaay up there. Turn the lights off." We had been showing landing lights and complied with his request. "Well, I’ll be damned, it IS you. Frances come here!", as he urged her to join him. She had little idea what was going on.  I could hear him directing her eyes to our now dim speck of flashing light, when he said, "Hey Airplane, turn those lights ON."  I obliged and several hundred thousand candle power blazed through space, accompanied by nearly instant "Oooooooh’s and Ahhhh’s." "Hey Airplane, turn those lights OFF", commanded George’s backwoods baritone. In an instant we were distant twinkling strobes once more. "Dern. Well, I’ll be", Frances uttered in surprise. Amazement and delight were shared at both ends of the line. Ray, Frank and I were chuckling in our pressurized cocoon, while our earthbound friend’s laughter was heard only by mule deer. Without saying so, we realized it was much more than technology that connected us. We chatted a few more minutes about how quickly the aircraft was slipping out of sight and that it was wonderful to "see" each other again. And so, too quickly time has slipped by since that night long ago. Ray has gone to an untimely meeting of man, machine and mountain. Last I heard from Frank, he was in Texas flying JetStars.  George went on to teach, as a simulator instructor, in his adopted home of Houston. We spoke as often as we could and were always able to pick up where we last left off--even when Gay and I and our "traveling Siamese" had spent months living abroad. Sometime early last year George told us he was "a little under the weather." In reality, he spent the last fifteen months stoically fighting a battle with cancer in the only way he knew how—with the dogged determination born of the depression-era Delta.  One morning this September, a pilot rang to talk about South American operations. In the course of our conversation, I realized he must know George since they were both simulator instructors in Houston. When I mentioned George, he told me that he had suffered a relapse. It didn’t amaze me when Jean Louis said, that despite this, George was still teaching.  Later that day, I called Frances and George to find his voice as clear and strong as ever. Still, they both told me that he was pretty well established "on final". It’s a place we’ll all wind up one day. As another old friend, Hoot, told me, "None of us is gettin’ outa here alive." But, on that day the three of us reminisced and laughed about a warm touch of light from a cold November sky.  So it was that George Metts coasted into his own sunset last weekend.  It was with no surprise that my first Atlantic crossing since then was accompanied by a light show which scientists would describe as a rare combination of electo-magnetic disturbance and a meteor shower.  Many of the Inuit tribes of the north reason that the stars are not distant suns but holes in the heavens where our loved ones can look down upon us. I reckon the Inuit are closer to the truth than physicists and that George was just saying, "Hey Airplane, turn those lights ON." Of course I obliged.

Last Updated ( Wednesday, 22 October 2008 )

 

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