Dear Mother - Finding Penny

The Grumman Albatross was our first experience with an amphibian aircraft. It could land on water as well as a runway. I thought it was a great looking aircraft, and I fell in love with it the moment I saw it in the flesh. There was something about that awkward "Goat" that I loved. Maybe it was because only the crew who flew it really appreciated what a great aircraft it was. They had tried to replace it with helicopters, and they were still trying in 1965. It's slow and noisy and vulnerable to salt water, but it was built like a Sherman tank, and those old Wright Cyclones could keep it in the air longer than I could stay awake. As Tink would say, "We were luckier than a dog with two dinks!" getting to fly these birds. It might get past 200 knots on a good day and cruising speed was about 130 knots, but we didn't care - other than if we were on an emergency run when every minute counted.

When we graduated from flight school in Pensacola, Tink, Chip, and I had become a very tight trio. We had pretty much covered every bar in the area, looking for friendly women, and there was nothing like a pair of wings to get their attention. Our only problem was our competition; the Navy flyboys. The "jet jockeys" carried that extra brass that we couldn't. We didn't suffer though. The three of us made out pretty good during our time there.

I had thought about trying to find Penny, but I didn't even know where to start. I knew she wanted to be a writer, but besides that, I had no information. I tried to think of someone who she was close to other than me, and who might know where she was. It was more than four years since I had seen her, so it was a long-shot at best. I remembered Dorothy Perkins and with a bit of trial and error, I found her phone number.

"Hi, Dorothy. I don't know if you remember me ... It's Ron Francis," I said, a bit haltingly.

"Oh sure ... I remember you Ron. How are you?" she asked brightly.

"Fine, thanks. Ahh ... Dorothy ... the reason I called, I'm looking for Penny Lane," still stammering.

"Oh ... Oh, gee, I don't know where she is, Ron. She left town with some guy ... Brian was his name I think. I think she might have said something about New York, but, gee ... I'm not sure," she confessed.

"New York? So ... she was with some guy?" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear her answer.

"Yah ... like I said ... Brian somebody. I don't think they were real close, though ... if you know what I mean."

"No ... you mean she wasn't ... like ... engaged or anything?" I was searching, hoping for the best.

"Oh no. She told me that he was just a boyfriend ... you know ... nothing serious."

I felt a temporary wave of relief, and I thanked Dorothy for her help and had her promise to tell Penny I was trying to get in touch with her and that I was in the Coast Guard. She promised to pass along the message if she saw her, and that was the end of the call. As I hung up the phone, I felt better, even though I was no closer to finding Penny than I had been before. But there was hope, and I was thinking of my next move. How would I find Penny in a city of eight million people?

Tink, Chip and I all graduated flight school and were promptly assigned right seat duties at three different bases. Tink ended up, of all places, in Mobile, Alabama, just around the corner from Pensacola and just upwind of his home. Chip pulled Traverse City, Michigan and lucky me, I got Kodiak, Alaska. I had to look it up on a map just to be sure, and when I did, I wish I hadn't. Chip, ever the humorist, thought I was the lucky one to have all those Eskimo women to myself. Tink was a bit disappointed at being right back home again, but all in all, he was just happy to be flying. All of us were assigned right seats: co-pilots. It wouldn't take long to move up to pilot though. With all the conversions to helicopters, we would be left-seat bound soon enough. All three of us were qualified only on the HU-16E Albatross.

Now, I know there are people who would tell you that they love Kodiak, Alaska, and it was home, and they wouldn't want to live anywhere else. Hell, I met some of them. I'm just not one of them. There's isolated and then there's life on Mars. Kodiak qualified for the latter. Fishing boats, derelict whalers, Indians, bad weather and ocean. How they came to call the Pacific Ocean by that name is a mystery to me. It is anything but peaceful. I can't count the number of times we'd been called out to look for some foundering freighter or drifting crab boat in the middle of forty-foot waves. I pitied the guys on the cutters. Every time I thought we had it bad, I would remind myself of their job, and just keep it to myself.

The one thing above all others that we learned quickly was to keep our gear and our "ship" in good order. One mistake or one equipment failure in that environment, and it might be your last. I guess I became a bit fanatical about it for a while. Fear, or maybe just over-reacting, call it what you want, but I was merciless on our crew if everything wasn't in perfect working order.

The one thing we couldn't control, of course, was the weather. Naturally, most of our missions were the result of extreme weather, and it was one thing to take off and start looking for your target with low ceilings, heavy crosswinds and icing conditions. It was another thing to head home, bone weary after hours of futile searching with no result, and try to concentrate on getting back in one piece. As time went on, that airstrip got smaller and further away, I thought. At the end of fifteen months, I didn't care if they assigned us to Vietnam. Anything was better than Kodiak ... I thought!

I heard an Edgar Allen Poe quote recently; something about being careful what you wished for ... you may get it. We got it. After serving my time in Alaska, and nearly killing myself twice (one botched water landing in rough seas, and one bad decision on marginal weather), I was delighted, almost delirious, to be transferred to Miami. What the hell, this was heaven compared to the North Pacific. Right? Wrong!

Now don't get me wrong, I like Florida and god knows, there's enough good-looking women parading around to keep a healthy male erect for years to come, but there's a couple of other things that go with the territory. Like hurricanes, and sharks, and mean guys with a chip on their shoulder and women with nasty infections. Well, I'm sure you get the idea.

I had been promoted to Lieutenant, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had my shiny new silver bars, a left seat, and a not-so-new MG-A. I was pretty hot stuff, I thought. I was sitting in one of the local watering holes with my buddies and we were eyeing a couple of better-than-average babes sitting a couple of tables away. Chip and I had been reunited in Miami, and getting the same posting was a rarity. We were pretty "cool," as the saying went, and when we were on a roll, we didn't have much trouble scoring with the ladies.

While I was in Kodiak, I'd pretty much given up my search for Penny. I didn't have any real opportunity to try when I was in Alaska, and I guess if I were honest, I'd kind of put her out of my mind. Alaska was lonely and since I wasn't one to hit on some other guy's girl, or wife, I had been "dry" for over a year. I was ready for some action and those two women looked pretty damn fine to me. Chip and I got up and sauntered over to the ladies' table and introduced ourselves.

"Hi, I'm Buck Rogers, and this is my able assistant, Steve Canyon," I began. That got a good laugh from the girls right off the bat, and I knew we were on the right track.

"Can we buy you girls a drink?" Chip asked with his best flyboy grin.

"Yah ... sure ... if it's OK with my husband," the blonde answered.

I looked at Chip and he looked at me and the same thought occurred to both of us. Oh! Oh!

Too late! Coming up from behind out of the poolroom, were a couple of guys who looked about seven foot nine, weighed five hundred pounds, and had tattoos of alligators on their eyelids. We were in big trouble.

"What are you two assholes doin'?" the one in front asked.

"Sorry, man. Didn't realize the ladies were with someone. Our mistake," Chip offered by way of apology.

"Your mistake all right," his pal said and the next thing I knew I was on the floor with severe jaw pain, and stars in my eyes. Now, I'm a pilot, not a fighter. These guys would kill us if we tried to come back, so I just picked myself up and turned to head for the door. I had no clue where Chip was. That's when the big guy hit me again, right on the ear. Down I went again, this time with acute pain in the ear, and a ringing noise to go with the stars. Shit, this wasn't any good at all.

On my way back up to try and stand, I saw Chip and he was lying, propped up against the wall and the other guy was hitting him in the stomach and ribs in a very workmanlike way. Chip was trying to protect himself with his arms, but neither of us were any good at this, and I was starting to think we would end up in the hospital or worse, when were saved by the cavalry. In this case, it was the MPs. I suppose the bartender had called them, and they arrived in the nick of time or maybe a few punches late. At least they made it stop happening.

"These two assholes were trying to pick up our wives!" one of the big guys yelled. "You guys in uniform think you can have anything you want, you pricks. Well, then next time I see you, there aren't going to be any MPs around, and you're ass is gonna' be mine!" he spat. I believed him. This would be a good place to avoid, I thought. Bit late with that idea, Ronnie-boy.

We staggered out of the place with the MPs at our side. Chip was in bad shape. I was pretty sure he must have busted a rib or two, and it turned out I was right. He could hardly breathe and the MPs volunteered to take us back to the base where he could get some treatment. I was probably going to have a sore jaw, a couple of loose teeth and a god-awful pain in my ear, but otherwise, I'd live.

"Don't you wise-guys ever learn? Leave the local 'quim' alone. They're poison. Fuck off uptown if you want to get laid. Those two broads thought that little scene was very funny. I'll bet you did too ... right?" the tough old Petty Officer sneered. I was nothing we didn't deserve, I thought. Ignorance can be very painful; it was especially so for Chip.

We recovered from our wounds, although Chip was grounded for three weeks while he learned to breathe again. It kind of took the fun out of the hunt for us. As Chip correctly identified, we were pilots, not prizefighters, and besides, we were way out of our weight class.

I was expecting some trouble after the bar incident, but it didn't happen. We got a lecture about using better judgement from the C.O., but other than that I guess they figured we'd gotten the message without them having to hammer it into us. I suspected that if it happened again, we wouldn't be so lucky. When I ran into the MP a couple of weeks later, I thanked him for his help and for not making a big deal out of it with our skipper. He smiled and said he figured we were smart enough not to let it happen again, shook my hand when I offered it, and that was that.

It was coming up to hurricane season; a stinking hot August with air so thick it hurt your lungs to breathe. It was a relief to go flying just to get some cool air for a while, but it was no fun on the tarmac when we were in the duty shack, just killing time until something happened. Chip had a way of going comatose that seemed to work for him. He said he just put his mind in neutral and forgot about the heat and humidity and kind of put himself in a state of semi-consciousness. We kidded him about this a lot, but really, we were envious. The rest of us were dying. We worked every idea we could think of to stay cool. The air conditioner in the ready-room was no match for this weather.

Just when I didn't think it could get any worse, it did. Hurricane Beulah waltzed up the eastern side of the Caribbean, and was heading straight for us. I thought I'd seen some nasty weather, but when we were up at twenty five thousand feet, looking right at that vicious curl pattern, I knew we were in for an ugly experience. About three hours before the storm was expected to hit the Keys, we were grounded, and all we could do was watch. Anyone out in that mess wasn't going to get help for a while if they got into trouble.

I never was frightened of the weather in Kodiak. It was rough and cold and ominous, but only my mistake or a mechanical problem would end up killing me there. My first hurricane experience frightened me. It was out of my control and it was violent. It ripped roofs off buildings like they were tissue paper. Palm trees were bent over at ninety degrees. Debris was flying through the air everywhere, and anyone out in that maelstrom would be just plain lucky not to get hit by something. During the time I spent in Miami, I never got used to hurricanes. I had a couple of close shaves when we were stretching our time looking for a crippled ship or a lost boater. We stayed out longer than we should have, and getting back to our base was touch-and-go.

As I said in the beginning, I really loved the "Goat", as we called her. Solid as a rock and reliable as a Model T, she saved our bacon more than once. More importantly, we took part in a lot of rescues, thanks to a tight crew and, now and then, some good luck. I seemed to have a feel for these old Grummans. I had flown at least a half dozen different ones and each one had its own personality, but I think they all knew I loved them, and they all behaved like a lady should. Helicopters were gradually replacing them, and I thought to myself that my time in the Coast Guard might be done when these old girls were retired.

My next posting was, of all places, New York City, or more accurately, Brooklyn. Of all the places you would expect to find a Coast Guard Station, this wasn't the one most people would think of. Nevertheless, it was an active and vibrant base and it was here that my life took a new direction, and my future became clearer.

Tink had been posted to San Diego, Chip to New London and, as I said, I got the "Big Apple." I was still flying my beloved Albatross, and I was a happy man. I was out of the hurricane zone and into the commercial shipping lanes. The sea was more like Alaska in a way. The North Atlantic can produce some dramatic storms, and with all the traffic in the area between Boston and Baltimore, we had plenty of action. Chip and I stayed in touch, and we got to see one another now and then.

Tink figured he had died and gone to heaven in San Diego. His only beef was that he had to go back to flight school to get qualified on the Fairchild C-123 Provider, a fixed wing ground-based search and rescue aircraft. We felt for him, but knew our day was not far ahead. Brooklyn was about to be designated a training base for helicopters. It was beginning to look like I might not be able to avoid giving up my "Goat," and that would be sad. Call me a dinosaur, but that's the way I felt.

All through my career in the Coast Guard, I had kept in touch with Mom and Frank. We talked to each other at least twice a month and on special occasions like birthdays. I had a couple of leaves in Kodiak, and I hopped a ride to Seattle and went up to Bellingham to visit them. Frank spent a lot of time trying to convince me how wonderful Alaska was, but I'm afraid his efforts were wasted on me. We traded war stories and generally bored the hell out of Mom when we were together, but we became pretty close, and I stopped thinking of him as my step-father after a while.

Mom was looking just as great as she had when I had first found her four years earlier. Maybe it was my imagination, but she hadn't aged at all, and I put that down to Frank. She had become active in a couple of local charities, and was spending some time with her friends who were also involved. It kept her busy and alive. All in all, I saw a really happy woman, and I was just as happy for her. After the grief Dad had put her though, she more than deserved her new life.

Strange things can happen when you least expect them, and that's exactly what occurred six months after I was posted to Brooklyn. I was sitting in the base optometrist's office waiting for my annual checkup, idly thumbing through a magazine. I wasn't really paying much attention to the contents until I saw a story about New York tourism and the attempt to "clean up the city's image." By chance, I looked at the byline on the story and blinked. It read "Story by Penny Lane."

Now, I was pretty sure there weren't an awful lot of women writers named Penny Lane. So, the first thing I did was copy the name of the article, the name of the magazine publisher and their phone number on a piece of paper and stuck it in my pocket. In the space of a few seconds, my plans had suddenly changed. The search was back on.

When I left the optometrist's office, I headed back to my room and went right to the phone. I called the publisher's number and immediately got stone-walled. No, they didn't know a Penny Lane; she didn't work for the magazine. She was probably a freelance writer, and they didn't give out personal information, even if they had it. Blah, blah, blah, etc., etc., etc. I hung up in disgust and sat back in my chair. Frustrated! So close and yet so far, as the saying goes. It had to be "My Penny," I reasoned. Who else could it be?

I decided that my quest would be revitalized, and I would make a serious effort to find Penny. Even if she wasn't interested in me, or was married and had six kids, at least I would be able to put her out of my mind. I needed a strategy to find her and my first instinct was to do some research. Do writers belong to any organization? How do they get published? Is Penny published regularly anywhere? Who would know?

My first thought was to start with the newspapers. After all, how many writers got their start with newspapers by getting an article or two published? It was a place to begin, and how many newspapers would there be anyway? I found out. A lot. A whole lot. Dozens. Between the mainstream dailies, the local giveaways, the weekly tabloids, the underground press ... well, you get the idea. When I had first arrived at Governor's Island, I had pulled out the New York phone book and looked up Lane, P., and started calling. Talk about a futile project!

I began with the mainstream dailies and after fumbling around for a while, I finally figured out that the most likely person who would know of her would be the features editor. Every paper had one, although some of them had different titles, and on the smaller papers, multiple roles. It was a slow and painful process. I had a couple of encouraging conversations along the way. One of the editors remembered talking to Penny about an article she had written, but they never used it, and he didn't have a phone number for her. There was no way to know if it was my Penny.

Another editor thought she had talked to Penny, but couldn't remember when or what about, or if she had a card or note that would have her phone number. She sounded highly disorganized, and I suspect her memory was too. It took almost a month of trying off and on to finally get a lead, but when it came, I was elated. I had been talking to an editor who worked for a publisher who produced local promotional newsletters. They would have little stories about businesses or people of interest, and would be distributed free in various selected neighborhoods.

His name was Warren Quincy, and I'll never forget him. He virtually put me in front of that preacher with Penny. He started asking questions as to what this was all about, and for some reason I decided to tell him. Boy, did I tell him. He invited me to his office and wanted to hear more about my story. I had no idea if he was pretty sure that the Penny Lane he knew was the Penny Lane I was looking for. But he got hooked on my tale, and the next thing I knew I was giving him my life-history, or at least the last ten years of it.