Cockpit Chronicles 2

Good Fine, Beautiful Afternoon,

To continue our Cockpit Chronicles featuring humorous moments from my 33-year flying career…

Back in my cargo days, I was Flight Engineer and then Copilot on four-engine DC-8s out of Miami, hopping through Central and South America. One day trip, I was paired with Captain Woody Woodhull and a copilot who had major body odor issues. Let's call him Jim.

Woody was the real deal. Handlebar mustache, steady hands, and the kind of quiet confidence you only get from decades of flying.

One day, cruising over the Caribbean, I was reading a book I’d picked up from my local library. The author went on and on about being trained to fly a 1940's DC-3 by a living legend of aviation—his instincts, his skill, his presence in the cockpit.

The story built and built to a crescendo, then concluded with:

“His name was Woody Woodhull.”

Woody was sitting three feet from me!

I nudged him and showed him the book cover.

He glanced over, gave a low grunt… and went back to scanning his gauges.

That was Woody.

Now, Woody had a trademark—he’d start a typical flying day chewing on a 10-inch cigar. On the ground between stops, he'd switch to his pipe. Back in the cockpit on the next leg, he resumed chewing his cigar. By the time we landed back in Miami, that thing would be down to about 2 inches, his having consumed 8" of stogie along the way.

On the ground one day in Nicaragua, I ran out of pipe tobacco and asked Woody for a pinch of his. Two puffs later, I turned three shades of green. I asked him what in the world was in that pouch.

He grinned and just said, “Special blend.”

Back to Jim and that memorable day in the odorous cockpit.

Woody put his chewing cigar away and lit his pipe. I follow suit. The cockpit became densely hazy with thick, powerful tobacco smoke.

Jim donned his oxygen mask… and kept it on the whole while Woody and I sat there puffing away like a couple of steam engines.

Jim was working the radios. Every time he keyed the mic to speak to air traffic controllers, his voice came through muffled by the mask.

I remember sitting in the flight engineer’s seat, chuckling at the scene. There we were—high above the Caribbean, one guy flying on oxygen, and two of us happily fogging up the cockpit like it was a 1940s jazz club.

Different times. Great memories.

Blue Skies,

Lorenzo