Mike Dwyer
Gary was an early member of the Squirrel Squadron based at Albert Whitted airport in St Pete. This was an exclusive club of aviators and the only way you could get in was by messing up with an airplane. Like running over a runway light, hitting a fence, ground looping, sinking your seaplane... Gary found several ways to earn the coveted Squirrel. One evening he was flying the beaches in the Breezy and a weld broke on the horizontal tail causing the important part to fold backward rendering the plane only somewhat flyable. Gary managed a landing on Treasure Island beach thru pure skill. No one hurt. But now the plane is stranded on the beach. The Squirrel squadron members were alerted and gathered at George's (papa Squirrel) hangar. They packed up a welder and some parts and headed out to the beach. After some hours the plane was fixed but who's going to take off from the beach at night, with no lights and fly back to Whitted? George to the rescue. He comes in for a landing back at Whitted with no lights on because it just didn't have any. Someone in the city notices a plane landing at night with no lights... Must be a drug runner! The DEA is alerted but the whole squirrel Squadron is now pushing the plane into the hangar and proceeding with the flight debrief about their flight skill and how they escaped disaster again just as the police cars pull up with guns drawn! Everybody up against the wall and spread em! After a thorough search of the suspects and the aircraft (which has no where to store anything), the police give up and head out.... leaving the Squirrel Squadron with one more wild tale that no one could have made up. Thinking back about it I don't know if Gary or George got the Squirrel but I think it was Gary! Fly home Gary, we'll see you again soon in heaven.
High Flight
By John Gillespie Magee Jr.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air ....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
