Speaking of Orion, yesterday at 0925, a P3-Orion submarine hunter nearly grazed my back garden fence. Radars justa blarin'. He was low and loud as he could be. Reminded me of Daddy when he used to fly by our house to say hello to Momma on his way to the Basin. The mythical Basin that inspired my juvenilia. Deep and broad, a barn-stormer's dream. Into it he dove with his eager craft and did a hundred things you have not dreamed of. In his flashy tail-dragger, throwing back the sun from laughter-silvered wings.
The P3 pilot was about other things. He was about his father's business. No John Gillespie Magee was he. Nor can he hold a candle to my Daddy.
Just another common trollop. Told that he can pack a wallop. A war-plane the size of Dodi al Fayed's yacht who buzzes houses in the suburbs. What a whore. I remember when pilots used to be a little more. We all know who this guy's workin' for.
Then when I raised my camera, he fled like the rout at Bull Run. Signature of an unprincipled man.
(experience The Basin, http://shpearson.wordpress.com/ )