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Fate is the Hunter (Paperback)
by Ernest K. Gann
| Category:
Autobiography, Life of a pilot, Fate, Life mastery, Inspiration |
| Market price: ¥ 158.00
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¥ 138.00
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MSL Pointer Review:
If you challenge the statement “man is master of his fate,” you should read this book and be left overwhelmed.
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Author: Ernest K. Gann
Publisher: Simon & Schuster; Touchstone Ed edition
Pub. in: July, 1986
ISBN: 0671636030
Pages: 390
Measurements: 9 x 6.1 x 1.1 inches
Origin of product: USA
Order code: BA01358
Other information: ISBN-13: 978-0671636036
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- MSL Picks -
This classic ought to be read by every pilot. Not only is the prose superb but along the way he treats us to his Theory of Life
He regards life as a war - an undeclared war against fate, the fate that hunts men down. "... One can never know when, where, or how fate will strike. Yet sooner or later it does...." Blind random events without a perceptable cause. FATE.
"Tell me now,... by what ends does a man ever partially controls his fate? It is obvious ... that favorites are played, but if this is so, then how do you account for those who are ill-treated? The worship of pagan gods, which once answered all this, is no longer fashionable. Modern religions ignore the matter of fate. So we are left confused and without direction".
Gann concludes, "Perhaps we should hide in childlike visions of afterlife wherein those pronounced good may play upon harps and those pronounced evil, stoke fires?" The first chapter sets the theme of the book. A mid-air collision is averted simply because Gann chose to descend 50 ft to his assigned altitude of 5,000 a few moments before. The other plane was just a tad sloppy. In these days before ATC and radar, it was all position reports. Why did Gann chose to descend? Why was the other pilot 50 ft high? His only explanation is FATE, and it is as good an answer as any. At these times, Gann says, "... diligently acquired scientific understanding is suddenly blinded and the medieval mind returns. In describing NTSB investigations of crashes, a cause always has to be arrived at, even when the investigators privately know that the true explanation is that "...some totally unrecognizable genie has once again unbuttoned his pants and urinated on the pillars of science".
FATE IS THE HUNTER is dedicated "To these old comrades with wings now folded"... a listing of 349 names, in an unknown order. Echoing the randomness of FATE, at random places throughout this book Gann repeats his litany: So-and-so was killed in an instrument approach to SLC. etc
Gann describes an encounter with freezing rain on a night trip from BNA to EWR. They picked up 4" of clear ice and carried it all the way to Cincinnati. He characterizes this encounter as his first with true disaster, "... heretofore we had not yet been thoroughly frightened or forced to look disaster directly in the face and stare it down". After having "merely nodded to fear" he found that "Now we must shake its filthy hand". They survived, landing with rudder frozen, forward visibility obscured, and empty tanks. Was it skill or fate? Gann notes that due to some unknown quirk, the DC-3 they were scheduled to fly that night was down for maintenance, and an ancient DC-2 was substituted. The DC-2 was a much better ice carrier...
After a (zero-zero) takeoff from Presque Isle during which steel radio tower pieces slid to the rear, making the DC3 almost unflyably tail heavy, they proceed to Goose Bay in Labrador, and then 1300 miles to their "dubious destination", Bluie West One (now the town of Narssarssuaq), 60 miles up the center of a trio of fog shrouded fiords in Greenland. He is advised to enter the correct fiord, unless he has learned how to back up an airplane. The flight and approach to Greenland is hard for today's instrument rich pilots to imagine. Finding the coast of Greenland obscured by a low lying stratus, they are forced to let down (sans radio aids) gingerly. They break out a few hundred feet above the water, 1 mile visibility, and find an iceberg ahead to them, its top poking up to the overcast. Describing it as "wickedly beautiful" he contemplates that FATE has let him off once again. They choose a fiord (can't see the other three in the mist, consequently can't be sure if it is the right one), and 15 minutes later land on a one-way runway.
They fly by dead recogning across the North Atlantic, make a night let down (sans weather), Reykjavik remains curiously radio silent, and breakout at a mere 60 feet or so. They determined the nearness of the ocean by trailing their radio antenna, with its lead "fish" weight on it. When yanked away by striking the ocean they know to stop descending. They find their destination airport, at night, by dead reckoning alone. The radio silence was the result of a mix-up. Given the wrong code they were thought to be enemy aircraft.
The war over, the tyranny of seniority numbers frustrates Gann. He quits his job, and joins the verteran Sloniger (seniorty #1) to fly for an un-named steamship company that wanted to fly the Pacific and compete with Pan Am. Flying DC-4's with new Dash-13 engines, Gann has all four quit on a run to Honolulu. He limps back to SF and all work fine. The mechanics can find nothing wrong. The engineers chide him on now knowing how to properly lean them. This all culminates in a flight with the engineers (by then Gann knows they will run fine below 3,000 ft.) When they cut out despite the engineers manipulating all engine controls, Gann enjoys their discomfiture then brings them home safely. They never did figure out what was wrong with the engines. Eventually they were scrapped.
(From quoting Peter G. Roode, USA)
Target readers:
Everyone who ever doubts if man can take control of his fate.
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Ernest K. Gann is the author of numerous books, among them The High and the Mighty, Twilight for the Gods, The Aviator, and The Magistrate. He lives in Anacortes, Washington, and continues to write and publish prolifically.
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This book is an episodic log of some of the more memorable of the author's nearly ten thousand hours aloft in peace and (as a member of the Air Transport Command) in war. It is also an attempt to define by example his belief in the phenomenon of luck--that 'the pattern of anyone's fate is only partly contrived by the individual.
This fascinating, well-told autobiography is a complete refutation of the comfortable cliche that 'man is master of his fate.' As far as pilots are concerned, fate (or death) is a hunter who is constantly in pursuit of them...there is nothing depressing about FATE IS THE HUNTER. There is tension and suspense in it but there is great humor too. Happily, Gann never gets too technical for the layman to understand.
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Chapter I
THE INNOCENTS
AND OF THE FACTS OF AERIAL LIFE
In the beginning many of us were scientific barbarians. We had neither the need nor the opportunity for technical culture. The interior of a cloud was a muggy and unpleasant place. We knew only that to penetrate cloud for any extended period of time was inviting trouble we were ill equipped to meet. Though we had long delighted in playing about the edges of cumulous battlements, we stayed on the ground when we could not see. Night flying was also a limited indulgence, if only because the fields from which we operated were the most humble in every respect and nothing about them, including the inevitable high-tension wires, was ever illuminated.
Thus, unlearned, credulous, and bewildered, certain of us emerged from the lower strata of aerial society. We had not been trained by the army or the navy and consequently occupied a social position roughly equivalent to that of a Hindu untouchable. Many of us still had that unremovable grime beneath our fingernails which could only have come from working on our own engines.
Our chief item of costume in this strange new world was the familiar, much-faded and much-loved leather jacket. We clung to them pathetically, for they were the last tangible evidence of a more carefree life. Our natural pride did not cover the fact that we were the most uncouth neophytes. Many of us still moved our lips as we plowed through the books and brochures designed to raise us higher in our chosen profession.
We are in a cheerless classroom. In the adjoining hangar a mechanic is pounding on a piece of metal. A man named Lester frowns upon our bumpkin manners. His open disapproval is repeated in the dour face of McIntosh, who serves as his assistant inquisitor.
Lester is a man whose face is not his own but a hodgepodge repair job which at least complements his patched-up body. Only a few years before, he was taking off from Rochester in a Stinson "A," a ship which had three engines, one in the center. Somehow he caught a wing tip on the snowbank which paralleled the runway. The Stinson cartwheeled. When the debris was finally torn away Lester was an integral part of it; so much so that it was nearly impossible to separate his vitals from the still-smoking center engine. It was said that every major bone in his body was fractured in one fashion or another and that his chances for survival in any form more interesting than a vegetable were nil.
The experts did not count upon Lester's magnificent courage and determination. He survived, if not truly to fly again, then to teach others the refinements demanded of an airline pilot.
We stand huddled together as Lester appraises us with his soul-chilling blue eyes. To please him is important, for it means eventual confirmation in our new positions. To fail means a certain return to the wilderness and the semistarvation of itinerant flying. Hence we are nearly terrified of this man who appears so frail as to seem almost translucent. And he soon proves not of the sort to soothe our fears.
Staring at us one by one, he paces the classroom like a great long-legged bird, wounded in body and grievously offended in spirit. His long thin hands pinch frequently at his broken nose. His voice is high pitched, almost a whine, as he calls the roll. He pronounces each name with open distaste, as if he has just bitten into a rotten persimmon.
"Gay, Lippincott, Sisto, Watkins, Mood, McGuire, Owen, Charleton, Carter..."
We confirm our presence solemnly, each of us unable to resist imitating the nervous monotone of the man before. McIntosh, gloomy-eyed, his thoughts impenetrable, lurks near the large aerial map on the wall. He puffs gently on an enormous pipe and, ignoring us completely, seems rapt in a streak of mud along one of his shoes.
Lester moves into the pale January light from the window, and the collection of freckles spotting his face and neck suddenly takes on a brilliant hue, emphasizing the parchmentlike texture of his skin. He begins by setting us very firmly in our places.
"You are supposed to know how to fly or you would not be here. You will now learn to fly all over again. Our way. I have examined your logbooks. They contain some interesting and clever lies. If you are lucky and work a good solid eighteen hours a day in this school, it is barely possible that a few of you may succeed in actually going out on the line - that is, if the company is still in such desperate need of pilots that it will hire anybody who wears wings in his lapel and walks slowly past the front door.
"However -" he sighs - "mine is not to reason why. Just remember, you were hired on a ninety-day probation clause. To begin with, you are going to know every damn..."
The lecture on our shortcomings and the penances to be assigned continues for the better part of the morning. The requirements seem overwhelming. In six weeks we must pass severe examinations in air mass analysis, instrument flight, radio, hydraulics, maintenance, company procedures, routes, manuals, forms, flight planning, and air traffic control. Not only the company but a government inspector will check our final grades.
Lester drones on, pausing only occasionally to crack the knuckles of his talonlike fingers. I study the others, curious about my fellow unwashed who have come from flying fields all over the land. They are strangers still, and I wonder if their natural cocksureness, without which they could never have survived to reach this room, is being as thoroughly squashed as my own.
With Gay I am the most familiar. We share a room in the cheap, musty hotel where we are supposed to live and study during the period of our incubation. He is younger than I am, of dark complexion, very handsome, and most generous with his magical smile. He has come from a small field in Tennessee where he instructed and on Sundays flew passengers for a dollar a ride.
Lippincott is immensely eager. His alertness is almost offensive, and it is already apparent that he will have little difficulty in mastering the engineering aspects which Lester has emphasized so much, to my own despair.
Sisto, a hoarse-voiced enfant terrible from somewhere in California, seems defiant, even bold enough to prod Lester with questions.
I have spoken to Owen only as we gathered, and I was then astounded at the basso-profundo voice emerging from so slight a young man.
Mood and McGuire have also come up from the South, and the contrast between them is a measure of the group. For absolutely no reason, I have already taken a dislike to Mood and I am certain he regards me with equal antipathy. McGuire, however, endeared himself at once by confessing both homesickness for the sight of a Carolina mule and claiming his head is composed almost entirely of bone and therefore a poor receptacle for all that Lester demands. His face now, as he listens to Lester, is so chiseled in honest planes of concentration it would please the most finicky sculptor. I have learned only that hitherto he was mostly engaged in crop dusting - a chancy way to earn a living with wings.
Carter, large and red-faced, is propped audaciously and yet aloof against the back wall of the classroom. I do not know where he calls home, if indeed he has any in the usual sense. He must be a much-traveled man, for just beneath his shirt cuffs, encircling both wrists with intricate design, are the beginnings of what must be vast and elaborate tattoos. I am very impressed with anyone who can so absolutely disregard convention.
Charleton is a silent enigma, not having spoken so much as a word to any of us since first meeting. His face is kindly, although his eyes lack sparkle. His hair is prematurely gray and he seems very tired.
Peterson is a thin and hungry-looking man, slow-spoken and droll, and thus already much valued as a companion. Now straddling a bench, he looks like the reincarnation of Ichabod Crane.
Watkins is near him, sprawling in his seat as if even Lester could never alert him. He is very tall and in his debonair manner seems to patronize the gaunt figure pacing before him. He drums softly on a large silver belt buckle. He has a fine head of hair, blond, curly, and carefully groomed. Were his teeth better he would be an exceptionally beautiful man.
It is not in my power to know the ultimate destinies of these new companions. Certainly I cannot perceive or even imagine that three of them will be totally abandoned by fortune, six will several times experience incredible fondling and protection by whatever fates dispense them, and even the indestructible Lester will one day succumb in such a prosaic affair that it would seem his doom had been merely postponed.
Within a week it becomes obvious that our path to advancement will be strewn with thorns. Lester proves to be a devil, with a genius for probing his pitchfork into our most tender regions. His remarks are scalding as he becomes better acquainted with our individual faults. They become the more wounding because they are so frequently true.
I am a favorite target since I am an idiot at hydraulics. I cannot seem to comprehend the innumerable relief valves or the exact function of each pump and line, much less draw the whole intricate labyrinth from memory as I am supposed to do. My private excuse is that the hydraulic system of an airplane is a mechanic's business and that if the landing gear or the flaps - which the hydraulic system controls - refuse to go up or down, then there is nothing I can do to effect repairs while actually flying.
I am equally thickheaded in the matter of engine theory and maintenance, perhaps because those engines previously responsible for supporting me aloft were of extremely simple design. They either ran or did not run; there was no compromise. In the latter situation you landed in the nearest corn patch. In spite of Lester's insistence that a pilot should be thoroughly acquainted with the complexity of a Wright engine, I have difficulty visualizing myself climbing out on the wing and performing any beneficial repairs while still in flight. There were to come certain tim... |
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New York Times (MSL quote), USA
<2008-04-28 00:00>
Cornelius Ryanauthor of A Bridge Too Far and The Longest DayFate Is the Hunter is partly autobiographical, partly a chronicle of some of the most memorable and courageous pilots the reader will ever encounter in print; and always this book is about the workings of fate....The book is studded with characters equally as memorable as the dramas they act out.
Saturday ReviewThis fascinating, well-told autobiography is a complete refutation of the comfortable cliché that "man is master of his fate." As far as pilots are concerned, fate (or death) is a hunter who is constantly in pursuit of them....There is nothing depressing about Fate Is the Hunter. There is tension and suspense in it but there is great humor too. Happily, Gann never gets too technical for the layman to understand.
Chicago Sunday TribuneThis purely wonderful autobiographical volume is the best thing on flying and the meaning of flying that we have had since Antoine de Saint-Exupéry took us aloft on his winged prose in the late 1930s and early 1940s....It is a splendid and many-faceted personal memoir that is not only one man's story but the story, in essence, of all men who fly.
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Bliss (MSL quote) , USA
<2008-04-28 00:00>
Ernest Gann's autobiographical work is one of the very best examples of the genre ever. The settings are all over the world, but are always in flight. Each chapter is a vignette from his time as a commercial flyer during the late 1930s, '40s, and early 1950s. Every measured word is a pleasure, taking the reader into Gann's cockpit and indeed, into his state of mind. Gann's prose is deceptive in its brevity and simplicity. The proof is in the success of his purpose, which seems to have been to allow his reader to see, hear, and almost smell the experiences of a working aviator. Such a flyer's average hour on the job has been famously described as "59 minutes of utter boredom punctuated by sixty seconds of sheer terror." Gann's exquisite prose captures all sixty minutes of such hours, and does so with seeming effortlessness, but really with eloquence and elegance. Read this book if for no other reason than to study descriptive narrative at its best. You will want to add it to your personal bookshelf, and pick it up once in a while, as I do, just for the pleasure it affords. |
Alexander McKelvey (MSL quote), USA
<2008-04-28 00:00>
This book is very well written, but that is not its strongest suit. The stories are riveting, and all the more delicious because they are his first-hand accounts of actual events, but that is not really the most notable feature of this book.
I would say that his manner of bringing a deeply philosophical view to the everyday risk these early commercial pilots faced, is one of its most intriguing features. The other being a close-up view of the dawn of commercial aviation, in days when it was a LOT more dangerous than it is today. Those aspects of the book achieve more than just entertainment value, and give us a glimpse of what it is like to be part of a major change in how people move about the planet.
I highly recommend this book, and hope you take the time to enjoy it yourself. |
James Hoogerwerf (MSL quote), USA
<2008-04-28 00:00>
Ernie Gann's memory abides in a special place of honor within the hearts and minds of aviators of which I happen to be one. What fliers appreciate is Gann`s ability to articulate their feelings so eloquently. He is one of them but what sets him apart and what they revere is that Gann wrote so well about flight. It is not surprising then that fliers hold him in such high regard, but the real testament to his skill as a writer comes from the acclaim of others outside this fraternity.
You don't have to be a pilot to appreciate Gann's work. It is sufficient to understand humankind's willingness to push the limits, all along knowing there is a risk to be taken. Man has always been willing to take a chance "so long as [he] insists on striving for progress." (xv) Gann, through his gift of prose, carries the reader along, not as a passenger, but as an involved observer. That is Gann's talent. The reader believes he is there with him. You don't have to be a pilot to understand Gann. He doesn't challenge you with technicalities. He presents situations whose outcome hangs by a thread. Is it fate, luck, skill, or fortune that determines the outcome? Whatever, Gann is a survivor.
In the past, as it is to this day, flight is inherently dangerous and unforgiving. The danger is mitigated in many ways. One way is told in the very first chapter captioned "The Tip of the Arrow." Gann descends his aircraft fifty feet to be precisely on his assigned altitude. By this act of professionalism he avoids a near miss when an unreported aircraft flashes by mere feet away. If he had not descended moments before, they would have collided. Striving for perfection, Gann saved their lives. "Those fifty additional sloppy feet held only a few minutes previously -so insignificant then - are now revealed as the pinion of our lives." (13) Gann, the professional pilot, saves himself and his airplane. Is that fate? Luck? Good fortune? Or is flying a game of chance that is played until your number comes up? In Fate is the Hunter, by telling of his experiences in nearly ten thousand hours of flight, Gann leaves it to us to make the final interpretation for his survival. However he gives us some clues to his thoughts. He writes "at least let us admit that the pattern of anyone's fate is only partly contrived by the individual" (384) What if the other aircraft, flown by another equally professional pilot, also had descended fifty feet? Would that have been fate or bad luck? We would never know.
Unquestionably Gann tempted fate many times, but not recklessly. He is not a daredevil. His good fortune in Fate is the Hunter though contrasts with that of many friends and companions who were not so lucky. He lists their names in the beginning pages of the book. (v-ix) Was their demise preordained? Gann doesn't tell us exactly. Instead we read, without a lot of detail, that their deaths were due to an "unknown cause", a "radio range failure", a vagary of the "seniority system", or, to explain the unexplainable, "pilot error". Humans err but is a human error by itself fate? Or is it carelessness? Or stupidity? Or, given the circumstances like a wing falling off, simply unbelievable? Flying, we know, has little regard for the careless or the foolish. One thing is certain from reading Fate is the Hunter, the line between life and death can be very fine indeed.
Even with the best of human performance possible, the odds against survival may be so overwhelming as to be insurmountable. It is then that true heroism is necessary. Heroism is not ever mandated or demanded of someone by others. Heroism comes from within. It is the disregard for personal safety or salvation that propels action against overwhelming odds. This is not Ernest Gann. He doesn't hold himself out (nor the other pilots that he holds in high regard) as heroes though some of us may believe they were. Gann writes about this in the following paragraph.
"Line pilots do not live in an atmosphere of heroism, for that is a very temporary condition better suited to wildly inspired moments in which the hero hardly knows what he is doing. The pilots know what they are doing, right or wrong, always. They wear courage like a comfortable belt, rarely giving it a thought. But a line pilot is wary all of the time, which is an entirely different matter. To be continuously aware you must know what to be wary of, and this sustained attitude can come only with experience. Learning the nature and potentialities of the countless hazards is like walking near quicksand." (109)
What Gann experiences in his career are situations that require a cool head and good judgment. "The timid, super-cautious pilot is not necessarily the safest. Coupled with knowledge, a touch of boldness is required" (52) Gann will take a calculated risk, but the decision is based on his knowledge and experience.
A high standard must be maintained. In the role of an airline pilot, Gann recognizes he is entrusted with a duty. Passengers place their trust in the airline, the airplane and him. Quite simply, his is an occupation unlike any other. The cockpit of an aircraft in flight is a place that most people normally do not get to see. In our journey with Gann we are invited into his world as he progresses from being an apprentice just prior to World War II until he becomes a seasoned veteran as a Captain of his own ship. Ernest Gann doesn't tell us explicitly, but the reader begins to sense the Captain's responsibility for his passengers, his crew and his company. This burden is not carried lightly by Gann or the other pilots. There are a couple that Gann believes do not deserve his or our respect. These he treats with disdain. However he is not malicious and so he doesn`t use their real names. To the despotic Alessandro, he wished bad luck but nonetheless remains unscathed. The pretender "Captain" Dudley, who didn't have a license, was at first pitied, then loathed. After getting properly licensed Dudley again talks himself into command of another airliner which crashes. He survives but some passengers do not.
Four decades have passed since Gann wrote Fate is the Hunter and a few more years than that since Gann lived the events he so vividly describes in his book. From today's perspective on aviation, Fate is the Hunter opens a window to another time. Unlike the present jet age, all of Gann's flying was in propeller transports - DC 2s, DC 3s, the Lockheed Loadstar, the C-54, and the C-87. In many ways it was a more challenging time. Navigation aids and flight instruments were much less sophisticated than now. Still they were light years ahead of what was available just a short time previously. Yet, while the technology was more primitive, the human factors remain remarkably similar in the present. A pilot faces the hazards of winter snow and summer heat then just as he does today. A schedule is kept just like it is today. Fuel may be critical then as now. Seniority still remains the key to advancement. Pay is determined by the minute of flight though credit time figures into pay computations today. Remarkably the report time of one hour before scheduled departure is the same today as it was for Gann. When airborne there are still the hours of droning along with only routine tasks to complete but always having to be alert for any inkling of an impending problem. I can relate to a common request from passengers interested in exactly where they were. For me the request came via the interphone and is relayed by a flight attendant. In Gann's time it was probably directly from the passenger himself. Gann notes this was "information we seldom had ready at hand" and would "assume a solemn mien and point out a town, or village -anyone visible would do - and...would say. `That is White Pigeon.`" (176) I wish I had thought of that! Thankfully though, copilots today don't have to load passenger baggage any more. Jets are so large we would never leave the gate waiting for them to finish loading! Gann has unintentionally created an historical classic encompassing an important era in aviation.
Gann's description of the aircraft he flew contrasts remarkably with
the aircraft in use now. At the time however they were the best that were available. In one episode the regularly scheduled equipment, a DC-3, is grounded for maintenance. A DC-2 is substituted for the regularly scheduled flight from Nashville to New York with Columbus, Ohio as the alternate. The flight proves to be Gann's first encounter with icing and almost his last flight, period. They encounter heavy icing and battle deteriorating sky conditions until finally arriving at Cincinnati where the weather has remarkably cleared. The fortuitous substitution of a DC-2 saved them. The DC-3 would not have been able to stay in the air carrying the same load of ice. As for the C-87 which he later flew Gann says it "could not carry enough ice to chill a highball."(214) These details provide invaluable information for aviation historians.
Inevitably, in reading Fate is the Hunter , the reader reaches a point where he might ask himself, is all this true? Gann says "insofar as one mind can reveal a vast and extraordinary complex endeavor, all the facts and events described are true." (xvi) I believe him. In nearly ten thousand hours of flying an endless array of situations are possible. Given the time frame, the aircraft he flew, and the conditions he encountered it is entirely within reason for to him have lived the experiences as he describes them. His logbook would be proof. All pilots have one. One thing is sure, if his story is not true, the people he writes about (those that have survived) would not have let him get away with it!
I only have one question. That has to do with "unporting" (368) That is a term as unfamiliar to me as it was to Gann when he was told about it. In the episode that describes the condition, Gann had "arranged the only possible combination of power, speed, and weight which would blockade the chances of unporting" (369) preventing loss of control. Another airplane crashed because of the problem but Gann was unaware except for "a certain trembling" (365) He was only told of the danger later after he came back to work from vacation. Personally I put this in an "ignorance is bliss" category. There are many things beyond the control of the pilot and if you can't do anything about it, it is not worth worrying or knowing about. Even if Gann had known of the problem it is unlikely they would have been able to determine the exact flight requirements to prevent it from occurring. That was only figured out later. Aerodynamics is not my forte but someone else may be able to shed some light on "unporting."
How does Gann's story end? In the end I think he becomes discouraged. He is caught by the seniority trap. A pilot, once he begins with a company, is locked into that company's seniority list. If he were to leave and come back later he would have to go to the bottom of the list and start all over again. Gann left American to pursue another flying opportunity. When that business failed, he was not inclined to start over again as a copilot. He became a writer.
Like a wealthy gambler, he knew when to quit.
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