Son of a B…

“If you remain calm, you can get through almost any situation, but if you panic, chances are you won’t.” A good lesson learned from my dad about flying airplanes.
One day, Dad and I were flying in a Beechcraft Musketeer; a small four-seat airplane, often used for training. I had only been a licensed pilot for short time and Dad was teaching me more about flying. He used to say, “No matter how many hours you have flown, every flight is new lesson.”
Dad was acting like the air traffic controller. “November 8-8-9-4 Mike is cleared for takeoff, runway 3-1 Ottumwa. Maintain runway heading, climb to 3,000 feet, then turn left to the Ottumwa VOR, continue climbing to 5,000 feet.” I repeated his instruction and then applied to power to take off.
As I neared 5,000 feet, “November 8-8-9-4 Mike, cross the VOR and turn heading 130°” We flew that direction for several minutes. “November 8-8-9-4 Mike, descend and maintain 4,000 feet, turn right heading 360° to intercept the localizer, once established descend 2,800 feet to VOR, then clear to land runway 3-1 Ottumwa.” I repeated the instructions and executed the maneuver perfectly.
Shortly after crossing the VOR, Dad pulled the throttle, essentially rendering the engine dead! I freaked out, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Have you lost your mind?” I started to apply power, but Dad held the throttle tight.
“You just lost your engine, what are you going to do?” Dad was calm, I was frazzled. He repeated, “What are you going to do?”
“Um, um….” I stammered, “Glide speed. 78 knots.” I was trying to remember everything I learned in flight training. “Master on, mags on, fuel on, full tanks, 78 knots, 2,000 feet, attempt restart….”
“You’re out of fuel, the engine won’t start,” Dad said. “Are you going to make it to the runway?” Honestly, I wasn’t sure. “Stay calm and fly the airplane,” he said. Dad made a real radio call, “Ottumwa traffic, Beechcraft November 8-8-9-4 Mike is short final, runway 3-1 Ottumwa, simulated engine out.”
“I’m not going to make it to the runway,” I said. “There’s no traffic. I’m going to land on Angle Road instead of the bean field.” At this point, I was wondering if he was really going to let me land on the road.
About 500’ above the ground, Dad advanced the throttle to full power, “Let’s go to the airport.” When we got on the ground, Dad quizzed me, “What could you have done differently?”
I was still frazzled and didn’t have a clear answer. “You panicked,” Dad said. “Which clouded your decisions. You would have made the airport, but you hesitated before establishing glide speed and lost too much altitude.” He was right. Then he spoke those words I’ll never forget: “If you remain calm, you can get through almost any situation, but if you panic, chances are, you won’t.” Words to be carried with me for life, and well beyond the realm of aviation. I wish Dad would have shared that wisdom with me years earlier when I was dealing with another kind of aviators.
One day several of my siblings and I were playing in the hayloft of our barn. Bees began swarming around us. We all panicked, swing arms and legs, trying to swat, kick, and do whatever necessary to save ourselves from the vicious pests. I think we all got stung at least once! One, by one, we hurried down the ladder and fled the barn to safety, but not before Gerard noticed where the bees were coming from.
Safe in the back yard, Gerard shared, “They were flying in and out, from under that sheet of corrugated metal roofing on the floor. They must be nesting under it.” We devised a plan.
Several of our troops opted to stand down while applying baking soda paste to their battle injuries. Those of us who regrouped for the counterattack, armed ourselves with fly swatters, shovels, brooms, and anything else that could squish a bee.
Our fearless squadron leader, Gerard came out from the garage with Dad’s Shop Vac. He brought three hard-tube extensions, the high velocity nozzle attachment, and an extension cord. “You lift the metal roofing, and I’ll reach in with the hose and suck them all up,” he said, assuring, “Victory and revenge will be ours.”
By the time we returned to the hayloft, the bees had settled back into their nest. When we turned on the vacuum, several of the insects reemerged. Gerard easily captured each of them with the powerful vacuum. Then he gave me the command, “Lift the metal.”
I set my fly swatter and house broom to the side and swiftly flipped the metal. It was heavier than I anticipated, and I dropped it. This time, I quickly pulled it away and then rearmed myself. Gerard was correct: the bees were nesting under the metal. Once exposed, they swarmed madder than before!
“I’m hit, I’m hit,” came the battle cries. One by one, our remaining troops retreated. I hit Gerard on the head a couple of times while swinging the broom trying to shoo the bees off him. “Put the metal back over them,” Gerard ordered.
 
I flipped the roofing back over the nest. The rigid sheet metal knocked the vacuum hose from Gerard’s hands, pinning it to the floor. Gerard and I ran, escaping down the ladder, but not before being stung a couple more times. The Shop Vac was still running. It didn’t occur to us that we could shut the vacuum off by unplugging the extension cord, which turned out to be a good thing.
I suppose close to an hour had passed. Somehow, we needed to retrieve Dad’s Shop Vac. Gerard, and I cautiously climbed the ladder with flyswatters, and one house broom. (Slow learners.) There was no sign of any bees. The vacuum was still running. We tip-toed over to the metal sheet. Gerard gave me the signal and I lifted the sheet, but still, no bees. Strange.
Gerard picked up the hose and turned off the vacuum. The canister full of bees was buzzing loudly. Soon, a couple of bees flew out of the hose and escaped through an opening in the barn siding. We turned the vacuum back on. As near as we could tell, the bees were being sucked into the vacuum while trying to return to the nest. Now what were we to do. Gerard sent me to the house to get a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
When I came back with the bottles (I found two partial bottles; more is better, right?), Gerard removed the hard extensions and explained a Shop Vac is a wet/dry vacuum. With the unit still running, he poured both bottles into the hose, then inserted the suction end of the hose into the exhaust hole on the vacuum to recirculate the air. The alcohol would kill the bees, in theory. Reality was a different story.
We shut off the vacuum after fifteen or twenty minutes. The canister was quiet. We carefully lifted the top and looked inside. I don’t think we killed any of the bees. Instead, they were stumbling around, crawling on top of each other, hundreds of them and all drunk as a skunk!
I don’t remember what we ever did with those bees, but thinking about Dad wisdom years later, I wonder if we had not panicked and started swinging at the bees, would they have left us alone?
I’ve learned a new appreciation for bees since my childhood days. Whenever a bee landed on me and I swatted at it, the bee usually stung me. Dad’s concept of remaining calm in all situations has been very beneficial to co-existing with bees. Now, when a bee lands on my arm, I greet them. “Hello little fella. How are you today?”
We had a large wild rose bush next to our back deck. More than once, when a bee landed on my finger or hand, I would walk it over to the flowers. “I think this is where you’d rather be,” I would say and place my hand where the bee could walk onto a rose. None of the bees ever stung me when helping them out. Now, you must make sure it is a bee.
Bees will sting only when they feel threatened, or they are protecting their hive. Wasps and hornets on the other hand, will sting you for sport! Still, your chances of being stung by a wasp or hornet are greatly reduced when you remain calm.
The other day on my morning walk with Nova Mae, I captured some nice photos of bees on flowers. I was able to get a photo of their legs gathering pollen. Afterwards, I was sitting outside having coffee with the neighbors. “Oh my gosh,” Dorothy panicked. “There’s a bee on your hand! Shoo it away! Shoo it away!!” Instead of shooing him, I welcome him.
“Hi, how are you, my man?” I remained calm while the bee crawled up my hand and across my index finger. Then he climbed over the rim and inside my coffee cup. “Help yourself to a sip of my coffee,” I offered. I saw this as another photo-op and took a couple of pictures. Unfortunately, while posing the little fella lost his grip on the cups smooth glaze and plunged into the coffee. The bee was doing a frantic backstroke, attempting to save his life.
In the absence of a tiny life preserver, I put a small piece of paper next to him, but in his panic, he wouldn’t climb on. I would have to dive in to save him.
I dipped my finger into the warm coffee. Raising my finger up under his back, I lifted him from the cup. He quickly got back on his feet, shuddered the wet coffee from his wings, and flew away. “That little son of a B didn’t even say thank you! That’s gratitude,” I protested.
“You’re crazy,” Dorothy said. “That bee could have stung you.”
“He can’t sting me,” I said. “He’s a male and male bees don’t have stingers.”
“How can you be sure it’s a male,” Dorothy insisted.
“Aside from lacking a stinger, I knew it was a male because he was out drinking coffee while the female bees (workers) were out gathering pollen from flowers,” I said. (Male bees, drones, don’t work.) “Yes indeed, that was a real son of a B if I’ve ever seen one.”