The Final Flight

photo credit: pexels.com

As a private pilot, I flew extensively in the 1980s and 90s, often participating in Civil Air Patrol missions—whether called out for a missing aircraft or engaging in recurrent training in our Cessna 182. Additionally, I flew mercy flights to central Baja, delivering essential items like medicine and clothing to farm workers at Rancho Piloto. These experiences honed my skills in soft-field takeoffs and landings, where a miscalculation could cause the wheels to sink into the desert sand of a makeshift runway. Each flight into Mexico was an exhilarating adventure, but it also came with its own set of challenges.

Flight plans into international airspace had to be meticulously timed to avoid being intercepted by F-16s as a hostile aircraft. After a brief stop in Calexico to register with U.S. Customs, we hopped across the border to Mexicali, where Mexican Customs inspected us. My passenger, also a pilot, was learning the process of flying internationally. From there, we navigated to the Guerrero Negro area using dead reckoning, as there are no navigational aids available in Mexico. With a blend of skill and a bit of luck, Rancho Piloto would eventually come into view.

One particular flight stands out vividly in my memory. We were running late on our return to Ontario Airport and encountered heavy headwinds on the way back to Mexicali. With only 30 minutes to clear Mexican Customs, we had to cross the border back to Calexico promptly. Timing was crucial; crossing the border too early could mean facing the U.S. Air Force, which was not a pleasant prospect.

As I approached Mexicali Tower to announce my landing plans, an unexpected response was heard: “Are you sure you want to land here now?” Confused, I confirmed my intentions, only to be informed that it was illegal for single-engine aircraft to fly in Mexico at sunset. The gravity of the situation hit me hard. If I landed, my plane would be impounded, and I risked imprisonment in a Mexican jail.

I quickly canceled my landing and circled just below the border, anxiously waiting for the right moment to cross. My heart raced as I considered the implications of crossing the border one hour prior to my flight plan. I could receive the same warning from Calexico if I crossed too early. The tension was palpable, and I was acutely aware of the stakes involved—my blood pressure was definitely running high.

Upon finally arriving at Calexico, we were met by a Customs agent accompanied by a drug-sniffing dog. After a thorough inspection confirmed we had nothing illicit, we were escorted to the Customs building. The officer, visibly displeased with our early arrival, delivered a stern lecture. Just as he was about to stamp our passports, he received a call from his supervisor. When he returned, his demeanor had changed; he looked upset and said, “You’re lucky. If that call had come in five minutes sooner, you’d be toast.”

With a mix of relief and lingering anxiety, we climbed back into the Cessna and headed for Ontario without further incident. However, the experience had shaken me to my core. The thrill of flying, once a source of joy, was now overshadowed by fear and uncertainty. I made the difficult decision to stop flying altogether. That flight, fraught with tension and peril, became my last. The exhilaration of the skies was no longer worth the risk, and I found myself reflecting deeply on the fragility of life and the choices we make.