I got to know Bill Morris, more often recognized as "Morris of SELBYPIC," when I was a Police Beat reporter. I would often see Bill in the newsroom, dressed in tennis whites and an ever-present floppy blue terry cloth hat, peddling his aerial photographs. But the first time I had serious interaction with Bill was when a massive oil tanker went aground off of Port Tampa.
It was a slow news day, Wednesday morning, July 26, 1972. I was making my morning check calls to various law enforcement agencies, including the control tower at Tampa International Airport and the U.S. Customs service. My job was to cover any and all breaking stories, including disasters. Calling from the "cop shop" at the police station, I dialed the number for the U.S. Coast Guard. The duty officer kindly reported to me that they had an oil tanker barge aground just off the channel leading to Port Tampa. This was the bulk port at the southwestern tip of the Interbay Peninsula in Tampa (the general cargo port was officially known as "The Port of Tampa" and was located much closer to town).
When I heard a big barge was aground there, loaded with 268,000 gallons of highly explosive gasoline, I notified the City Desk at The Tampa Times. The city editor was interested and wanted me to get a deadline story in, if possible. Thinking big, I knew that the best story would be seen from the air.
Page One -- In Time For Home-Delivery |
It was a short drive to Peter O. Knight airport. Bill had given me the number of his hangar, and it was easy to drive down the rows of planes inside corrugated steel structures.
I can clearly remember pulling up to the hangar. Bill had already pulled the plane, affectionately known as "Nancy," out of the hangar. I pulled up in my car just to the side of the tarmac. I was struck by the sight of some sort of door leaning against the wall. Unconcerned, I greeted Bill and he ushered me into the front seat, on the left side of the plane. Bill's seat, on the right, had no door. I said nothing as we taxied out of the hangar area and onto the north end of the north-south runway. Before I knew it, Bill was throttling up, ready for take-off. Releasing the wheel brake, Nancy jumped forward, hurtling down the runway and going airborne just as the runway ended at water of Tampa Bay.
Because it was my first time flying in a small plane, I had no idea what to expect next. Bill was on the radio, not only clearing his take-off with the authorities at Peter O. Knight, but he was soon speaking to military air traffic controllers in the tower at MacDill Air Force Base. The conversation was along the lines of "I'm flying about six-feet above the waves off the end of the air force base runway," where Vietnam-era Phantom F-14s were often taking off. Bill was a blood-brother of the Air Force guys, having served in the South Pacific during WWII. They immediately cleared him fly under the end of the runway, since it was the most direct route to the grounded tanker. Bill had regularly greased the wheels by sending the tower crew photos of the planes on the runway whenever he was allowed to overfly the base. It was a special privilege, extended to Bill. Because they respected him, completely.
I was spellbound to be flying at that level, just above the whitecaps, looking at the tip of the AFB runway. Before I could gather my thoughts or say anything, Bill pointed Nancy's nose skyward and started to make wide, spiraling circles to gain to gain altitude. Up and up we went; the objects on the ground getting smaller and smaller. In less than a minute we were high above the peninsula and looking directly down on the stricken ship.
Once at the desired altitude, he promptly pushed the plane's throttle all the way in, cutting back to an idle. Next, he heeled the Cessna all the way over to the right. Reaching into the back bench seat Bill grabbed the heavy, motor-driven, 2-1/4"-format Hasselblad camera. Letting completely go of the plane's steering yoke, he slipped his hands into straps of the camera's machine-gun grips.
While the engine roar was replaced by an annoying, continuous "maaaaaap, maaaaaap, maaaaaap" sound, Bill was hanging out of the door, ripping off dozens of photographs.
I did not know what the noise was, but I was anxious. OK ... more than anxious as the plane glided silently (no engine roar) in a downward spiral. With the deadline looming, there was precious time to be scared. In one swift move, Bill tossed the 'Blad into the back seat, righted the plane, opened the throttle wide and headed back the way we came. Once again, under the fighter jet flightpath and in sight of the Peter O. Knight runway, Nancy was anxious to get back to her hangar.
Bill landed effortlessly, quickly taxiing to the hangar. I was off to the newsroom to file my story while Bill was headed to his house where he would process the film in his darkroom.
The story of the grounded fuel tanker, complete with a spectacular aerial photograph, made it for the 11 a.m. home-delivery deadline I could finally breathe easy. It was only then, when I related my experience to fellow news reporters and photographers, that I found out what the bothersome noise was, coming from Nancy's dashboard.
"That's the stall-warning buzzer, Dane," they said. There were laughs and rolling eyes. The plane, with me and Bill in it, was simply falling slowly out of the sky -- and onto the front page of The Tampa Times.