Just Horsin' Around

Growing up as a city kid in Baltimore, the closest I ever came to a horse was to see the horse-drawn produce vendors, called "arabs," in the alley behind my row house.  But the young girl living next to me had a fascination with horses.  And because my family and her family were friends, we soon came to know of her obsession.

We rarely went anywhere, so it was a complete surprise when my father announced we would be making a day trip to Chincoteague Island to visit a famous horse farm.  This is quite a drive from Baltimore.  Furthermore, it crosses the Chesapeake Bay via the Chesapeake Bay Bridge which, at the time of its opening in 1952, was the world's longest continuous over-water steel structure, at 4 miles long. 

Such a trip would take us way back in history since the family on my mother's side had owned plantations on the Delmarva peninsula from way back in the late 1600s. 

Apparently, Dad had learned that the neighbor's girl, Roberta, had read a couple of children's books about horses.  The books were "Misty of Chincoteague" and "Sea Star, Orphan of Chincoteague" by Marguerite Henry.  They delve into life on a horse farm at the Beebee Ranch on Chincoteague Island. 

We drove and drove and drove -- across the amazing Chesapeake Bay Bridge.  I'm sure I was mesmerized by the view.  The bridge was designed to allow for the passage of cargo ships making their way up the Bay to the port of Baltimore.  Somehow, we wound up at the real Mr. Beebe's horse farm on Chincoteague. 

Out in the country for probably the first time in my life, I'm sure I felt exhilarated by all the open space -- the corrals, stables, and barns.  While Dad and Mom engaged in conversation with Mr. Beebe, my brother Paul and I slipped off quietly to one of the nearby corrals. 

In this corral was the biggest horse I had ever seen.  True, my familiarity with horses only extended to Roy Rogers' "Trigger" and "Silver," ridden by The Lone Ranger.  This beauty was all black. Its back was as high as the top wood rail of the corral.  And here it was, standing right next to me.  Without fear, I climbed the rails and, in one swift move, jumped onto the horse's back.  Startled, the horse (which I later learned was a stallion) began to move away from the corral's rails and into the center of the arena.  I grabbed its mane with both hands and hung on.

And that's when it happened ... Somehow, my brother had thought it was a good idea -- since we were going to be sort of like cowboys -- to bring his cap pistol.  As the horse started to move away, Paul began to shoot his cap gun.  

The horse broke into a gallop.  I'm bouncing around, hanging on for dear life.  There was no way out!  There was no escaping it!  I was on a runaway horse and had no idea how to stop it.  The only solution: JUMP!  

Whump!  I landed in the dirt and the air exploded from my lungs.  As the horse trotted away, my parents and Mr. Beebe came running over, picked me up, and took me outside the corral.

Any memory of the episode beyond that has been erased for many a year.  I like horses; I just don't trust them.  I prefer now to admire such marvelous, beautiful animals from afar. 

Hey, Now! What's That Sound?

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

My next call was to Morris.  "There's a large crude oil tanker aground in the channel leading to Port Tampa," I told him.  Without skipping a beat, Bill told me to meet him at the small, nearby airport on Davis Island where he kept his plane.  I had never flown with Bill, despite the many stories about him and his aerial acrobatics that circulated in newsrooms at both The Tampa Times and Tampa Tribune. 

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.