Maverick Pilot, Volume One

MAVERICK PILOT

Volume I, 1951 to 1967

Minnow to Mercenary

Dave R. Case

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Dave R. Case

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Table of Contents

List of Illustrations

Introduction

Preface

Acknowledgments

Getting Started

Skylark

Lessons in Mexico

Air Force Interlude

Getting Well

Taking Another Turn

Want to buy a plane mister?

Corporate Pilot

InterOcean Airways

Moving up the Ladder

Spraying for dollars

Taking it Easy

DC-3 Across the Pacific

Aloha Land

Continental Air Service

C.A.S. Reunion,

List of Illustrations

Luscombe 8A,

My first solo cross-country

Skylark, still a sweetheart.

A celebrity!

Adventure waits.

My BT-15,.

Looking cool.

Mom was worried sick.

Sometimes things don’t work as planned.

In the ‘50s it was up to friends and family.

For $750 the Bamboo Bomber was a great plane to fly in Mexico.

Adventure led to trouble

While waiting for my cadet appointment.

Ship’s Photographer.

Military D-18, similar to the C-18

Kantanga’s Air Force,.

DC-4 First Officer with InterOcean.

DC-4 with #3 engine shut-down.

A few of our passengers.

Goma’s Terminal after a shoot-up.

No time to waste,.

Spad, a Stearman.

Military version of the Turkey.

Perhaps the best of all airplanes.

B&B; (Begging & BS).

I couldn’t afford a P-51,.

Building houses.

The compound, Laos.

Captain Mike Harris.

C-46. Laos’ was hot,.

Drop site, Laos.

C-46, air off loading.

C-46, ground off-loading.

Another drop site in Laos.

C-46 in Laos.

Captain Pat Barnett

The little Baron was a fun plane.

Quinhon Internationalz.

Economy Flight.

Captain Bill Foster escorting an AVN stewardess.

A corsage for an AVN stewardess.

Gear-up landing at Da Nang.

Fortunately, no one was injured.

ARVN troops in the Delta.

Trade Hong Kong for UAL? No-way!

The beach at Quinhon.

Acknowledgments

Pilot extraordinaire, a sailor of oceans, and author of over twenty books was Ernest K. Gann. During World War II he delivered much-needed supplies over the treacherous Hump, later he flew well-heeled tourists to the Islands, and once ferried a Gooney-bird 4000 over-water miles to Samoa. Gathering together a crew of friends, Ernie sailed the schooner, Albatross, from Holland to Sausalito for the adventure of being on the sea. His books reflected his experiences with titles like, The High and the Mighty, Fate is the Hunter, and Soldier of Fortune. Many movies followed. As a youth I couldn’t wait for the next adventure in print or film to keep me spellbound. After years of enjoying his pursuits, I wrote to him; he kindly and generously responded with a letter and poem that I treasure. His, was all the inspiration I needed. Thank you Mister Gann - Ernie.

The following have kept me reasonably honest and factual, for that I’m indebted.

Miss Carrie Picket, a great teacher, who patiently nurtured this old Geezer through six-years of training in the how-to of stringing words together. How she suffered me for so long, I’ll never know. With sincere appreciation, Carrie, I Thank You.

In a weak moment, Maggie Lloyd-Zeibak agreed to edit Volumes I and II. (An author bears his soul to an editor.) For keeping the Vows of Silence as my confessor Maggie, I also thank you.

To my beautiful wife, Jennie Victoria Chan-Case; the constant has been our love for each other. Thank you.

The following photographers; Eric Dumigan’s, photo of the UC-78, Bill Crump’s, photo of a TBM, Lani Muche’s, excellent photo of the F-51, and Phillip Wallace’s, perfect photo of a D-18, I have not asked for permission to use their copyright material. I do thank them profusely and hope they don’t mind being part of this not-for-sale, Limited Edition.

The painting on the title page is my personal property and was painted by Mr. Douglas Ettridge in 1961

Preface

For me, life started out with asthma; it dominated my early years. Skinny, with a pigeon-breast, Oftentimes, I’d miss half the school year because my lungs refused to work properly. Three things kept me going; in my grandparents house where I grew up was a huge library, I built model planes while fantasizing about becoming a pilot, and I listened to all the adventure stories on the radio. The grown-ups thought it best I become a lawyer, or writer; but I wanted to be a pilot.

Two people had faith in me; mother and me. Soloing at sixteen, I went on to fly everything from the smallest light-planes, to the biggest jet airliners. The World became my playground. Though asthma took its toll before finally giving up; I eventually out-grew it.

Volume One takes you the reader, from my early days through flying in the Congo, and Southeast Asia. I hope you enjoy the read.

Introduction

Maverick Pilot is a memoir in three volumes covering forty-four years from 1951 through 1995. From learning to fly in small planes, to smuggling, fighting in wars, flying big jets, to running an airline, it’s all there. What I lacked in connections, education, money and health, I made up for with luck, naïveté, talent, and old-fashioned chutzpah. I was too dumb to realize I was supposed to fail.

Volume One, 1951 to 1967, Minnow to Mercenary, tells of learning to fly, dealing with an engine failure, smuggling seafood off beaches in Mexico and going to jail, flying corporate, fighting in the Congo, timber spraying, getting shot at in Laos, and Vietnam with Continental Air Service. Whew!

Volume Two, 1967 to 1977, Props to Jets, takes me from Honolulu to Hong Kong (Where I met and married Vickie.) flying a DC-3 round trip, once a week to Vung Tau and Cam Ranh Bay during the war. I then hired on to fly jets with Overseas National Airways, a growing supplemental airline. Before deregulation put the airline out of business, I learned how to span oceans carrying passengers and cargo.

Volume Three, 1982 to 1995, Freight Dog to Freelance, is my experience flying contract freighters for Emery Air Freight around the world, teaching, test piloting, and finally the Director of Flight Operations for a small flag carrier in the Pacific.

Sorry, it’s all PG rated; there is no vitriol, or get-evens, just a bunch of hangar-flying stories. All-in-all, it’s a grand run I’m sharing with you. One that allowed me to taste many of the flavors life offers; for that I’m forever thankful.

I’ve edited the memoir correcting spelling, punctuation and grammar, until I’m exhausted. Nevertheless, the reader will find errors. My Scots blood trumped my Irish ego, preventing me from hiring an editor to put the final polish on this behemoth. Once printed, it’s all there for the world to see - how embarrassing.

Someone said the job of a writer is to make the reader turn the page; I sincerely hope I’ve done my job; one way or the other. Enjoy.

All the best,

Dave R. Case

Getting Started

I was six years old when mother took my younger brother and me for an airplane ride. From that moment on I lived and breathed aviation; wanting only to be a pilot. I built models of all the planes America flew in World War II.

Born with asthma, an ailment then thought to be largely psychosomatic, the condition often caused me to miss half the school year. I always seemed to be the stranger in school. Making friends was difficult when one was constantly being cautioned, Don’t do that. Do you want to have an attack? Fortunately, our home was stuffed with books of all kinds that I read to pass the time while waiting for the infernal wheezing to stop. As a result I grew-up skinny, pigeon breasted, with a brain far too developed for my frail frame.

We were poor but I didn’t know it. At twelve years I was old enough to sell newspapers in front of the local supermarket on weekends. A new pair of shoes was purchased with my first profits. From that point on I was responsible for buying most of my clothes.

***

At fourteen, I got a job pulling weeds, sweeping, and cleaning toilets for a company called Aircraft Associates at Long Beach airport in Southern California. Their flight school taught veterans how to fly under the GI Bill for eleven dollars an hour. Compared to the seventy-five cents an hour I was making, that was an impossible sum. Nevertheless it was exciting being around airplanes. Because I had a driver’s license, I was taught how to operate the fuel truck, thus becoming the second teenager hired to drive around the airport servicing the planes.

It was exhilarating; between duties I would sneak into the cockpits of the various planes at the facility. A war surplus twin engine UC-78 trainer nicknamed the Bamboo Bomber, a big single engine plane called the Vultee Vibrator, and the prize, an A-20 Douglas attack bomber that had been converted into a corporate plane for Howard Hughes. They all possessed an impossible array of switches, dials, and levers that appeared far too complicated for me to ever learn. I felt good about myself, and was well thought of by the pilots and students. I liked working among adults.

Reporting to work one Monday I was informed there was thirty-five dollars missing from the cash receipts over the weekend. Did I know anything about it? Of course I didn’t. Cash was handled by casually tucking it in an unlocked drawer in the office. The only other person whom I could think of that might have taken the money was the older teen driver on the other shift who was the nephew of the manager. The balance of the day was miserable No one made eye contact with me. At the end of the shift I was fired. It devastated me, it angered me, and I wanted to scream: I didn’t do it - ask the nephew! Of course they already had, and he’d said he didn’t do it; therefore, it had to have been me. The lesson was; if you’re poor with no one to stand up for you, you’re dead meat. I also learned to always get signed receipts for any money transactions regardless of who they were!

During my fifteenth summer I scored my first real job working an eight-hour day still at seventy-five cents an hour. Plane Parts Company was owned by Doug Melton, an ex-B17 pilot. Somehow this tiny firm, squeezed between two hangars at Long Beach airport, had won a contract to recondition a couple of dozen surplus U. S. Air Force basic and advanced trainers for the Indonesian Government. He hired two licensed journeymen mechanics and a half-dozen mechanics-in-training from Northrup School of Aviation. I was the most junior of the bunch. My duties were to sand and clean the various panels that were removed off the planes to get them ready for painting. Once in awhile I was even allowed to use a screwdriver to disassemble some of those parts before I stripped and cleaned them. This was no lawn-mowing, toilet-cleaning job - no sir. This was serious business being around airplanes that to me were complicated beyond imagination. They were a mass of wires, tubes, pushrods, gears and levers everywhere one looked. An aircraft with the outside aluminum panels removed made me fantasize of what a human robot might look like without skin.

My supervisors were the two accredited mechanics. I had to satisfy both of them and follow their orders. Doug warned me the old man, Tom Scott, was the meanest, hardest, most particular SOB that ever worked on an airplane. I looked at the short, potbellied, old man - he was at least sixty - as he concentrated on masking an aluminum fairing getting it ready to paint. He had clear blue eyes surrounded by deeply lined crow’s feet. He spoke with a slow almost unintelligible Southern drawl through a Camel cigarette that was always in the corner of his mouth. At first he scared the bejeezus out of me. If I could please him it would be a miracle. Nonetheless, my grandfather had also been a stickler and I thought I’d give it my best shot.

Tom was a demanding perfectionist but also a patient, hands-on, excellent teacher; Now listen to me son, whenever you do something around an airplane do it like your life depended on it. There’s only one way and that’s the right way. There is no second best - do it right the first time. Doug confided in me that back in the twenties he was one of the first crop duster pilots in the nation and flew fighters for the Ferry Command during the war. I thought he must have been a great aviator in his day.

Tom lived with his wife in a small trailer between the hangars. She was a seamstress sewing the fabric for the fabric covered control surfaces in the hangar next door. A nice, once beautiful, Southern Lady with a warm smile; I liked her immediately. I got the impression the two were barely getting by financially. There was a melancholy about them when they were together. It didn’t seem right a pilot and his wife had to live in a trailer surrounded by mud and weeds. One Saturday when I showed up to get my paycheck, I saw Tom sitting on a box outside the trailer a Camel at the corner of his mouth, his eyes were all red, and he was drunk - very drunk. My grandparents were Quakers; I’d never seen a person inebriated like that. His wife was unconcernedly reclining in a lawn chair - reading. Somehow the scene seemed sad. I left without stopping to say hello. Nevertheless I liked him, he taught me a lot about how to work. There’s only one way to install a cotter pin. Here let me show you...

The other journeyman was Jimmy Welles, not only a mechanic, but also the company’s test pilot. Jimmy flew the planes after we finished overhauling them. He’d been a P-40 pilot in the war as a member of the Tuskegee Airmen. He lived in Compton and I lived with my grandparents in north Long Beach, which was along his commute to work. In the summer he would pick me up and drop me off in his ‛48 Pontiac. Jimmy was easy to like. He was the first black man I’d ever met who sounded just like me; he didn’t possess an accent or dialect. There was rich warmth in his voice denoting a person of quality. His grammar was much better than most of the other guys. If you closed your eyes you could not tell he was black. He’d been to college so I knew he was real smart. He said his mother was a schoolteacher in Texas and insisted that he speak, correctly.

Lad, let me show you the difference between these two screwdrivers, Jimmy would say as he fished the tools out of his kit. You see the Reid & Prince has a sharp pointed end while the Phillips flattens out. If you use the wrong screwdriver you’ll strip the screw and it will have to be drilled out and that costs money. You got it?

Yes sir - thanks Jimmy.

.

Later, it was Tom who softly said, Son come over here. Pointing to a frayed piece of wire, he continued, You see that safety wire? Somebody didn’t know nothing’ about how to safety off them bolts. If that wire hadda failed, it coulda cost a pilot his life.

Yes sir.

Here, watch how I do this. You see you’ve got to wrap the wire tight. An’ you’ve got to install it so there is always a constant pressure to keep the bolt tight. You see how that’s done?

Yes sir - thanks Tom.

Together, these two men set about whipping this poor ignorant schoolboy into something that might someday be presentable to the rest of the world. I was eager to do the best I could to please them both, feeling very privileged to be in the company of these giants.

***

While driving to work Jimmy and I talked about everything. I’d ask him about his flying days and he’d regale me with stories of aerial dogfights over Italy and how much fun he’d had. This had been the top of his career, a pilot, and an officer - a Somebody. Now in his coveralls, he was just a mechanic. It made no difference to me what he wore, I still admired him. I didn’t have a dad and he was a combination buddy and a mentor.

After my sixteenth birthday Jimmy asked why I didn’t learn to fly. I said I couldn’t afford it. He countered that Compton airport had a sign hanging from one of the hangars: Solo, $39.95. He suggested I ride out there with him after work.

Wow, you bet! Forty-bucks was a lot of money, nevertheless I could afford that a lot sooner than the eighty-eight dollars the flight schools required at Long Beach.

The day seemed to go on forever; two hours until the morning break, lunch two hours later, another break, and finally it was four-thirty. Jimmy knew I’d been clock-watching all day. You weren’t worth a damn today lad. He said with a smile as we headed out to his car. I knew he was pulling my leg because I liked to work hard.

Yeah, and it’s all your fault for telling me about that sign at Compton Airport.

Oh that? I forgot about that. You want me to drop you off there on the way home?

You bet! I gotta check this out.

How’re you going to get home, there’re no buses running between the airport and your house.

No problem, as long as I don’t break my thumb, I gave him the hitchhiker’s thumb sign as we got into the car.

Jimmy smiled, You know my Mother would never let me hitchhike when I was your age. She said it was too dangerous.

Aw, you run into a weirdo every once in awhile but most of the people are nice. Besides, it’s the only way I know how to get around, buses cost a fortune.

Yeah, like ten cents to go downtown.

Well, that’s a hot-dog for lunch, which would you rather have.

He shook his head, You’re nuts, but he was grinning.

Jimmy dropped me off at the corner with the admonishment to call my mother and let her know where I was. (What a great guy, he really was concerned.)

.

Compton Airport was five miles from where we lived, practically next door; however, I’d never been there. (My destinations always were in the direction of the beach.) Ramshackle hangars made the airport look like something out of a 1920’s movie. Only the taxiway and the takeoff runway were paved, the two landing runways were sod. Old single-engine aircraft looking like they should in museums were parked everywhere. There were high-wing trainers, biplanes, war surplus clunkers and stuff from the thirties. Little corrugated tin T-hangars were used for the inside storage of individual aircraft, but most of the planes were tied down outside. Compared to Long Beach Airport where everything was shiny and new, Compton was from the dark ages. It was love at first sight - pure romance.

At the corner of the field next to the old fashioned circular gas pit for the planes were a restaurant, liquor store, and beer bar. Across the parking lot, Compton Aviation, consisting of a couple of hangars and a bunch of newer Piper Cubs, offered training on the GI Bill. This area was clean, neat, and quite a bit above the rest of the airport. (I later found out the prices were also the same as Long Beach.) The rest of the airport was a long line of ten or twelve ancient corrugated tin hangars. There were no fences or gates, (this was the fifties, security hadn’t been invented yet.) so I just started walking down the line of buildings. John Nagel Aircraft was a junk dealer, selling used parts. A guy next to him gave instruction in 65 horsepower J-3 Piper cubs which the pilot soloed from the back seat - no good - I wanted to fly from the front. I walked by a couple of private hangars, with no name. Stolp & Adams did repairs and sold windshields. Parked out in front was a beautifully modified Navy biplane modified to look like Al Williams’ famous Gulf Hawk. It had full wheel pants and a cowled encased 300 horsepower Lycoming radial engine. The front seat was hidden by a snap-on aluminum panel and the cockpit was enclosed with a sliding hatch. The plane was painted a glossy black with a huge yellow sunburst on the top wing. Cool. A man with big hands dressed in baggy coveralls was intensely working on a project nearby. I caught his eye and said, Nice plane.

He stopped what he was doing for a moment before quietly replying, Glad you like it. I built it. He wasn’t bragging, just making a statement.

Wow, a terrific job. I’m Dave, Dave Case. I’d never seen such craftsmanship.

His kind eyes crinkled into a smile, Lou, Lou Stolp - nice to meet you.

We chatted for a few minutes before I realized I was preventing him from working. I gotta go. Thanks for taking the time.

Anytime - see you around, Dave. What a great guy to take time out to talk to me, I thought as I continued next door.

Next to Stolp & Adams a flock of signs advertised Wallace Air Service, Rides. Solo for $39.95, Flight Instruction, Planes For Sale, We Buy Good Used Aircraft. The posters were tacked all over the hangar. This was the place. I counted six planes, four flyable, two in various states of repair. At the front corner of the hangar was a beat up old desk; two dented filing cabinets, a couch with the stuffing showing and two sagging living-room chairs of mismatched design. A coffee table was piled high with dog-eared aviation magazines. The place was run down and dirty. Parked in the hangar, completely out of place, was a pristine three-year-old maroon Cadillac convertible. A man in his early forties with salt and pepper gray hair and wearing a baseball hat with gold Navy wings, rose from behind the desk.

Can I help you young fella? he said.

Yeah, I want to learn to fly. What are your rates?

He looked at me like I was bothering him. You’re a little young to learn to fly. You’ve got to be sixteen to solo.

I know, I am sixteen; how much do you charge?

He became interested in me and seemed hungry. Well, depending upon what kind of airplane you want to learn on. I get anywhere from six to eight dollars an hour, plus three dollars an hour for the instructor.

How long before I can solo?

It depends. Some people solo in eight hours; some take fifteen - some, never.

What about that sign outside that says, Solo for thirty-nine ninety-five?"

Well, that’s cash in advance - no pay-as-you-go. There’s not too many that can really solo for that amount of money; besides it’s in a Luscombe and you’d be happier in a Cessna.

Why?

Because a Cessna has a lot of instruments and a self starter and you have to prop a Luscombe.

A man in his early twenties and had ridden up in an old motorcycle, his dark curly hair was all windblown. He was wearing wrinkled slacks and a beat up leather jacket. Sorry to be late John. I had to stay for a class and got caught in traffic

That’s okay, we’re not busy. Then turning back to me, he said, This is Steve, one of my instructors, he’s attending City College. What’s your name?

I’m Dave - Dave Case, I reached out my hand to Steve. His grip was soft and moist giving me a very poor first impression. In spite of that I’m an intuitive person and Steve seemed like a nice easygoing type. Hi. Then turning to the man I’d been talking to I said, And you are?

I’m John Wallace. We shook hands and I could tell that he was a bit unnerved by this brash kid who didn’t act like a kid. Steve will show you the planes. If you think you might want to learn to fly, you’ll need a physical exam and I’ll need your parents consent. The interview was over.

No problem. I turned to walk out to the flight line with Steve. Out of earshot I said to Steve, Is he always like that?

He means well, he just doesn’t know how to talk to people. He thinks he’s still a Navy pilot driving a red convertible to impress the ladies. Come on I’ll show you what we’ve got.

Two planes were four passenger; a fabric covered Stinson, and an aluminum Cessna 170. Both were too expensive for my blood. The other two were high wing side-by-side two-seaters: The Cessna 120 was deluxe with nice upholstery, a starter, 85 horsepower, lots of gauges and a control wheel. The last plane Steve showed me was the 65 horsepower Luscombe that had a metal fuselage and fabric covered wings. It had basic instrumentation, no radio. It smelt of gasoline and had obviously been ridden hard and put-away-wet on several occasions. Nonetheless, there was something about the plane; it had a control stick (all fighter planes have sticks), it was fully aerobatic (fighter pilots must know aerobatics), and at six bucks an hour, it was the cheapest of the bunch.

Look Steve, I don’t have much money, but I’ve read a lot of books and I work around planes. I’ve studied aviation a lot; I know how the controls work and how to maneuver a plane. Can you solo me in four hours?

I can if you can, Steve said with a smile, but John will want me to drag it out as long as possible.

I can’t do that. I make seventy five cents an hour and my parents can’t help me. Besides, if I haven’t the talent, I’ll want you to tell me before I spend all my money.

I’ll do that. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Steve may have had a lousy handshake, but he was a good guy. This was the person who was going to teach me to fly.

Wait’ll I go back and see John. I want to give him some money for the thirty-nine ninety-five deal and I want you for my instructor. We strode back to the hangar where I fished out the two twenties that had been burning a hole in my pocket. I had seventy-five cents left but wasn’t concerned; I’d hitchhike home. John was surprised I carried that much in cash yet gladly took it, making sure I understood it was non-refundable and I’d have to get my parent’s consent, in writing, before he would let me take one lesson. I got a receipt for the money. During this whole time no other student dropped by.

The flight physical cost fifteen dollars and was good for two years. I weighed one hundred nineteen pounds with a slight pigeon breast and had excellent vision. Mixed in with the form I filled out prior to the examination was a column that read: Have you ever had; headaches, nightmares, asthma, etcetera, etcetera. I checked No to everything. Of course people get headaches and suffer an occasional nightmare, but in those days any Yes check was grounds for denial, thereby disqualifying one from flying. I flat out lied about asthma - no crazies were allowed in the cockpit. The government wanted pilots to be perfect - or at least perfect liars. (I continued checking No" to all the above for forty-four years.)

.

Mother was only too happy to give me her permission to fly; she’d shared my dream to be a pilot since I was born. Mom drove me out to the airport on Saturday to personally deliver the note and see me off on my first lesson. There were a few weekend students hanging around the hangar when we arrived. Mother was exceptionally beautiful and always made an entrance. I was a bit embarrassed; nevertheless, I liked mom and knew she was proud of me. John was all a-flutter when he spied the two of us.

Aw Missus Case, I see you’ve brought Dave; have you written out permission?

I have and the name is Miss Flowers. David has my permission to do anything he wants, he is mature and intelligent beyond his years, Mother responded with an attitude as she handed over the authorization for me to fly.

Yes, of course. It’s just that we can’t be too careful. I wouldn’t want to get sued...

You won’t get sued. Just teach my son how to fly.

Introductions were made to Steve. The rest of the students went back to what they’d been doing. Steve and I started out to the Luscombe parked on the end of the line.

You’d better take these, John called after us. He held up two pillows he’d picked up off the couch. You’ll need these to reach the rudder and brake pedals and to see over the instrument panel.

Yeah, sure, fighter pilots didn’t need pillows to see out of the cockpit. I took them anyway

We preflighted the plane with Steve showing me how to check the oil, fuel, and to look for anything hanging loose that could later cause a problem. I threw the pillows in and climbed on top of them. John was right; I needed them to see over the instrument panel. Steve remained outside the plane talking to me by the open door. He showed me how to hold the brakes, where the throttle, and magneto switch were located while briefing me on the commands we were going to use to start the engine. He then went to the front of the plane to swing the propeller.

Switch off, Steve yelled to me.

Confirming the magneto switch was indeed off I repeated, Switch off.

Steve pulled the prop through a few times. Throttle cracked, he yelled.

Throttle cracked, I pushed the throttle-rod one half inch as he’d instructed me.

Contact and brakes, he shouted.

I turned the magneto switch to ‘Both’ and dug my heels onto the brake pedals before responding, Contact and brakes.

Steve pulled on the plane making sure the brakes were holding before giving a mightily swing on the prop. The engine immediately popped to life - talk about an adrenaline rush, Steve was still outside the plane! I was pushing as hard as I could on the brakes with the little engine barking at my fingertips. Giving a wide berth to the spinning propeller, he ran around the right wing and slid into the cockpit.

Hey, nice job you caught it on the first pull.

Nice job, hell, I didn’t do anything. It just started after Steve swung the prop, Thanks.

The Luscombe was a tail-dragger (It had two main gears and a tail wheel). Even with the pillows, I could barely see over the cowling as we taxied down to the run-up area. Steve suggested taxiing in a series of ‘S’ turns - that way I could see ahead while getting the feel of the rudder pedals and brakes on the ground. Just before reaching the end of the runway