Dear Mother - Finding PennyChapter 3 free porn video

I knew I could take a chance and not enlist in one of the services and if luck was with me, I wouldn't be drafted. On the other hand, I had a burning desire to learn to fly and I was determined to do whatever it took to realize that dream. The services were the only realistic chance I had to fulfill that ambition. In addition, I felt a moral obligation to serve my country. I just didn't want to end up getting killed in some foreign country if I could avoid it.

I decided to join the Coast Guard. It wasn't my first choice, but I thought it would probably keep me out of Vietnam. There was still a chance that I could become a pilot, and that remained my foremost ambition. I took the bus to Portland, enlisting at the U.S.C.G. recruitment office there. I had a couple of weeks after my physical to say goodbye to Mom, Frank, Aunt Hilda, Marty, and my friends from Oregon State. It was the first step in the rest of my life, and something good might happen yet.

Six weeks later, I was jumping for joy. I had been accepted into Flight School. We would start out on trainers, but to be honest, I didn't care if they were W.W .1 vintage biplanes. I just wanted to fly. As it turned out, I got my wish, but it was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I was immersed in an engineering program that almost overwhelmed me. I had no idea learning to be a pilot was so complicated. Navigation, flight controls, aircraft systems, emergency procedures, and so much more.

I know what got me through it was that I was determined to succeed. I wouldn't let anything stand in my way. I really sweated out the courses and lost count of the hours and hours of study I put in to make sure I made it. The flying part turned out to be the easiest. I wasn't afraid of the aircraft, and I wasn't trying to over-control it. I seemed to have a feel for how to get the most out of my "ship," and I think that was a big factor in my succeeding in flight school. I was on top of the world! As hard as the study was, I was flying!

During my time at Pensacola Flight School, I made some friends, two of whom would become my "best buddies." Tinker "Tink" Taylor was my closest pal, but Chip Bilstrom wasn't far behind. All three of us were hooked on flying and all three of us knocked ourselves out to make sure we got our wings. We helped each other, even if it was just to cheer each other up when things got tough. We drank beer together, chased girls together and generally became unofficial brothers.

Tink was a good-ole-boy from northern Alabama. Smart as a whip, he helped me get through the bookwork many times, while I helped him with the flying part. Chip was a flat-lander, like me. He came from Fargo, North Dakota. He made it pretty much the same way I did; he was a good, but not natural pilot, so he worked hard on the studies. We grew up pretty quickly at OCS. We were men and we were expected to be leaders, officers, and gentlemen at all times. Well, almost at all times. We had to cut loose now and then. The pressure was pretty intense, and I know we all felt it.

The Grumman Albatross was our first experience with an amphibian aircraft. It could land on water as well as a runway. I thought it was a great looking aircraft, and I fell in love with it the moment I saw it in the flesh. There was something about that awkward "Goat" that I loved. Maybe it was because only the crew who flew it really appreciated what a great aircraft it was. They had tried to replace it with helicopters, and they were still trying in 1965. It's slow and noisy and vulnerable to salt water, but it was built like a Sherman tank, and those old Wright Cyclones could keep it in the air longer than I could stay awake. As Tink would say, "We were luckier than a dog with two dinks!" getting to fly these birds. It might get past 200 knots on a good day and cruising speed was about 130 knots, but we didn't care - other than if we were on an emergency run when every minute counted.

When we graduated from flight school in Pensacola, Tink, Chip, and I had become a very tight trio. We had pretty much covered every bar in the area, looking for friendly women, and there was nothing like a pair of wings to get their attention. Our only problem was our competition; the Navy flyboys. The "jet jockeys" carried that extra brass that we couldn't. We didn't suffer though. The three of us made out pretty good during our time there.

I had thought about trying to find Penny, but I didn't even know where to start. I knew she wanted to be a writer, but besides that, I had no information. I tried to think of someone who she was close to other than me, and who might know where she was. It was more than four years since I had seen her, so it was a long-shot at best. I remembered Dorothy Perkins and with a bit of trial and error, I found her phone number.

"Hi, Dorothy. I don't know if you remember me ... It's Ron Francis," I said, a bit haltingly.

"Oh sure ... I remember you Ron. How are you?" she asked brightly.

"Fine, thanks. Ahh ... Dorothy ... the reason I called, I'm looking for Penny Lane," still stammering.

"Oh ... Oh, gee, I don't know where she is, Ron. She left town with some guy ... Brian was his name I think. I think she might have said something about New York, but, gee ... I'm not sure," she confessed.

"New York? So ... she was with some guy?" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear her answer.

"Yah ... like I said ... Brian somebody. I don't think they were real close, though ... if you know what I mean."

"No ... you mean she wasn't ... like ... engaged or anything?" I was searching, hoping for the best.

"Oh no. She told me that he was just a boyfriend ... you know ... nothing serious."

I felt a temporary wave of relief, and I thanked Dorothy for her help and had her promise to tell Penny I was trying to get in touch with her and that I was in the Coast Guard. She promised to pass along the message if she saw her, and that was the end of the call. As I hung up the phone, I felt better, even though I was no closer to finding Penny than I had been before. But there was hope, and I was thinking of my next move. How would I find Penny in a city of eight million people?

Tink, Chip and I all graduated flight school and were promptly assigned right seat duties at three different bases. Tink ended up, of all places, in Mobile, Alabama, just around the corner from Pensacola and just upwind of his home. Chip pulled Traverse City, Michigan and lucky me, I got Kodiak, Alaska. I had to look it up on a map just to be sure, and when I did, I wish I hadn't. Chip, ever the humorist, thought I was the lucky one to have all those Eskimo women to myself. Tink was a bit disappointed at being right back home again, but all in all, he was just happy to be flying. All of us were assigned right seats: co-pilots. It wouldn't take long to move up to pilot though. With all the conversions to helicopters, we would be left-seat bound soon enough. All three of us were qualified only on the HU-16E Albatross.

Now, I know there are people who would tell you that they love Kodiak, Alaska, and it was home, and they wouldn't want to live anywhere else. Hell, I met some of them. I'm just not one of them. There's isolated and then there's life on Mars. Kodiak qualified for the latter. Fishing boats, derelict whalers, Indians, bad weather and ocean. How they came to call the Pacific Ocean by that name is a mystery to me. It is anything but peaceful. I can't count the number of times we'd been called out to look for some foundering freighter or drifting crab boat in the middle of forty-foot waves. I pitied the guys on the cutters. Every time I thought we had it bad, I would remind myself of their job, and just keep it to myself.

The one thing above all others that we learned quickly was to keep our gear and our "ship" in good order. One mistake or one equipment failure in that environment, and it might be your last. I guess I became a bit fanatical about it for a while. Fear, or maybe just over-reacting, call it what you want, but I was merciless on our crew if everything wasn't in perfect working order.

The one thing we couldn't control, of course, was the weather. Naturally, most of our missions were the result of extreme weather, and it was one thing to take off and start looking for your target with low ceilings, heavy crosswinds and icing conditions. It was another thing to head home, bone weary after hours of futile searching with no result, and try to concentrate on getting back in one piece. As time went on, that airstrip got smaller and further away, I thought. At the end of fifteen months, I didn't care if they assigned us to Vietnam. Anything was better than Kodiak ... I thought!

I heard an Edgar Allen Poe quote recently; something about being careful what you wished for ... you may get it. We got it. After serving my time in Alaska, and nearly killing myself twice (one botched water landing in rough seas, and one bad decision on marginal weather), I was delighted, almost delirious, to be transferred to Miami. What the hell, this was heaven compared to the North Pacific. Right? Wrong!

Now don't get me wrong, I like Florida and god knows, there's enough good-looking women parading around to keep a healthy male erect for years to come, but there's a couple of other things that go with the territory. Like hurricanes, and sharks, and mean guys with a chip on their shoulder and women with nasty infections. Well, I'm sure you get the idea.

I had been promoted to Lieutenant, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had my shiny new silver bars, a left seat, and a not-so-new MG-A. I was pretty hot stuff, I thought. I was sitting in one of the local watering holes with my buddies and we were eyeing a couple of better-than-average babes sitting a couple of tables away. Chip and I had been reunited in Miami, and getting the same posting was a rarity. We were pretty "cool," as the saying went, and when we were on a roll, we didn't have much trouble scoring with the ladies.

While I was in Kodiak, I'd pretty much given up my search for Penny. I didn't have any real opportunity to try when I was in Alaska, and I guess if I were honest, I'd kind of put her out of my mind. Alaska was lonely and since I wasn't one to hit on some other guy's girl, or wife, I had been "dry" for over a year. I was ready for some action and those two women looked pretty damn fine to me. Chip and I got up and sauntered over to the ladies' table and introduced ourselves.

"Hi, I'm Buck Rogers, and this is my able assistant, Steve Canyon," I began. That got a good laugh from the girls right off the bat, and I knew we were on the right track.

"Can we buy you girls a drink?" Chip asked with his best flyboy grin.

"Yah ... sure ... if it's OK with my husband," the blonde answered.

I looked at Chip and he looked at me and the same thought occurred to both of us. Oh! Oh!

Too late! Coming up from behind out of the poolroom, were a couple of guys who looked about seven foot nine, weighed five hundred pounds, and had tattoos of alligators on their eyelids. We were in big trouble.

"What are you two assholes doin'?" the one in front asked.

"Sorry, man. Didn't realize the ladies were with someone. Our mistake," Chip offered by way of apology.

"Your mistake all right," his pal said and the next thing I knew I was on the floor with severe jaw pain, and stars in my eyes. Now, I'm a pilot, not a fighter. These guys would kill us if we tried to come back, so I just picked myself up and turned to head for the door. I had no clue where Chip was. That's when the big guy hit me again, right on the ear. Down I went again, this time with acute pain in the ear, and a ringing noise to go with the stars. Shit, this wasn't any good at all.

On my way back up to try and stand, I saw Chip and he was lying, propped up against the wall and the other guy was hitting him in the stomach and ribs in a very workmanlike way. Chip was trying to protect himself with his arms, but neither of us were any good at this, and I was starting to think we would end up in the hospital or worse, when were saved by the cavalry. In this case, it was the MPs. I suppose the bartender had called them, and they arrived in the nick of time or maybe a few punches late. At least they made it stop happening.

"These two assholes were trying to pick up our wives!" one of the big guys yelled. "You guys in uniform think you can have anything you want, you pricks. Well, then next time I see you, there aren't going to be any MPs around, and you're ass is gonna' be mine!" he spat. I believed him. This would be a good place to avoid, I thought. Bit late with that idea, Ronnie-boy.

We staggered out of the place with the MPs at our side. Chip was in bad shape. I was pretty sure he must have busted a rib or two, and it turned out I was right. He could hardly breathe and the MPs volunteered to take us back to the base where he could get some treatment. I was probably going to have a sore jaw, a couple of loose teeth and a god-awful pain in my ear, but otherwise, I'd live.

"Don't you wise-guys ever learn? Leave the local 'quim' alone. They're poison. Fuck off uptown if you want to get laid. Those two broads thought that little scene was very funny. I'll bet you did too ... right?" the tough old Petty Officer sneered. I was nothing we didn't deserve, I thought. Ignorance can be very painful; it was especially so for Chip.

We recovered from our wounds, although Chip was grounded for three weeks while he learned to again. It kind of took the fun out of the hunt for us. As Chip correctly identified, we were pilots, not prizefighters, and besides, we were way out of our weight class.

I was expecting some trouble after the bar incident, but it didn't happen. We got a lecture about using better judgement from the C.O., but other than that I guess they figured we'd gotten the message without them having to hammer it into us. I suspected that if it happened again, we wouldn't be so lucky. When I ran into the MP a couple of weeks later, I thanked him for his help and for not making a big deal out of it with our skipper. He smiled and said he figured we were smart enough not to let it happen again, shook my hand when I offered it, and that was that.

It was coming up to hurricane season; a stinking hot August with air so thick it hurt your lungs to breathe. It was a relief to go flying just to get some cool air for a while, but it was no fun on the tarmac when we were in the duty shack, just killing time until something happened. Chip had a way of going comatose that seemed to work for him. He said he just put his mind in neutral and forgot about the heat and humidity and kind of put himself in a state of semi-consciousness. We kidded him about this a lot, but really, we were envious. The rest of us were dying. We worked every idea we could think of to stay cool. The air conditioner in the ready-room was no match for this weather.

Just when I didn't think it could get any worse, it did. Hurricane Beulah waltzed up the eastern side of the Caribbean, and was heading straight for us. I thought I'd seen some nasty weather, but when we were up at twenty five thousand feet, looking right at that vicious curl pattern, I knew we were in for an ugly experience. About three hours before the storm was expected to hit the Keys, we were grounded, and all we could do was watch. Anyone out in that mess wasn't going to get help for a while if they got into trouble.

I never was frightened of the weather in Kodiak. It was rough and cold and ominous, but only my mistake or a mechanical problem would end up killing me there. My first hurricane experience frightened me. It was out of my control and it was violent. It ripped roofs off buildings like they were tissue paper. Palm trees were bent over at ninety degrees. Debris was flying through the air everywhere, and anyone out in that maelstrom would be just plain lucky not to get hit by something. During the time I spent in Miami, I never got used to hurricanes. I had a couple of close shaves when we were stretching our time looking for a crippled ship or a lost boater. We stayed out longer than we should have, and getting back to our base was touch-and-go.

As I said in the beginning, I really loved the "Goat", as we called her. Solid as a rock and reliable as a Model T, she saved our bacon more than once. More importantly, we took part in a lot of rescues, thanks to a tight crew and, now and then, some good luck. I seemed to have a feel for these old Grummans. I had flown at least a half dozen different ones and each one had its own personality, but I think they all knew I loved them, and they all behaved like a lady should. Helicopters were gradually replacing them, and I thought to myself that my time in the Coast Guard might be done when these old girls were retired.

My next posting was, of all places, New York City, or more accurately, Brooklyn. Of all the places you would expect to find a Coast Guard Station, this wasn't the one most people would think of. Nevertheless, it was an active and vibrant base and it was here that my life took a new direction, and my future became clearer.

Tink had been posted to San Diego, Chip to New London and, as I said, I got the "Big Apple." I was still flying my beloved Albatross, and I was a happy man. I was out of the hurricane zone and into the commercial shipping lanes. The sea was more like Alaska in a way. The North Atlantic can produce some dramatic storms, and with all the traffic in the area between Boston and Baltimore, we had plenty of action. Chip and I stayed in touch, and we got to see one another now and then.

Tink figured he had died and gone to heaven in San Diego. His only beef was that he had to go back to flight school to get qualified on the Fairchild C-123 Provider, a fixed wing ground-based search and rescue aircraft. We felt for him, but knew our day was not far ahead. Brooklyn was about to be designated a training base for helicopters. It was beginning to look like I might not be able to avoid giving up my "Goat," and that would be sad. Call me a dinosaur, but that's the way I felt.

All through my career in the Coast Guard, I had kept in touch with Mom and Frank. We talked to each other at least twice a month and on special occasions like birthdays. I had a couple of leaves in Kodiak, and I hopped a ride to Seattle and went up to Bellingham to visit them. Frank spent a lot of time trying to convince me how wonderful Alaska was, but I'm afraid his efforts were wasted on me. We traded war stories and generally bored the hell out of Mom when we were together, but we became pretty close, and I stopped thinking of him as my step-father after a while.

Mom was looking just as great as she had when I had first found her four years earlier. Maybe it was my imagination, but she hadn't aged at all, and I put that down to Frank. She had become active in a couple of local charities, and was spending some time with her friends who were also involved. It kept her busy and alive. All in all, I saw a really happy woman, and I was just as happy for her. After the grief Dad had put her though, she more than deserved her new life.

Strange things can happen when you least expect them, and that's exactly what happened six months after I was posted to Brooklyn. I was sitting in the base optometrist's office waiting for my annual checkup, idly thumbing through a magazine. I wasn't really paying much attention to the contents until I saw a story about New York tourism and the attempt to "clean up the city's image." By chance, I looked at the byline on the story and blinked. It read "Story by Penny Lane."

Now, I was pretty sure there weren't an awful lot of women writers named Penny Lane. So, the first thing I did was copy the name of the article, the name of the magazine publisher and their phone number on a piece of paper and stuck it in my pocket. In the space of a few seconds, my plans had suddenly changed. The search was back on.

When I left the optometrist's office, I headed back to my room and went right to the phone. I called the publisher's number and immediately got stone-walled. No, they didn't know a Penny Lane; she didn't work for the magazine. She was probably a freelance writer, and they didn't give out personal information, even if they had it. Blah, blah, blah, etc., etc., etc. I hung up in disgust and sat back in my chair. Frustrated! So close and yet so far, as the saying goes. It had to be "My Penny," I reasoned. Who else could it be?

I decided that my quest would be revitalized, and I would make a serious effort to find Penny. Even if she wasn't interested in me, or was married and had six kids, at least I would be able to put her out of my mind. I needed a strategy to find her and my first instinct was to do some research. Do writers belong to any organization? How do they get published? Is Penny published regularly anywhere? Who would know?

My first thought was to start with the newspapers. After all, how many writers got their start with newspapers by getting an article or two published? It was a place to begin, and how many newspapers would there be anyway? I found out. A lot. A whole lot. Dozens. Between the mainstream dailies, the local giveaways, the weekly tabloids, the underground press ... well, you get the idea. When I had first arrived at Governor's Island, I had pulled out the New York phone book and looked up Lane, P., and started calling. Talk about a futile project!

I began with the mainstream dailies and after fumbling around for a while, I finally figured out that the most likely person who would know of her would be the features editor. Every paper had one, although some of them had different titles, and on the smaller papers, multiple roles. It was a slow and painful process. I had a couple of encouraging conversations along the way. One of the editors remembered talking to Penny about an article she had written, but they never used it, and he didn't have a phone number for her. There was no way to know if it was my Penny.

Another editor thought she had talked to Penny, but couldn't remember when or what about, or if she had a card or note that would have her phone number. She sounded highly disorganized, and I suspect her memory was too. It took almost a month of trying off and on to finally get a lead, but when it came, I was elated. I had been talking to an editor who worked for a publisher who produced local promotional newsletters. They would have little stories about businesses or people of interest, and would be distributed free in various selected neighborhoods.

His name was Warren Quincy, and I'll never forget him. He virtually put me in front of that preacher with Penny. He started asking questions as to what this was all about, and for some reason I decided to tell him. Boy, did I tell him. He invited me to his office and wanted to hear more about my story. I had no idea if he was pretty sure that the Penny Lane he knew was the Penny Lane I was looking for. But he got hooked on my tale, and the next thing I knew I was giving him my life-history, or at least the last ten years of it.

Warren was a strange guy, but a great listener. He put all the facts together, and I think that's what convinced him he had the right Penny. He finally told me what I wanted to know.

"Well, I wasn't sure at first, Ron, but I think I know where you can find your girl," he admitted. He reached in the vest pocket of his shirt and pulled out a business card and handed it to me. I looked at it and my jaw dropped. It was a simple white card with dark green lettering and read:

Penny Lane

Journalist

Chelsea 6 4833

"You had this all along?" I said, not a little pissed-off.

"Well, I thought I might have it. I had to hunt around for it, and found it yesterday," he said a bit nervously.

I thought about it and decided he wasn't playing games with me. I grabbed his hand and shook it rather violently.

"Thanks! This is terrific! I won't forget this!" I must have acted a bit goofy because he was almost laughing.

"Promise me something, Ron. If it is your Penny, I want to hear how all this turns out. It's a hell of a story," he grinned.

"You got it. If she's my Penny, I'll owe you ... and I always pay my debts."

"Good luck. I hope she's the one."

I almost stopped at a phone booth outside on the street to try the number and see if it was her, but something told me to find a quiet place and think about what I wanted to say to her. Why was I calling her after all these years? How did I feel about her? What did I want to know about her life? The answers were obvious to me, but I was uncertain about her reaction to my reappearance. I don't know what I would do if it weren't my Penny.

I decided to head back to the base and call her from my room. I looked at my watch. It was nearing three in the afternoon. If I called sometime around five, I had a decent chance of catching her. Maybe she worked from home. I began to walk and then, caught a bus, then walked some more before hailing a cab, finishing my journey at the base gate.

At ten to five I couldn't wait any longer. I picked up the phone and dialed her number. It rang three times before it was picked up.

"Hello?" It was her voice. I'd know it anywhere. It was my Penny!

"Penny ... it's me ... Ron," I said, trying to contain my nervousness.

"Ron?" There was a pause and then, "Oh my god, Ron! Is it really you? Ron Francis?" She sounded excited and it made me excited too. It sounded like she was glad to hear from me, I thought.

"Yup. Same one you went to school with in Aberdeen."

"Oh Ron, it's been so long. How are you? Where are you?"

"Well, right now, I'm at my room in the Bachelor Officers Quarters at the Governor's Island Coast Guard Station," I answered.

"Here ... here in New York? You're in the Coast Guard?" She seemed completely stunned that it was me. "Can you come here ... I mean ... can we get together?" she asked.

"I was hoping you'd want to. I have the most amazing story to tell you," I said hopefully.

"Oh, I'd love to. When? Tonight? Tomorrow?" She was anxious to see me, that much was evident.

"Whenever you want. I've got a few days leave, and I've been trying to find you since you left me that phone message from the motel in Eugene," I fibbed.

"You have?" She seemed shocked by the idea.

"Well, off and on, to tell the truth. I've been out of touch for part of the time, but I can tell you all about it when we meet," I suggested. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here in New York. I have a studio apartment in SoHo. Why don't you come here? I'm dying to see you." It was all the encouragement I needed.

"I'm guessing it'll take me an hour to get uptown to your place, so why don't we have dinner together? We have lots to talk about," I said.

"That sounds perfect ... as long as you let me make the dinner. I'm not sharing you with anyone tonight." She didn't sound like she was going to take no for an answer. This was a different Penny from our high school days.

"Sold! What's your address?" When I had written it down and we signed off, it was all I could do not to let out a war whoop. I had not only found her, she seemed anxious to see me. What more could I have hoped for?

It took all of an hour to get to her place, and my stomach was in knots as I walked up the stairs to the second floor and looked for her number. I must have stood in front of the door for at least a minute, trying to compose myself before I knocked. She had to have been nearby because the door opened almost immediately, and there she was. We both stood still for a moment, taking in the changes in each other, and then all hell broke loose.

Penny virtually jumped into my arms, half squeezing me to death, tears in her eyes and sniffles in her nose. I have to admit, I had a little water in the eye area as well. When I stepped back after she began to let me loose, I looked at her and I was stunned. She was gorgeous! She was a knockout! Before, she had been pretty. Now ... now, she was beautiful. I just shook my head. I didn't need to say anything. She could tell from my look that I was dazzled.

"God, Ron, it's so good to see you. You look so handsome in your uniform and you seem a lot ... bigger than I remember," she said with a look of wonder.

"I can't get over just how beautiful you are, Penny. I guess we've both changed in the last seven years," I said, smiling.

"Has it been that long? I can't believe it! You have to tell me all about it. You said it was an amazing story, and I'm a writer, so I want to hear all about it," she laughed.

"Well, I don't know if I can. The fellow who helped me find you ... Warren Quincy ... I kind of promised him my life story as a reward," I kidded.

"Oh well, as long as he was the one who put us together again, how can I complain?" She had a look of supreme happiness about her. It really gave me a lift.

"Doesn't mean I won't tell you all about it, though," I suggested. "But first, what was it you wanted to talk to me about when you called from Eugene?" I had to satisfy my curiosity. It had been bugging me for years.

"Oh ... I ... I wanted you to know that I had ... broken up with my boyfriend," she said carefully. "I wanted you to know that I was still very fond of you."