This happened in 1999, during my first base assignment as an aircraft mechanic in the service of CAL FIRE. It was a brutal fire season, with the entire state seemingly ablaze. I was stationed at Santa Rosa Air Attack Base but had been sent to Ukiah to cover for a mechanic on his day off. I never understood why base mechanics took vacations during fire season—it always caused coverage issues. I made it a point never to take time off during those chaotic months.
I had just settled down to sleep after a 15-hour duty day when my phone rang. It was Marty, a colleague I deeply admired. His voice was a pleasant surprise—he was always kind, and his expertise with aircraft systems was unmatched. I would’ve done anything to support him. Marty asked me to drive to the Porterville Air Attack Base to service an OV-10 aircraft. From Ukiah, that was a 4-to-5-hour drive. I decided to stop by Santa Rosa en route to grab fresh clothes and my own tools, as I’d been using the Ukiah mechanic’s equipment.
“Marty, isn’t there someone closer to Porterville?” I asked. He explained that everyone else was tied up with 100-hour inspections or grounded aircraft. I could never say no to Marty. I hit the road, but by the time I reached Healdsburg, exhaustion hit hard. My eyes were twitching, blurring my vision—I was as dangerous as a drunk driver. I needed food and coffee, but everything in Healdsburg was closed. Coffee was a last resort for me, reserved for extreme situations. I’d even chewed coffee grounds during long nights when my organs ached from fatigue. Desperate, I spotted an open bar and pulled over.
Inside, I ordered coffee. The bartender was kind, refusing payment for the two large cups he poured. As I sipped, I noticed the dance floor—men dancing with men, women with women. It was a gay bar, which I hadn’t realized at first. A man sat next to me and placed his hand on my lower thigh. I smiled, flattered by the attention. No stranger had ever approached me like that before, and I appreciated the gesture, even if it wasn’t my scene. I thanked the bartender again and left, feeling a bit more awake. There was a picture of a rainbow over the entrance door, but I didn’t make the connection.
Continuing south, I stopped in Fresno to refuel my truck and grabbed a handful of meat sticks for sustenance. I was on the homestretch to Porterville when my truck swerved—the left rear tire was flat. The highway had only a narrow two-foot gravel shoulder next to a deep ditch. It was around 4 a.m., and the few cars on the road were speeding recklessly by me. With my flashers on, I changed the tire, my first time doing so on my personal vehicle. I estimated a one-in-three chance of being hit by a drunk driver as cars whizzed by without slowing.
I finally reached the Porterville Air Attack Base gate, but I didn’t have the code to enter. I called Marty, who had to contact the Base Chief to get it. Once inside, I got to work on the OV-10. Its front tire was worn beyond limits, and I’d never replaced one before. Marty guided me over the phone, explaining how to use a strap to secure the strut and deflate it. By the time I finished, it was nearly 5 a.m. Exhausted, I called Marty to update him. Overwhelmed, I broke down crying on the phone—unbeknownst to us, early signs of brain damage from primary lateral sclerosis (PLS) were beginning to surface. Marty calmed me down, and I collapsed in my truck to sleep. In the morning, the base crew kindly fed me.
Published by Editor, Sammy Campbell.