Tuesday, February 3, 1959, 12:45 AM

Dear Diary,

I still feel shy writing like this, but Deanne insists that even if I never publish a word, I can still be a pilot who writes about our wonderful world. Practice makes perfect!

Speaking of which, the very good news is—even though I failed my instrument check ride and didn’t make my goal—my IFR ticket by my 21st birthday—I’ve been certified as a Limited Flight Instructor for almost a month now! More money for that baby my beautiful Deanne wants to have!

I really have been bad about reporting to you, Dear Diary, but that’s because Mr. Dwyer has been keeping me really busy! I passed my Instrument written, and I’ve built up SO MUCH flight time since I got my commercial—711 hours total, with 128 in the Bonanza. Even if I’m not yet certified for Instrument Flight, I owe everything to the Dwyer Flying Service.

I probably shouldn’t be writing this down, to tell you the truth, but Mr. Dwyer has so much faith in my abilities that tonight he’s letting me fly old N3794N, his ’47 Beech Bonanza, on a very special mission.

You know the Surf Ballroom in Clear Lake? We got a call from the manager there, and they want us to fly Buddy Holly to Hector Airport in Fargo! Buddy Holly! He’s just like you’d expect him to be, DD, the nicest guy. He’s eight months older than me. And guess what?! His wife’s expecting! I’m so happy for him.

Buddy’s feeling a little under the weather, he says, and that’s why he’s not taking the band bus. Fargo’s over 300 miles from Clear Lake, so who can blame him for doing the smart thing? His friend Ritchie told me that he’s always been afraid of flying, but that tonight is special, and I sure look like a fellow who knows what he’s about! The third passenger—J.P.—is also not feeling good, so I’m happy to help everybody out.

I’ve only got room for three PAX in N37, so the rest of the band—poor fellows—will be more than ten hours on the road in these winter conditions, which will only get worse.

It was kinda funny when Buddy's bass player—Waylon was his name? Jennings, was it? Waylon Jennings, I think? Anyway, Waylon was complaining about taking the bus in the cold all night. "I hope your bus breaks down," Buddy said to him. And Jennings said "I hope your ol' plane crashes."

Not really very funny to a guy like me—any pilot, really—but...you know...they're civilians, right?

Anyway, we’ve got a 3,000 foot ceiling, visibility six miles in light snow, winds 20 to 30, a little crosswind on runway 17. That’s somewhat rough at night, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. The only thing I don’t like is N37 has one of those old Sperry F3 attitude gyros, which I’ve never used. It reads opposite to a modern attitude indicator, so I hope I can keep us right-side up if visibility goes down! You know what they say: “There are old pilots, and bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots.”

Here they come, so I’m signing off for now.

Rodger Arthur Peterson meets Buddy Holly? Hah! That’ll be the day!

I get dizzy just thinking about it. I'm in heaven.

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