"Get to sears and buy yourself some dark blue chinos and white shoes," the chief pilot told me over the phone. "I'll give you a shirt. Be here at 0600 tomorrow." I'd just been hired for my first commercial flying job. My new employer, the largest air tour company in Honolulu, had a dozen nine-passenger Beech 18s, flown by a band of too-old-for-any-airline pilots. Besides the blue pants and white shoes, we wore cool-looking shirts imprinted with palm trees and Beech 18s. We looked like a Waikiki luau band.
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