The Whole Nine Yards and a Little More

Sometimes in the subtropics and the steamy, stormy, and sultry months of summer, the Marco Islanders who are truly islanders, and are the Marco Beach Boys and Girls, often learn an escape from the doldrums can be unforgettable.

Life can sometimes be like a box of chocolates or even a Forrest Gump movie. It can also be very much like the board game of “Life,” that many islanders loved to play as children.

One such adventure arrived with an official email stating that a distant relative had passed and left a parcel of land to a particular Marco Beach Boy and several cousins. The email—sent by a lawyer from the Deep South informed the inheritors that a personal visit was required to reconcile a land transfer. Apparently, documents were waiting for a signature at a local courthouse, and as the relative who passed was elderly, he was insisting from beyond the grave that all of the cousins meet together to accept the handover of the family land.

After arranging for a flight, the particular Beach Boy boarded an airplane and sat beside a woman who, at first glance, was appearing to be beyond the conventional mark of an aging senior citizen. First glances can be deceiving.

After settling in beside the older patron of the aircraft industry who was looking out her window at the tarmac and the taxiways—and introductions were over—it became suddenly obvious: a young girl was living inside the aging body of a senior citizen.

With only a moment for evaluation, the stately lady with beautiful eyes focused on her newest subject of interest and suddenly asked, “Do you admire airplanes, or are you using this one just to go somewhere? “Because the Beach Boy was a sailor and was always ready to admire anything with a rudder, the answer was immediate.

“Yes,” came the reply. “I love airplanes and everything about them.”

The woman at the window smiled. “How do you feel about pilots?”

It was the Beach Boy’s turn to smile. “Pilots are a special breed. Some of the best people ever!”

The lines around the eyes crinkled and the smile was radiant. It was the expression of a young girl on an adventure.

At the front of the airplane, a flight attendant was beginning the seatbelt and safety lecture. The bored business traveler sitting in the aisle seat groaned. “I guess we have to listen to The Whole Nine Yards.”

The little woman with the dynamite smile and the sparkle in her eyes leaned in like a conspirator.

Do you know where that came from?” she asked. “The Whole Nine Yards?”

After waiting for a response, but only seeing puzzlement from her Beach Boy seatmate, the story from the winsome lady began. “The expression The Whole Nine Yards came from England and the Second World War.”’ She smiled again. “Of course, it is an airplane story. When the English fighter pilots were getting ready for aerial battles, and preparing for combat in the sky, the armorers who loaded the aircraft with belts of machinegun ammunition asked the all-important question. ’Do you want the full complement of ammo? Or do you want fewer bullets, less weight on the airplane, and more maneuverability for the aircraft?’

Maneuverability was indeed an important advantage in aerial combat, but most pilots did not want to consider what would happen in a fighter-plane dogfight if they ran out of ammunition. Therefore, most pilots asked for The Whole Nine Yards, because a machine gun belt of twenty-seven feet or nine yards of bullets was the maximum amount of ammunition that could be taken onboard.”

Meanwhile, and after our modern airplane finished the obligatory taxi and then took off with the rush that can never really be mundane, the aviation stories continued. “Of course everyone has heard of Rosie the Riveter.” Another story was beginning, but now even the bored business traveler on the aisle seat was leaning forward to listen.

“Rosie the Riveter was the axiom and even a hit song for the incredible women in the Second World War who built the airplanes on the moving assembly lines. During the height of the war, these girls were producing one four-engine bomber an hour. With the three eight-hour shifts, the Rosie girls were producing 24 bombers in 24 hours, but after the planes were built—and because most of the men were away fighting—another group of women became pilots and flew the airplanes from the factories in America to England, where they were used in the war.”

The girls who flew the bombers to England were members of the Air Transit Auxiliary. They soon became famous, as the ATA pilots or the Atta girls, because we were flying untried airplanes over vast distances and open oceans around the world. I was one of those girls. I flew many bombers to England. Aviation has always been the most exciting part of my life.”

When the flight into the Deep South was almost complete and ready to touch the tarmac again, the airplane suddenly smacked down very hard on the runway. The sudden impact on landing was so rough that several of the overhead storage compartments flew open and more than a few passengers screamed. The wise, winsome, and gracious lady by the window—who would forever be a pilot—shook her head.

When the Beach Boy, the lady aviator, and the aisle seat business traveler approached the door of the airliner and the pilot standing at the door of the cockpit, our lady the pilot looked to the captain of the airliner and asked the all-important question. “Young man, was that a landing or were we shot down?”