In Memory of Bob McSwiggan

I In Memory of Bob McSwiggan

It was the worst weekend I’d ever had. I had sold my flight school and was rudderless, floating without a job and in the middle of a divorce.  What was I going to do with myself? An FAA inspector told me he had given my resume to Bob McSwiggan with Custom Air Cargo, but I hadn’t heard anything. On this particular weekend, I had wasted two days lying on the sofa and watching Lifetime movies. I hadn’t even brushed my hair. My diet consisted of popcorn and pimento cheese sandwiches. This was my lowest low.

It was late on a Sunday afternoon when the telephone rang, and for a brief moment, I considered ignoring it. “Hello?” I answered.

A gruff baritone voice responded, “This is Bob McSwiggan. Want to go see the airplanes? I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

No, I didn’t really want to go, but I knew it was best if I did. I needed this job. Fine. I jumped in the shower, washed my hair, swiped on some mascara and lip gloss, and then sat at my baby grand piano to tune my harp. Right on time, the doorbell rang.

He stepped into the house and exclaimed, “Oh, you’re musical! Guess what I do for exercise?”

Rarely am I at a loss for words, but there was a round man with thick grey hair, and I had no idea.

“I dance!” 

“That’s great!” I responded. “I used to dance, too.”

He shared his history of heart problems and told me the doctor wanted him to start walking and going to the gym. He didn’t enjoy either one, so he began taking dance lessons at Doris Russell School of Performing Arts. He took ballroom, tap, and modern dance lessons. This conversation would continue.

As we drove the thirty minutes to the airport, McSwiggan explained that Custom Air Cargo was a freight carrier and flights would be at night. The cargo would be almost exclusively auto parts.  I love night flying so this sounded like a lot of fun, even though I wasn’t guaranteed a regular schedule and he could not promise a steady income. I would figure something out.

We arrived at Tara Field, where N89FA sat on the ramp alongside a DC-3. N89FA was a DC-4 modified by Freddie Laker in the early 60s to haul cars between England and mainland Europe. McSwiggan got out a ladder so we could climb on the wing. From there, we climbed through a window into the fuselage, then climbed another ladder to reach the cockpit. The cockpit was basic, with the original round gauges and a tiller on the left for ground steering. This was going to be fun. The rest of the afternoon was spent touring the hangar and orienting me to the two antique aircraft and flight operations. 

I was excited to read the materials McSwiggan had given me and couldn’t wait for his phone call. I didn’t have to wait long. As I was watching the Weather Channel, my phone rang.

“Suzanne? Ready to fly? We’re going to Birmingham and then on to Ypsilanti.  Be here at four,” McSwiggan said.

“Four? Are you kidding me? You don’t even have radar on the airplane!”

“Oh, you don’t need radar,” he chuckled. “It just scares the pilots.”

It sure as heck scared me, but I got dressed anyway before grabbing a peanut butter sandwich and heading for the airport. McSwiggan greeted me with a big smile and introduced me to the mechanics and the rest of his team.  I marveled at the idea that a 60,000-pound airplane could take off on a 4400-foot runway – not even a mile!

We did a careful preflight walkaround before climbing the two ladders into the cockpit. There were four of us flying that night, and two were training. The other new pilot, Tom, would become a friend. He and I would rotate trips. McSwiggan brought soft drinks, ham, cheese, bread, mustard, and potato chips to feed the crew on the flight.

Our trip was seventeen hours long, and I quickly learned that freight hangars did not have women’s restrooms. I would have to make do with the men’s room, though one of the other pilots agreed to stand guard at the door. We arrived at Tara Field in time for me to drive home and collapse in bed. I was exhausted.

Bob McSwiggan, or “Mac,” became a cherished friend. We danced together on Tuesday nights and often left our dance class for a trip. After I went to work for Netjets, I would occasionally go to the hangar and visit him on my days off. He wrote a poem for my husband and me on our wedding day, and he stayed with me after our grandson was killed.  

Our visits became less frequent after my family moved to Macon, but we still talked on the phone. In 2019, my phone rang, and I was greeted again by the big voice I had grown to love. 

“I don’t know who this is but I saw the number in my phone and I knew you were someone important to me.”

My heart broke. I told him who I was and did my best to help him remember. I recounted funny details about some of our trips and our dancing, and he said he remembered. I knew he didn’t but I knew he wanted to. It was a tender call, and I cherish the memory.

Mac’s girlfriend called last week and said that he had died about three months ago. She didn’t know the details as three years ago, his great-grandchildren moved him to South Carolina and placed him in a nursing home. 

How I wish I could have seen him one more time.