The two-engine prop plane that took me and eleven other passengers from San Valdesto to Los Angeles reaffirmed my lifelong belief in the dominance of gravity. I won’t name the company; the local residents refer to it as Humpty-Dumpty Airlines. It was a rocky ride, tight seat belt all the way. The jet plane from Los Angeles to Phoenix was less scary; they had booze on board. The day was sunny. The glimmering desert far below was dotted with small settlements, peopled by nature lovers, immigrants with respiratory problems, and loners. A mist lay over Phoenix. The naturally dry desert air was now being clouded by the lawn, garden, and agricultural watering of its more than half a million inhabitants. Cochise Airlines from Phoenix to Prescott was a big step up from the plane I had taken from San Valdesto. Jerry Holland was waiting for me at the Prescott airport. Jerry had been my Sigma Nu roomie at Stanford. I had introduced him to the girl who would become his wife. She had been my first true love—until she met Jerry.
