"Not worth a darn!" I replied.

"Is there a phone around here?"

"There's one at the gas station on the main road, if they ain't closed."

"Well, I was going to fly a little."

Climbing down out of the airplane and swinging on the strut, I introduced myself while shaking his hand.

"My name is Ron, and I'm a student pilot whose been flying around lost for most of the afternoon. I really need your help. If I don't call Anderson Flight Service and tell them I'm 'OK' and where I've landed, they're going to be out looking for me!"

"OK, Ron, let's go make that call. Hop in my truck while I lock-up the plane."

With my navigation plotter in my pocket, Rayban aviator's sunglasses still in place (even though it was now early evening), charts and navigation log under my left arm, and seven dollars in my pocket, I made my way toward civilization and a telephone. Unfortunately, the road leading from the airport to the main highway wasn't paved, and the truck badly needed shocks. Each bump sent yet another pain reverberating through my aching noggin.

Running from the truck into the gas station, I must have been a weird sight for sure. Once inside the door, only an outline remained of where a pay telephone once hung. Now without a pay phone, the guys who were busy closing and locking-up were somewhat reluctant to allow me to place a long distance phone call on their business line. However, after much assurance that they wouldn't be charged for the call, they gave in, and the flight plan for N7289S was officially closed ... not in Atlanta or Athens or Gainesville, Georgia, but in Cedar Bluffs, South Carolina, on the eastern shore of the Savannah River.

Later that evening and many, many collect phone calls later, help was on the way. Bama, my flight instructor was out-of-pocket for the evening--off somewhere flying a simulator. The president of the flying club, and the owner of the rented aircraft, suggested that I get a good steak and a hot shower at a nice motel, spend the night, and fly home the next day.

Only my faithful wife, Valerie, understood my plight. Sometime after 9:00 p.m., after tracking down and picking up a pilot-friend and his wife, she set out to drive the 160 or so miles to effect a rescue from the only establishment open past 9:00 in Cedar Bluffs...the police station.

"Whatcha do in Atlanta?" inquired Officer McManus.

"Oh, well I'm in the adverti...uh, printing business, but I'm a SPECIAL DEPUTY SHERIFF in DeKalb County!"

"Ya are? How 'bout that. Guess you folks have lotsa crime down in Atlanta."

"Well, ah...we have our share, that's for sure."

"Ain't got much here in Cedar Bluffs. Have had a burglary ring operating 'round here though."

"Really?"