(if low-hour guys won't be flying the planes, who will?)
Why sonny boy, that's going to be us!
We're the pilot aviators who know every nook and cranny of the delta the way it was thirty years ago when all the Cessnas were painted a cute baby blue and an engine failure up there was certain death. Those were the days when we used to fly the Boss in on his G111. We've got zillions of hours between us, no new stories to invent, no axes to grind or points to score. We aren't going anywhere except into the dust and once we're in up there we'll never leave. We'll fly for nearly zero because we've all got huge pensions, accumulated after years of airline flying and we really do want to keep our tax footprint hush hush. We don't ever want leave the swamps and we will fly sick, drunk or hung over, will cover for each other and will spit tobacco juice into the face of any fresh faced chief pilot who tells us how to run the Ops Manual We never get sick, although we might die from time to time, but we've always arranged cover with a mate. The passengers love us because we're reliable old hornets who instill confidence in even the most abashed of virgin fliers. Bechuanaland, last outpost of the good life in Africa, here we come! We're the Old Timers and boy! Can we fly!