He found such a field in the town of Ashburton, which was a farming town about ninety kilometers (or "klicks", as the local terminology went) south of Christchurch. Ashburton Aerodrome was just outside the town itself, though still under the umbrella of Christchurch ATC. Breckerman had at first tried to talk him out of even considering the field, not because it was somewhat primitive (Breckerman knew next to nothing about aviation) but because of the distance from Christchurch.
"It's almost ninety klicks away from where you'll be living," he told Jake. "It'll take you more than an hour just to drive there when you want to fly."
His attitude about distance was one that Jake had found to be fairly typical among the South Islanders. Breckerman spoke of that ninety-kilometer drive the same way Jake would have spoken of driving from Los Angeles to Heritage. New Zealanders were not big commuters and anything over twenty or thirty kilometers was considered a major trek.
"Ninety klicks?" Jake had responded to him. "That's like sixty miles, right?"
"If you say so," Breckerman told him. He knew even less about American standard measurements than he did about aviation.
"That's nothing," Jake told him. "It's only fifteen miles more than I used to drive to get from my house in LA to the airport in Ventura where I flew from. Hell, I know people who drive further than that twice a day just to get to and from work. And in rush hour traffic, no less."
It was obvious that Breckerman thought he was exaggerating. Nonetheless, he gave Jake basic instructions on how to get to the airfield and Jake made the drive. There were no freeways connecting the towns and cities of New Zealand with each other, but there was State Highway 1, a well-maintained roadway that ran almost perfectly straight between Christchurch and Ashburton. The speed limit on the highway was one hundred kilometers per hour. Jake, not knowing how strict the New Zealand cops were about enforcing that speed limit, did not violate it and was able to make the trip from the site of his future home to the airfield in one hour and eight minutes. He considered that to be well within parameters, as Nerdly would have said.
What did give him some trepidation about the airfield was the fact that the runways were not paved. Though they were lit and marked like any other runways he'd used in his flying days, they were covered with closely mowed grass instead of asphalt or concrete. There was even a warning on the aeronautical chart to "use the mowed runways only".
"Don't knock it until you try it," Fields, who had been given the task of providing Jake with a tour of the airfield, told him. "The smoothest landings you'll ever experience."
Fields was not an employee of the aerodrome but he was a significant fixture there. A rugged, masculine man who sported an unruly mustache and a scraggly mop of brown hair, Fields owned Fields Air Tours, a small business that provided sightseeing flights over the coast and the Southern Alps for visiting tourists. Fields was the primary pilot of the business. He took people up for one-hour tours for the equivalent of sixty American dollars apiece. The plane he used was a Piper Cherokee that had been built in 1968 and required almost constant maintenance to keep flying. He offered to take Jake up for one of his tours, "on the house, as you Americans say" and, though Jake did go up with him, he refused to not pay his way.
"I think I like you, Jake," Fields told him as he finished up his pre-flight. "Now why don't you do the honors and take us up so you can see how sweet these runways are."
"I've never been checked out on a Cherokee," Jake told him.
"It's not much different than a 172," Fields told him. "And if you do anything wrong, I'll tell you. Come on, grab the throttle and get us moving."
And so Jake did. Fields was right on all counts. The Cherokee was not much different than the 172 as far as controls and instruments went (though it did have significantly less power), and the take-off roll down the grass runway was about the smoothest Jake had ever experienced.
"What do you think?" Fields asked him once they were in the air and climbing.
"So far, so good," Jake said, banking to the compass heading Fields had told him to bank to. "What about when it rains though? Don't the runways become unusable?"
"During heavy rainstorms, it does get too soggy to use," Fields said. "But then you don't generally go out flying during heavy rainstorms anyway, do you?"
"Good point," Jake allowed. "How long after the rain stops does the runway become usable again?"
"They have a good drainage system down there," Fields said. "Usually within six hours of a heavy rain the field can open for business again. Didn't you tell me that you're only planning on living here during the summer?"
"Yes," Jake said. "That is my plan."
"Then you don't have to worry too much about it," Fields said. "We get most of our rain in the winter and early spring. If it does rain in the summer, it's usually brief and light. I don't recall any extended closures here because of rain between November and late March."
"Well all right then," Jake said. "It looks like I found myself a field."
Fields then expressed his one concern with Jake's plan. "Glad to have you, of course, but don't you think we're an awful long way from Christchurch?"
That night, Jake went out drinking with Fields and "the guys". The guys turned out to be a group of six men who had all served with Fields in the Royal New Zealand Air Force in the early 1980s. Fields and two of the others had been pilots of C-130 maritime patrol aircraft. The other three had been members of their support crew. They invaded a bar near the airport and spent the better part of six hours putting away pints of Steinlager, smoking cigarettes, and telling tales of their flying experiences (Jake, obviously, had the least amount and most boring tales to tell, though they were interested in some of his ATC and landing stories from his flight from Chicago to Los Angeles). The subject of Jake's celebrity status or the fact that he was one of the most famous rock musicians on the planet never came up. It was this aspect of the encounter more than any other that Jake enjoyed the most. He liked being treated like he was just another pilot, just another one of the guys.
Fields took Jake home with him to his modest three-bedroom house and let him crash in the guest bedroom. The next morning Jake met Fields' wife — a chubby though pleasant natured woman — and his daughter — eight-year-old Kayla Lynn Fields, a cute as a button third grader. Naomi Fields — the wife — cooked a huge breakfast for the two men and then cleaned up everything afterward. It was on the drive back to the aerodrome to get Jake's rental car that Jake made Fields an offer he couldn't refuse.
"I'm going to be shipping my 172 here in the next month or so," he told Fields.
"Yes," Fields said. "I assumed that was your plan. I'll talk to Kyle — the airport manager — about getting you some hangar space."
"Actually," Jake said, "I'm a little concerned about my plane just sitting for six months at a time when I'm not in the country."
"Understandable," Fields allowed.
"I'd like to make a deal with you."
"What sort of deal?"
"You store my plane for me in your hangar, take care of its maintenance and upkeep, and it's yours to use for your business while I'm not in the country."
Fields gave him a shrewd look. "And how much would this cost me?" he asked.
"Nothing," Jake said. "You pay for maintenance and the insurance increase involved in it being used as a commercial aircraft, take care of whatever paperwork is needed to register it in this country, and, of course, whatever fuel you use when it's in your possession, and nothing else. The only stipulation is that no one who isn't rated commercial and hasn't been officially checked out on a 172 be allowed to fly it, and that whenever I'm in town and want to use it, it's mine. If you agree to all that, no charge whatsoever."
Fields' mouth dropped open. "No charge?" he asked. "Is there a catch here, Jake?"