The extraordinary story of international pilot Charlie Vaughn

"Don't Call Me a Legend" is the inspiring biography of how Charlie Vaughn went from sky-gazing farm boy to a world renowned ferry pilot.

Charlie Vaughn has battled bad weather, mechanical failures, bureaucratic red tape, heat, cold and exhaustion to deliver airplanes where others failed. Fly with Charlie as he ferries a Cessna Skymaster to Botswana, a Twin Otter across the Pacific and a Hawker Siddeley through Russia.

"Don't Call Me a Legend" is a legacy of aviation stories that are unique. Charlie Vaughn's aviation career is a one-man history of modern blue collar flying. He has worked in flight training, float flying, agriculture aviation, charter flying, sightseeing, frost flying, air racing, cargo flying, aircraft ferrying, courier flying, test flying and corporate aviation.

"Charlie Vaughn is the only pilot I know who has been pulled over by a police cruiser when flying too low through downtown Montreal."                Garth Wallace

Don't Call Me A Legend

Hard cover - $29.95 CDN / $29.95 U.S.

Sample chapter - Don't Call Me A Legend

Chapter eight / 1968 - First Ferry

"It was one of those paint-yourself-into-a-corner flights." Charlie Vaughn

Charlie delivered new aircraft from the Piper factories to Hamilton for Glen White. He flew single-engine Cherokees from the plant in Vero Beach, Florida and Aztecs from Lock Haven, Pennsylvania.

Trans Aircraft president Glen White paid $100 for each delivery. That was for everything: air fare, gas, hotel and food. By flying stand-by, I could go to Florida for $59. I would leave on an early morning flight out of Buffalo, N.Y., arriving in Vero Beach in time to do the twelve-hour flight without stopping overnight. The airplanes were full of fuel at the factory, so by timing the fuel burn to arrive in Hamilton empty, I could do the delivery at a break even cost providing I didn't eat too much or have to overnight for bad weather. It was no way to make money, but it was fun flying brand new airplanes.

I took my son Doug on one of the Florida trips. We picked up a single-engine Cherokee 235 and were airborne by noon. It turned into one of those `paint yourself into a corner' flights. We started out refreshed with full fuel, daylight and good weather. By the time we got to our last fuel stop in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, it was snowing and dark. We were both tired, but would I stop? I would now, but then I had this thing about not spending my own money on those flights.

We took off IFR for Hamilton with minimum fuel for Toronto as an alternate. The snowfall got heavier. When it looked like the visibility would be below Hamilton's half-mile minimum (it was after midnight and the weather office there was closed) I conceded that it would be acceptable to land at the United States Air Force base in Niagara Falls, New York and have Robina drive across the border and pick us up. We had enough fuel to try one approach there and still go to Toronto if we missed.

It was one of those situations where you hope nothing goes wrong. You promise yourself that if you get out of this one, you'll leave yourself more options next time.

I shot the ILS approach to Niagara Falls. A bleary-eyed Doug was under orders to watch for the runway while I kept the needles centred. As we neared the missed approach point at 400 feet above the ground, the windshield brightened from the high intensity approach lights. I looked up and could just make out the runway. We landed all right and taxied in. We had to wait a few minutes before the customs officer arrived. I didn't mind. I think I would have sat in the cockpit for awhile anyway.