It was the summer of ’77 and I was doing what any fun-loving pilot was doing — I was flying. In this case, it was out of the Bristol, Wisc., airport southwest of Milwaukee. It had three runways, all grass. The longest was 2,000 feet, which in the grand scheme of things, isn’t very long.The business I was flying for was focused on skydiving. They charged people for skydiving lessons, and they charged people to pack their chutes, taught them how to pack their own chutes, and they charged them for airplane rides aloft to altitudes between 3,000 and 12,500 ...