It started, as things so often do in this modern age, with a group chat. My friend Karen Ewart had posted, “Anybody flying tomorrow SCBC?” Ewart drives a rocket-powered Cessna 182 and is always looking for an excuse to embarrass those of us in slower machines. “SCBC” is shorthand for the South Carolina Breakfast Club, a venerable confederation of flyers whose meetings float around the Palmetto State. The Breakfast Club coalesced into an unusual odyssey: twice a month, every month, since 1938, and always on a Sunday. Pancakes and 100LL? What’s not to love about that. I texted Ewart I’d meet her on the ramp.
