In 1981, the Santa Monica (California) City Council was planning to close its municipal airport (SMO) and use the residual land for low-income housing and commercial development. To harass airport users, the city had repeatedly closed the observation deck under the pretense that it was a fire hazard. (It was not.) The deck overlooked Runway 21 and allowed visitors to observe takeoffs and landings at close hand. The city had to close it repeatedly because the Santa Monica Airport Association took down the "Closed" signs soon after each was installed. It would not allow the city to discourage those interested in general aviation.
The city finally came up with a more substantial sign, one that was slung beneath a heavy-duty chain welded across the steps that led to the observation deck. I complained to Griff Hoerner (a member of the airport association's Stealth Committee) that this sign would not be easily taken down. He picked up the phone and made a call. When finished, he told me to meet a friend of his at the gas station at the east end of the airport at midnight. "The sign," Hoerner declared, "will come down."
I arrived early and waited for Hoerner's friend. I soon saw and heard a dilapidated panel truck trundling toward me. The driver wore a friendly smile but was all business and did not bother with introductions. He simply asked, "Where's this chain?"
I began to caution him that the area was illuminated and only 50 feet from the airport guard shack and …. But the man interrupted me by holding up his hand like a policeman stopping traffic. "I don't care about that stuff," he said. "Just hop in and show me the chain."
Against my better judgment, I opened the passenger door, pushed aside some plumber's tools, got in, and directed him toward the observation deck. He parked the truck 50 yards away from the deck, turned off the headlights, and grabbed a monstrous pair of chain cutters from behind his seat. Acting as though he belonged there, Hoerner's friend strode toward the chain in view of anyone who might have been looking. (We learned later that the nearby guard had been asleep.) The driver made short work of the chain and returned almost as quickly as he had left.
"Is this what you want?" The driver showed a toothy grin and held the sign proudly, as if it were a trophy.
"Yes. Thank you very much. By the way, my name's Barry Schiff."
"I'm Don Brandsen. Nice to meet you."
Brandsen's involvement in aviation began in 1975 when he, like so many others, made his lifelong dream come true by making his first solo flight (in a Piper PA-12). Since then, he has logged 350 hours and obtained an instrument rating. But it is not so much what Brandsen has taken from aviation that sets him apart from others; rather, it is what he has given.
Shortly after the chain-cutting incident, the city council announced its intent to vote for the closure of the airport. Brandsen joined many other pilots attending that meeting in protest. He heard a 16-year-old boy pleading with the council not to close the airport and deprive him of a flight school. This and other speeches fell on deaf ears, and the council voted for closure.
The heavy-handed politics and municipal arrogance infuriated Brandsen. He couldn't believe that this was happening in the United States. Brandsen had always been interested in public service, so it was not surprising when he volunteered his energy and personal resources to thwart the council and attempt to preserve the airport for future generations. He joined the airport association and soon became chairman of the Legal and Political Action Committee. "Accepting challenge," he says, "is what life is all about. I want to make a lasting impression, a scratch on the Earth, before it is too late."
Little did Brandsen know how involved he was to become. His determination to save the airport became a consuming passion. He retired from being a contractor and devoted all his time to the airport. This included obtaining an office above the Spitfire Restaurant at SMO where he has a bank of computers, maintains massive files of documents, and creates legal arguments. Those aware of the frenetic activities that take place there refer to his office as "Brandsen's War Room." His accomplishments are all the more remarkable considering that he began life as an incorrigible youth and never made it past the ninth grade.
Municipal, state, and federal officials meeting Brandsen for the first time are disarmed by his appearance and demeanor. He usually needs a haircut, is unshaven, wears rumpled trousers and a T-shirt that has seen better days, and does not mince words (often arranging them in a way that might not meet the approval of a grammarian). But these characteristics belie his effectiveness. His adversaries quickly develop respect for his positions, which usually are grounded in legal research and precedent. Perhaps this is how he almost single-handedly saved SMO from the bulldozer and why airport proponents from all over the country contact him for advice and encouragement.
Those aware of Donald H. Brandsen's commitment and dedication to the preservation of airports regard him as a national treasure. Rarely in aviation has one person toiled so hard and without remuneration for the good of so many.
