Pilot is Sisters' flying Dutchman

Joel and Lynn Premselaar, with one of the ship's bells from the German World War II Battleship, Graf Spee.

Joel Premselaar's life has been all about aviation.

The Sisters resident has experienced most of the dramatic changes that the 20th century brought to flying.

He was born November 7, 1920 in New York City. At the ripe young age of eight, he committed himself to aviation, thanks to his uncle Morris, who enthralled him with stories of aerial dogfights in World War I.

Living in New York, he would ride his bicycle six miles to Flushing Airport, and by the age of 13, he had learned to fly.

"I would do anything to get up in the air," he said. "I swept the hangar floors, emptied oil pans, and washed airplanes in exchange for flight time."

He joined the Navy in 1938 at the age of 17. After a couple of years aboard ship working his way through the ranks, he became an enlisted pilot. His goal all along was to be a Navy pilot, and slots were in short supply.

When the Navy issued a directive that there would be no more enlisted pilots, he thought, "Fine, I'll train back in the states." But his commanding officer, when he saw Joel's flying background, said, "No, you're an ensign now."

"That's how I received my commission," Premselaar said.

World War II provided opportunity for lots of air time.

"I flew 65 different types of aircraft," Premselaar said. "Primarily, I flew attack aircraft for logistical support.

"The most challenging assignment was to fly seaplanes from the deck of a battleship or a cruiser. The plane would be mounted on a catapult. A six-inch gunpowder charge would detonate, and the takeoff was much rougher than from a carrier. It would really jar your back. Often, you didn't have a horizon, and couldn't see either the ocean or the sky when you got launched."

Takeoff was not the only dangerous part of the job.

"When our battleship was bombarding an enemy position, quite often we were shooting blind," Premselaar said. "For example, if the target was on the other side of an island, then we would lend logistical support by flying over the target area and calling back to the ship to re-direct their fire, if necessary."

Premselaar was also the photography officer for the ship. He has pictures of Tojo as a prisoner of war, but probably the most compelling photos are those of Ground Zero at Hiroshima.

"Because the bomb was intentionally detonated at an altitude of 1,800 feet above ground, the alpha rays did not contaminate the soil (they have a half-life of 3,000 years), and we were able to go in there and check things out," he said. "A small ridge ended up shielding part of the city from the blast. You can see the line of demarcation which separates the part of the city that was destroyed, and the part that was left intact."

Another photo starkly depicts one of the few standing buildings at Ground Zero -- a Catholic Church.

After World War II ended, Premselaar continued flying for the Navy as a test pilot stationed at China Lake, California in the Mojave Desert.

"I flew lots of prototypes," he said.

He would put each plane through its paces.

"We practiced countless takeoffs, landings, dive bombing, and rolls. We'd jump from one plane to another. We didn't just fly from one destination to another with the automatic pilot engaged."

After he was discharged from the Navy in 1959, Premselaar continued in aviation, working as a consultant for Lockheed, and then for Boeing in cockpit design. He then worked for an avionics lab for the Air Force, before he started his own aviation business.

He retired in 1989, but at the age of 82, he says, "I'm still flying. I have a Bonanza here in Sisters, and I'm still rated as a flight instructor. I have my instrument rating, multi-engine rating, sea-plane rating -- you name it."

Premselaar knows that he defied the odds to retire in Sisters.

"I am most proud of being a Navy pilot and surviving," he said. "Due to the nature of the flying, the Navy is the most dangerous and has the highest accident rate. The cost in equipment and human life is very expensive. Of the 120 guys who began flight training with me, 18 got their wings, and seven lived long enough to retire."