by Greg Laurie
Moon had a giant stainedglass window in a bathroom of his house that faced the window of the McQueens’ bedroom. Barbi says the light in Moon’s bathroom was on all the time, frequently disturbing Steve’s sleep. He called Moon repeatedly to ask him to turn off the light, but nothing ever happened. Finally Steve took matters into his own hands.
“He grabbed a shotgun from under the bed, walked out to the patio, and blasted Moon’s stained-glass window,” Barbi recalls with a smile. “The blast reverberated throughout the neighborhood. Then Steve marched calmly back into the house, put the shotgun away, walked to the kitchen, and cracked open an ice-cold Old Milwaukee.”
Another day in the life of Steve McQueen.
After lunch we drive ten minutes to a magnificent threestory wood and glass structure with a panoramic view of the Pacific. It’s the residence on Broad Beach Road where Barbi and Steve started their life together. They lived there for close to a year and a half.
Barbi says their days at Trancas Beach were very tranquil. They’d play on the beach and take drives up and down the coast in search of antiques, as well as longer jaunts in one of Steve’s beat-up pickup trucks to Utah, Montana, and Ketchum—the central Idaho town where Barbi maintained her five-acre ranch. They also attended motorcycle and swap meets and visited friends. Steve’s buddies were stuntmen, mechanics, racers, pilots, karate instructors, and others active in physical pursuits.
Steve also drilled her on weaponry. He was very proficient with firearms of all kinds—pistols, handguns, rifles, and shotguns. He knew how to field strip a weapon and expected her to learn how.
Occasionally a celebrity dropped by, Barbi says—Elliot Gould, Sam Peckinpah, Lee Majors, James Garner (whom she spontaneously addressed as “Mr. Rockford”). Barbi recalls the time Peter Fonda, his former wife Becky, and their daughter Bridget came over for breakfast. Bridget was just a youngster then and a ball of energy. She practically bounced off the walls.
“I’ve never been much of a cook, but I managed to make breakfast for the Fondas,” Barbi says. “And they actually ate it. Most likely Steve ordered everybody to either eat their eggs or wear them.”
Once Steve sat Barbi down in the house and tried to teach her about motorcycles. She dutifully watched him take one apart in their living room and methodically explain each part’s function, why it was engineered the way it was, and how it contributed to helping the motorcycle run. After a few minutes, she confesses her eyes glazed over, and it was all she could do to nod her head once in a while and say, “Yes, honey.”
Steve also drilled her on weaponry. He was very proficient with firearms of all kinds—pistols, handguns, rifles, and shotguns. He knew how to field strip a weapon and expected her to learn how. He also devised an escape plan in case an intruder ever broke into the house.
“The plan called for me to roll out of bed, drop to the floor, take a .45 apart, put the bullets back in, and have the weapon ready to fire,” Barbi says. “Of course, it would have been much easier and safer just to keep the safety on, but Steve wanted me to be ready for a combat situation.”
Disco was the rage then, and “Steve wore this flowery silk shirt, white pants, and a gold chain around his neck,” she recalls with a laugh. “And he danced like Austin Powers.
This is understandable considering that not only was McQueen an internationally known celebrity, but he was a regular target for kooks and attention-seeking radicals. He had been on the hit list of Charles Manson, like I said, and in 1977 received a death threat from an unstable man, which was noted in his FBI file.
Steve and Barbi mostly enjoyed simple things—nature, quiet rides in one of his beloved old trucks, and rummaging through old antique shops. “When Steve and I traveled, we stayed off the interstate, preferring back roads and little-known routes to get to our destination, taking our own sweet time,” Barbi says. “Often we’d pull out a road map and flip a coin to see what route to take. Time was not a concern, but our journey itself was—kind of like our relationship and how we lived our lives at the time.”
Sometimes, Barbi acknowledges, the almost-quarter-century difference in their ages was almost painfully obvious, like the time Steve took her dancing at the Daisy, a members-only nightclub on Rodeo Drive. Disco was the rage then, and “Steve wore this flowery silk shirt, white pants, and a gold chain around his neck,” she recalls with a laugh. “And he danced like Austin Powers. He did the Twist, the Shag, the Watusi, and the Clam, while everyone else disco danced. I thought I was going to die of embarrassment.”
“He did things like that—in the snap of a finger,” Barbi says. “Learning how to fly became Steve’s latest passion, and like everything else he did, he jumped into it with both feet.”
Another time, the Rolling Stones made a West Coast swing on their Some Girls tour in July 1978, and McQueen scored tickets and a backstage pass. Barbi was thrilled, thinking she might witness some good old-fashioned rock ’n’ roll debauchery. Instead, she says, “we arrived backstage and mostly wandered around. Finally Steve bumped into bass player Bill Wyman, and they shared a beer and had a heartfelt conversation about kids. Here was this rugged, tough-guy actor and one of rock ’n’ roll’s greatest self-professed ladies’ men, and they just talked about how much fatherhood meant to them. It was very dignified and proper—not at all what I expected.”
That same year McQueen plunked down $75,000 for his own five-acre parcel in Ketchum, adjoining Barbi’s. He planned to build a log cabin and call it the Last Chance. Several months later he purchased a four-hundred-acre property in East Fork, about a half hour from Ketchum, on which he intended to build a cabin, guesthouse, and a private runway for his planes.
Steve grew interested in planes and flying after Tom Horn wrapped in early March 1979. Back at Trancas Beach, Barbi says, Steve would get up in the morning, read the newspaper, and “start poring over the classified ads in his cheap dime-store reading glasses, looking for the latest bargains. He was reading Airplane Trader magazine one day and something caught his eye—a bright yellow PT Stearman bi-plane.”
The Stearman was built in the 1940s for the US Navy and had been a basic trainer for about fifty thousand pilots in World War II. The one pictured in the ad had a newly overhauled 220-horsepower Continental engine. It was in mint condition and had a $35,000 price tag. Steve picked up the phone, called the owner, and bought it within minutes.
“He did things like that—in the snap of a finger,” Barbi says. “Learning how to fly became Steve’s latest passion, and like everything else he did, he jumped into it with both feet.”
Santa Paula, a small town about an hour north of Malibu, was called the “Antique Plane Capital of the World,” and that’s where McQueen went in search of someone to teach him how to fly his new baby. After asking around, he was told a fellow named Sammy Mason would be the best man for the job.
He was, in more ways than one.
LEARNING TO FLY
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Malibu was an emotional trip down memory lane for Barbi, and when we drop her back at the hotel, I’m not sure she will be up to going to Santa Paula the next day. The last time she was there was in 2007 for a tribute to Steve, and it wasn’t easy for her. She’s noncommittal about tomorrow, and we decide to see how she feels in the morning.
When we pull up the next day, Barbi is waiting for us in the lobby. She climbs in the car and says, “I was just about wrecked, but I’m determined to see this through. There’s something telling me I need to go. Besides, there’re some old friends I want to see.”
She means Pete Mason.
Pete is the son of Sammy Mason, the man who taught Steve McQueen how to fly an airplane and then piloted him to a much higher level. Sammy passed away in December 2001, but his name is still legendary in aviation circles.
The GPS indicates today’s drive is 110 miles—about two hours if we don’t hit any heavy traffic. Driving a rented SUV, I’ve decided to give the Bullitt a break today, as a 1967 fastback Mustang is not the most
comfortable car on a long drive for one person, much less three. The backseat is basically nonexistent, and so is the legroom. Barbi asks me to turn on the satellite radio to the ’60s on 6 station. I’m happy to comply. Much to our delight, “A Hard Day’s Night” by the Beatles is playing. I have all their records and have memorized most of their lyrics. In my opinion they are far and away the greatest rock band of all time.
Pete is the son of Sammy Mason, the man who taught Steve McQueen how to fly an airplane.
Barbi’s increasing anxiety is palpable as we take the turnoff from Interstate 5 onto California Highway 26, which will take us into Santa Paula. Ten miles before we get there, we enter the Fillmore city limits and Barbi sighs, groaning as if in pain. Cathe puts her hand on Barbi’s shoulder and says gently, “It’s going to okay, Barbi. God is with us.”
When Steve and Barbi lived here, it was a rural town of about twenty thousand wonderful, homespun people who weren’t impressed by power, money, or Hollywood luminaries— just the way Steve liked it.
I know well the angst Barbi is experiencing. I know the reverie. It happened when our son Christopher was killed in the automobile accident in 2008. And it still happens on the 91 Freeway in Corona. Many times as I’ve driven by or even near that spot, I don’t just sigh but break into anguished tears. Now it’s just a dull ache.
A few minutes later we are in Santa Paula, an agricultural town reminiscent of mainstream America but with a Mexican flavor. When Steve and Barbi lived here, it was a rural town of about twenty thousand wonderful, homespun people who weren’t impressed by power, money, or Hollywood luminaries—just the way Steve liked it. Santa Paula reminded him of his hometown of Slater, Missouri, and he fell in love with the place and its people. “This is as close to home as I can find,” he told Barbi. “I want to die here.”
When they first moved to Santa Paula, beginning in mid- 1979, Barbi and Steve lived in the three-thousand-square-foot airplane hangar that housed his Stearman. When I ask Barbi what it was like to live in what was in essence just a large garage, she gets a dreamy look on her face and says, “It was the coolest thing ever. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
Eventually they purchased a four-bedroom home on fifteen acres a few miles from the airport, but while it underwent extensive renovation, they contentedly occupied the hangar with the plane and all the antiques McQueen had collected and crammed into it. They slept on a mattress and box spring on the floor, and in the morning, Barbi says, “Steve would make coffee and bring it to me, open the hangar door, and we’d watch the world from our floor-mounted bed.”
They slept on a mattress and box spring on the floor, and in the morning, Barbi says, “Steve would make coffee and bring it to me, open the hangar door, and we’d watch the world from our floormounted bed.”
Driving through the town’s Main Street, Barbi sits up a little straighter. She starts pointing out some of the places she and Steve frequented—an antique store where they found lots of bargains, a used bookstore where they purchased most of their reading material, and a Chinese food place they frequented at least once a week, coming in through the back door.
“The food was horrible, and whatever I ate there was orange,” Barbi says. “It didn’t matter. It was better than my cooking, which the first time Steve ever tasted it, said, ‘We’re going out for dinner!’
“And I never made dinner again.”
Before we head to the hangar, Barbi asks me to turn down a side street called South Mountain Road to take a peek at their former house. It’s a beautiful Victorian structure built in 1896.
“Everything that looked new was tossed out in favor of antiques that would have been true to the period when the house was built,” Barbi says. “That included old-fashioned toilets with high wall-mounted tanks and chain pulls, antique marble wash basins, brass fittings, period ceiling fans, period multiglobe chandeliers, filigree light fixtures, wooden crank telephones, and an old-fashioned stove and oven.”
The man standing in front of the hangar as we pull up is Pete Mason. Barbi rushes out to hug him and then introduces Cathe and me.
Barbi says she did put her foot down, however, when it came to the washer and dryer. “There’s no way you’d find me hand washing laundry or using a clothesline,” she quips.
It took two minutes at most to get from the house to the airport. The man standing in front of the hangar as we pull up is Pete Mason. Barbi rushes out to hug him and then introduces Cathe and me. The current owner of the hangar is there, too, and opens the massive, weathered, electric green door so Barbi can have a look inside. The interior is filled with every imaginable thing from a large model plane suspended from the ceiling to old movie posters, oil cans, trophies, piles of magazines, metal signs, and much more. Those guys from American Pickers would have a field day here.
When Steve died, Barbi hired a moving van and packed up as much of his stuff as it would safely carry—antique slot machines, cash registers, knives, Kewpie dolls, bicycles, vintage gasoline pumps, and, of course, lots of motorcycles. The rest stayed behind, and thirty-seven years later, and some of it is still here.
After the Cook’s tour, we sit down at a table outside the hangar with Pete—who, it turns out, was the one who actually taught Steve how to fly because at that time his dad wasn’t accepting new students.
When Steve died, Barbi hired a moving van and packed up as much of his stuff as it would safely carry—antique slot machines, cash registers, knives, Kewpie dolls, bicycles, vintage gasoline pumps, and, of course, lots of motorcycles.
When the McQueens moved to Santa Paula, Sammy Mason was a living legend in aviation. He’d been flying for forty-plus years, having been both a stunt pilot as well as a test pilot for Lockheed. When he met Steve, he was in his sixties, semiretired, and didn’t have the time or inclination to teach Flying 101. When McQueen phoned to inquire about lessons, he didn’t say who he was, and Sammy later said he figured McQueen “was either the attendant at the service station where I filled up my car or the butcher.” He then concluded it was the latter, “because he could afford to fly.”
Sammy told him to try his son Pete, an excellent flight instructor in his own right, but McQueen wouldn’t take no for an answer and kept calling back. When he finally disclosed his identity, it meant nothing to Sammy, who went to Pete and asked who the heck was Steve McQueen? Turned out The Great Escape was one of Sammy’s favorite movies, but that didn’t cut anything with him, and he continued to rebuff McQueen’s entreaties. But he did agree to at least come check out the Stearman.
Sammy told him to try his son Pete, an excellent flight instructor in his own right, but McQueen wouldn’t take no for an answer and kept calling back. When he finally disclosed his identity, it meant nothing to Sammy, who went to Pete and asked who the heck was Steve McQueen?
Nobody was more charming and persuasive than Steve McQueen when he wanted something, and by the time Sammy left the hangar, he had agreed to take Steve under his wing—but only after McQueen got his introductory flying lessons from Pete.
McQueen was a natural in the cockpit. Racing cars and motorcycles had given him razor-sharp hand-eye coordination, and he was a quick study. He spent hours in the air with both Masons, and on May 1, 1979, flew his first solo flight and became a licensed pilot. It was one of his proudest moments. And as only Steve McQueen would, he went all in.
“Steve loved wearing the old-fashioned goggles, jumpsuits, and leather bomber jackets,” says Barbi. “He could hardly wait to get in his plane and taxi down the runway and fly around the sky, free as a bird.”
But the vintage Stearman wasn’t the only thing McQueen was learning about from his hours in the air because Sammy turned out to be much more than a flight instructor. The time they spent together made him another surrogate father, for one, but also a role model that Steve desperately needed in his life.
He spent hours in the air with both Masons, and on May 1, 1979, flew his first solo flight and became a licensed pilot. It was
one of his proudest moments. And as only Steve McQueen would, he went all in.
Sammy was totally unflappable and comfortable in his own skin. He had a natural inner core that exuded confidence without braggadocio and drew the respect and admiration of everyone who knew him. Steve, too, was in awe of him. And as they became closer over the months, he started asking questions of his new mentor. What he wanted most to know was what gave Sammy the kind of serenity and peace that Steve had vainly searched for his entire life?
The answer, Sammy told him, was that he was a Christian.
Over time, they began to talk about God. Mason didn’t preach or even try to persuade. He just answered Steve’s questions to the best of his ability and told how faith in the Lord had impacted his own life.
“Sammy and me would fly, and he’d tell me about the Lord,” McQueen later told a friend. “Flying and the Lord . . . I learned about the Bible. I’d listen and fly. It made sense. It made me feel good.”
“Sammy and me would fly, and he’d tell me about the Lord,” McQueen later told a friend. “Flying and the Lord . . . I learned about the Bible. I’d listen and fly. It made sense. It made me feel good.”
The impenetrable armor Steve had developed over a lifetime was finally beginning to crack. He’d personally seen the emptiness of the life he lived. He’d had his nose rubbed in it, in fact. He knew where the answers weren’t, and now he was talking to someone who seemed to know where they were. Others had shared this gospel message before with Steve, from producer Russell Doughten to stuntman Stan Barrett to actor Mel Novak. Those were seeds that had been planted in McQueen’s heart. But having conquered every world he’d ever entered as an adult— from acting to driving—learning to fly was one of the last things on his bucket list. And God arranged for both the seeker and the one with the message to connect at just the right time.
Santa Paula and Steve’s new down-to-earth neighbors had finally provided him with the home, the no-stringsattached camaraderie, and the emotional security for which he’d yearned so long.
