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With the outbreak of war. Cushing was commissioned in the Navy ("I figured I'd get drafted anyway"). Assigned as a troubleshooter for Naval Air Transport Service, he traveled to all war theaters, worked as he never had before.
On one occasion he flew to Brazil, found a Naval transport station sorely in need of dockage equipment. Ironically, the very equipment needed was stored only four miles away but assigned to the Rubber Development Corporation. Federal law forbade transfer to the Navy, so Cushing decided the law needed changing. He flew back to Washington, went to Secretary of the Navy James Forrestal, got his backing, helped prepare the legislation, all in one stretch of 60 hours without sleep. The bill passed, but the strain proved too much. He collapsed, wound up in Bethesda Naval Hospital.
The Nut Ward. "When I came to." he recalls, "I was in the nut ward. My face was totally paralyzed. My eyes were frozen open. The nurses had to tape them shut at night so I could get to sleep.'' From his bout with hard work. Lieut. Commander Cushing was left with a partial paralysis of the left side of his face that still pulls down the corner of his mouth, gives him a quizzical look. He was philosophical ("There was not a damn thing I could do about it. so what was the use of worrying?"). At war's end he went back to the law (in Wall Street), stuck it out for two years, quit in boredom ("The war taught me life could be exciting").
Tragedy. Cushing first saw Squaw Valley in 1946. hiked into it (there was no road then) with a likable skier and Pan American World Airways pilot named Wayne Poulsen. who had bought up much of the valley's land. Over the bridge table that night, Alec cautiously asked his wife: "How would you like to live in these mountains?" Justine did not look up from her cards. "Are you out of your mind, Cushing?" she inquired icily. But two years later the Cushings and the McFaddens headed west once more to check on Squaw as a possible ski resort. They never got there. Skiing down a dangerous slope at Aspen with two experienced skiers one morning, the two brothers-in-law were trapped when a huge avalanche cut loose above them. Cushing was buried to his neck. Alexander McFadden died under tons of snow. The death of his closest friend was a profound shock to Cushing, still reduces him to sobs whenever he tells the story.
Despite the tragedy. Cushing was obsessed with opening a ski area, went into partnership with Airman Poulsen to develop Squaw in June 1948. Poulsen supplied the land—640 acres—and Cushing the money—$400,000. Alec and Justine invested $145,000 of their own, got $50,000 from Laurance Rockefeller, the rest from other friends.
Poulsen and Cushing had differences almost from the start. Cushing allowed Poulsen to reserve 42 acres of land for homesites, found belatedly that Squaw Valley Development Corp. was left with only six acres of level ground. Cushing wanted to operate restaurant, bar and lodging facilities at Squaw. Poulsen wanted to lease them out. Cushing went ahead anyway, bought a set of old Air Force barracks, had them trucked into the valley, put the corporation in the hotel business.