Just the one flight today, which might seem like a long walk to a small house, but once again, someone else was paying for my flight time so up I went without reservation. My man was all of 13 years old, Jake y-clept and wide-eyed and eager at the whole of it. There were times during the brief when I wondered if it would all work out, since himself seemed on the verge of losing the plot when the talk turned to the advantages accruing to the combat Varga pilot in a two-circle rate fight over those adhering to the once-circle radius fight, not to mention the finer points of trading off of potential energy in the form of altitude for kinetic energy in the form of airspeed. I hesitated to mention g required for level flight as the sine function of bank angle, but there was nothing else for it.
He asked how much flying he’d be doing himself, and when I told him “roughly half” what with your correspondent doing the take-off, formation flight and landing, he seemed a little concerned. Would you like more, I asked and he intimated that rather less might do as well as even so much. Well, we’ll see when we get airborne, said I.
Moms was flitting about nervously as we strapped himself in, smiling and taking pictures all the while even as she was clearly considering the wisdom of letting her number one son fling himself through the insubstantial ether with this Lex feller, no matter his hoary antecedents. Took a bit of shooing to clear her from the prop arc when the time came to turn the motor over, and with a brittle, if familiar “I hope I see you again, my love” look in her eye she headed back towards the hanger with many a backward glance.
He was game enough once we got got the weight off the wheels and for sheer, wide-eyed enjoyment I do not know that I have seen the like. The weather was perfect, and the familiarization part went smoothly. He had an initial advantage in our first hack, but bled himself down to stall and our adversary turned the tables. Defensive BFM went by the book, with us working out of plane and out of phase once the bandit attempted to close for guns. We shook him off at last, and scraped him off on the deck, counting that as a kill for us.
We weren’t quite so lucky on the second hack, with the bandit working to a plausible firing solution. On round three, your man flew the machine like he was born to it, and in very short time was in the saddle, calling the shot. It had gone so quickly – and with so little drama – that the staff pilots momentarily considered the option of a fourth hack, but just then Jake told me that he was feeling a wee bit queasy.
Right you are, mate and wings level we go. Turn the air vents towards you and think of the flag, said I, but it was too late for that. “Barfing,” was the next call on the intercom, and if it wasn’t according to TOPGUN brevity, it had the advantage at least of being both clear and concise.
“What shall I do with the bag?” asked he when the deed was done, and “Put it back behind the seat there,” was my recommendation, but apparently it would never do – not enough room. Well, tie it up as best you can, hold it in your lap and try to think of something else was all I could think to tell him, the machine itself being poorly equipped in the overboard discharge category and the laws of the state of California frowning severely at the notion of tour pilots bombing barf bags on residential streets in any case.
I haven’t had a customer clear baffles on me in flight before and felt more than a little guilty. But himself was more than game once the moment had passed and regretted the fact that the fighting was over. I was flying as wing on the recovery to Palomar, and your man warmed the cockles of my grizzled heart by asking how long it took to become “such a great pilot,” and I aw-shucked him in reply all the while thinking to myself, “bless you, my son.” Tips are all well and good, but unearned praise bears the bell away every time.
We – or I should say I, since himself seemed blithely unaware – had a bit of a startlement on landing since the nose wheel shimmy dampener gave up the ghost at the first hint of wheel brake application. The crate was shuddering and bucking to an alarming degree, and while I suspected a dampener failure, but not knowing the exact failure mode it occurred to me with all the objectionable activity going on up front that maybe the engine was coming apart, but it’s not like we could forgo the option of slowing down. Runways go on for but a finite length.
All’s well that ends well however, and we taxied to the line to the evident relief of his dear ma who had no real need to be any the wiser on the topic of shimmy dampeners. A few photos and a handshake later and our work there was done. “That was a blast! Flying is so cool,” said the young man to me, and I had to agree with him:
“Yes. Yes it is.”
Great post, as always.
Your flight ops posts are fast becoming some of my favourites. No surprise there, eh?
Never thought I would be jealous of
What’s that called ? Premature … ??
Anyway, as I was saying, never thought I would be jealous of a 13 year old kid, but I am feeling a bit green at the moment.
Ha ha! That is too funny! My dad had a guy toss his cookies when he took him up too! I think he felt the same as you. Surprisingly, the guy’s impression of flying was very similar to the boy’s though! I miss flying with my dad! I was his “look out” since I have great far sided vision! It was too much fun! Certainly was great “Father/Daughter Time” and made for wonderful memories! Hence, my love for all things flying!
Oh, way cool! And, my inner kid of that age is consumed with envy!
Ah, that’s “damper.”
‘sokay, yer degree doesn’t say “Engineer” on it; just don’t let it happen again, mmkay?
Snork.
(ed. You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to.)
I think I may sometime have to make my way out into your neck of the woods, Capt., and put down the money to take a flight.
I’m young enough that my inner kid still has considerable control over the pocketbook and such.
Nobody should get too concerned about vomiting while flying.
Flying, for humans, is after all, an un-natural act.
When one’s eyeballs and his semicircular canals send conflicting messages to the brain for the first time, it’s not surprising that his nervous system goes all weird on him.
Hey, Horatio Nelson was troubled by seasickness to the end of his life, but did OK.
I believe the proper term is “premature evacuation.” Note that this can happen from either end of the GI tract, which makes the Kid finding, positioning, and using the bag sort of a testament of character and clear-headedness.
– Max
If you fly better than you tell stories, you must be the world’s all-time BEST pilot, Lex. Your narratives put the reader up there with you and it’s truly enjoyable.
Thank you for sharing!
Another lovely story, Lex (even with the gross parts. Blech!).
As to envy and location… I’m on a pretty tight budget, but come July of this year I’ll no longer have car payments to make. Two months of no car payments should just about equal an hour in the air…
Lex,
Speaking as a former resident of Encinitas, can I just say how grateful we all are that we do not have to deal with puke-bombs. Your air service flew over our house on many an evening and we were happy to see you. Things would have been otherwise if you lot were treating us to the more sickening aspects of aerial combat.
Ah, yes. The San Diego residents must be sure to inform you of a few targets of opportunity in the general vicinity, should you ever find yourself in such a predicament a second time, Captain.
Lex, I got to hurl in a number of aircraft, with a number of quality pilots (no fault of theirs, with one big exception, and you know who I’m talking about), but regrets, never got to hurl in your backseat.
Not that you’re losing any sleep over it or anything…
And Michelle, the question is, “Premature for whom?”
Next “blogvel” from Lex: “Tales from the Back Seat.”
Excellent story! I recall one of a tandem student getting queasy and told to “use your helmet.” Yeah, one of those like they use in white water rafting…
Seen the video to prove it…geez, that was funny!
Number one rule of flying with pax:
When they say they are hot and/or are asking for more air, get a bag ready. They’re trying to tell you something without coming right out and saying it.
I wish mine would now and then be more specific as to what their exact problem is. Kudos to the honesty of youth.
With any luck at all in about eight or nine years that young man will arrive at P’cola wearing Marine Green and ready to start the journey to becoming a great pilot on his own.
I second Marine6. You infected the young man with the Disease. I remember the WWII aviators I was taught by as a kid and looked upon them as that young man looks up to you now. BZ.
Ziploc bags. Preferably large ones. Don’t go flying without one.
Lex,
Are you ever going to take Kat and Biscuit up? Might be fun for them to actually experience what their Dad spent oh-so-many years away from home training to do.
When Jeanna Yeager and Dick Rutan flew around the world without stopping, they saved every brown thing; in plastic bags. Neither of them were quite the same, afterwards.
What Jeff said. Betcha the horsey one (never can remember which is which) gets a charge out of it.
Jeff, I’ve asked them time and again, but neither appears to have the least interest in it. SNO is game at the drop of a hat, and the Hobbit would go as well. But the thought of the consequences should both of us be in an airplane on a Really Bad Day makes me hesitate taking her ladyship up.
Might just have to get down there and take a flight.
Maybe I could pretend it’s a gift to my daughter, when she hears about her USNA appointment.
Yeah…my wife will buy that.