So, yeah: First day at the new aerodrome. Google mapped the place first just to get the lay of the land. Landmarks, rough headings. Airspace restrictions. It’s much the tighter bit of work for the VFR bugsmasher than was Palomar, and even with 4,000+ hours of flight time, your correspondent is a relative novice at this whole VFR transition through embedded Class “D” airspace under the lateral limits of the Class “B” wheeze. Back in the days of fast jets and loose women, it was 35,000 feet until an en route descent to either a PAR pick-up or visual overhead, request the carrier break. IFR handling all the way. Pretty hard to goon it up, do what you’re told.
Flogging around at 110 MPH using visual landmarks? Not so much.
Back on the motorcycle for the first time since, what? June? Hard to ride it to work when there’s no place to change from your skiddies to your civvies. Started like a champ though, with never a cough or complaint. Deutches Motorradtechnisch, ne ja?
But it’s an entirely different commute up the 5 to Palomar than it is to Kearney Mesa. By the time the suburban sprawl made it up to Palomar, developers had learned the wisdom of “planned communities.” Kearney Mesa – almost in town, but not quite there – just sort of happened. It’s a chaos of what-do-we-do-nows, on ramps, off ramps and random crossings. Kind of a motorcycle rider’s combat reaction course.
Which, look at the upside: Makes taking novice pilots on BFM missions in 40-year old piston engine aircraft seem charmingly sane by comparison.
75 Juliet was down for a cracked exhaust manifold, so we had to cancel the BFM sortie. We only had one client (a former F-111 WSO), so the owners upgraded him to a War Bird ride – a good deal for him, since the operating costs of the SNJ are much higher than the little Vargas.
So it was a one hour “learn to fly” for your correspondent with a 1430 brief time. At the tic of the toc, a chronically over-served gentleman wearing a scowl, jailhouse tats, a wife beater t-shirt, cargo shorts and flip flops strolled in, nearly causing my heart to die inside me. This should be fun. Kept on strolling though. And after a moment I was introduced to John, a bright-eyed cherub of eleven summers, come the morrow. Here to fly for the very first time in celebration of his upcoming birthday. His mother and grandparents having split the cost of his fare. Herself excited for him, even envious maybe. A chance she’d never had.
But always that hint of nervousness just underneath. It would be all right, wouldn’t it? He was her only son. All of it left unsaid, but there nonetheless like an open book for the reading. I’ve seen it so many times before: The happy, strained smiles when we taxi out. The exultant, relieved smiles when we taxi back in.
I smiled and wove confident stories of professional experience and mature wisdom. Things calculated to reassure a necessarily doubtful mother entrusting her most precious thing on earth to a frail craft and a complete stranger. While knowing all along that no one can promise tomorrow today. You just do your best to make it fun and keep it safe.
That’s all you can do.
Briefed the big picture, thrust and drag, lift and gravity. Gave very brief obeisance to M. Bernoulli. Omitted, for the nonce, discussion of the g required for level flight being inversely proportional to the cosine of the bank angle. Spent a good five minutes practicing exchange of controls: You’ve got it. I’ve got it. You’ve got it.
Strapped him in, cranked her up, departed VFR to the southwest like we knew what we were doing. Fifteen hundred feet to the Mission Bay VORTAC, west to Crystal Pier and then up the coast to Encinitas. Let him fly once we’d leveled off, but he got quilty when I asked him to either drop down a bit or else turn north so as to remain clear of Lindbergh’s airspace. Like the kid could know what direction north was. Because while an experienced pilot could point to north having been rudely shaken awake in a strange hotel room after a three day bender in Vegas – “north up” is the way we orient to the world – John was only ten, going on eleven and this was his first flight ever. So he handed me the aircraft back eagerly. Trustingly.
Dropped down to 500 feet abeam Black’s Beach northbound. Staying just far enough away to do honor to the man’s innocence . Wrapped her up in a steep turn a few miles later and hizzoner fair whooped with delight. Do it again.
Why not do it yourself? And so he did. Over and over again, with laughter and joy in his eyes, and a hint of thoughtful sadness when it was over. Headed back to the field via visual navigation – what racetrack is that? Del Mar! – for two touch-and-go’s and a full-stop. Clear at Delta taxiway, taxi toward the transient line and his waving, exuberant mother – simultaneously grateful and relieved, they’re always relieved – and shut 50 Whiskey down reluctantly: mixture cut-off, mags off, fuel off, master off. For everything a time.
Every once in a while you fly with someone who makes you see it again, who makes it fresh once more. The wild, glissading rapture of surfing an invisible ocean of air. The inexpressible, sweeping freedom in the union of man and machine. The earthbound trogs you pity on the beaches, in their sailboats and on their million dollar porches with ocean views.
I get paid for this.
Sometimes it hardly seems fair.
Lex, I am the father of an eight year old boy. I see that look often when he discovers something new that has become old hat to me. It reminds you how much fun living is. Great story.
Yeah. The young ones make you see it again. The way you saw it once upon a time. Dick, thanks again. May you rest in peace.
Beautifully put, Lex. Been lurking here for a while, enjoying the mental rewind to the CVN days but this post demanded a ‘well done’ and “BZ”, whatever that truly means…
In my line of work, the Flying John is the Coffee Return Receptacle, and we endeavor to keep it full of blue juice.
Not nearly as romantic.
In 1982 I flew from Hawthorne (1/4 mile southeast of LAX) to Sandyeggo in a C-172 for the weekend. My buddies and I took several rolls of toilet paper and our good selves up for a ride north and west of Blacks Beach and the Del Mar race track. I showed my buds how to “cut the ribbon” of toilet paper as it slowly descends after dumping it out the window.
Starting above 5000 feet AGL, the trick is to make sure some of the paper (about ten feet) is un-rolled before you toss it out. As the paper falls, the roll unrolls and leaves a 100 ft long white vertical ribbon falling towards the ground/ocean. The next trick is to aviate far enough away from the target before you start turning back to “cut the ribbon.” After a few tries, it is much easier. It is a vertical and horizontal challenge almost as fun as hanging out over the VOR waiting for unsuspecting targets to imaginary machine gun from above coming out of the sun in a Citabria.
My best friend is now a successful attorney in SD with a wife and three kids. Back then we were batchelors that were pretty capable sailors and always managed to find some fun around the yacht club.
I live in S. Florida now and fly a seaplane for fun.
*big smile*
just…
*big smile*
I’ve done the same thing, to a 22-year-old fellow co-ed. The satisfaction I felt when I looked over at her as we left terra firma is still there, and the sparkle in her eyes as she banked the old Cherokee 140 her first time–priceless.
Only prob is, I introduced her to Diana, who owns a Citabria. Heather will never be the same–and I understand why.
It’s such a great, good thing, isn’t it, to take one up who has never “slipped the surly bonds”, who has never “danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.”
You may have added another future pilot to the ranks. Usually one of two reactions. Either “Let’s do it again” or a sigh of relief on touchdown after leaving grip marks on the seat. Never anything in between.
So when do *you* begin giving hops in the SNJ?
Ah yes, KM, a criss -crossing of Balboa Ave,I-15, and Kearney Villa road. I worked at once was the old General Dynamics site there(now an industrial park). Many a time I rode my motorcycle to work to build Tomahawk Missile test equipment or be sent to Lindbergh Field to repair some widget or something.
Watch out for the fogs of winter as visibilty can be zero zero in seconds. I have mant pleasent memories of KM and San Diego!
Dammit Lex!
Just when I was starting to be able (after 19 years) to get up in the morning, look out the window, and not have the first thought of the day be “What a great day to go flying!” you do this to me.
Grumble, grumble…
Lex,
That could’ve been me many years ago. I had my first flight at 10 years of age. My friend’s father owned a Piper Tri-Pacer and one day after church, he asked me if I would like to go flying with him and his dad. Would I? Oh yes, thank you very much and just let me ask my father who I am certain will say yes!
It started me on a journey that I will always be on. In fact, it has been no small point of wonder that, when I’ve had to have blood tests done, that the results have been negative for traces of JP exhaust, hydraulic fluid, av-gas fumes or window cleaner… sigh.
Thanks again, Lex, because in my time, it was a retired Commander who took me flying, and gave me lessons, and so we manage to pass the dream on to the next generation.
Respects,
I know what you mean, Lex; I’ll be taking my younger son up for his first spam-can flight today, on his fifth birthday. Hopefully he’ll take to it like his brother has, and I’ll have two junior birdmen in the house.
re: So when do *you* begin giving hops in the SNJ?
Now that’s a good question. I’ll prolly have to cowboy up and get a taildragger endorsement on my own dime before forking over more of said OwnDollars to train in the machine before they’ll let me take a crack at it.
On the plus side, it might open up the TravelAir thing as well, and anyway I’m told the SNJ is simpler to fly – at least in a crosswind – than is the old biplane.
Oh yah, you definately WANT to cowboy up!1! My brothers and sisters coughed up the $$ for a hop (birthday present) in the company SNJ a few years ago and it was easily my most memorable flight ever.
When that P&W radial coughed to life in a cloud of smoke, the hairs on my arm stood up. Comparing the sound of the engine to a typical light aircraft is like comparing the sound of a 1960s GT-500 to one of today’s 4 cylinder lawnmower engines.
The carrier break when we got back to Palomar was the icing on the cake.
I wish I had a 4 cylinder lawnmower..that flew!
b2
Hi Lex, you bring back lots of fond memories of owning the company. Sadly, that got lost in the business of running it.
Per usual, your wordsmything really paints a picture.
Blue skies and tailwinds,
Kate
So Lex — used the aeronautical charts overlay for Google earth yet? Also has an option for viewing airspace in 3-D, kinda handy when you’re near airspace the feds get a little touchy over…
- SJS
That’s cool, SJS, thanks!
You know… I hate flying. I absolutely cannot stand it. Call it “knowing too much”. My old job all I did was work mishaps and failures. None of us liked to fly after awhile… for more reasons than I could actually put out here. Let me say, I’d fly military before commercial.
So I’d be the Mom that was standing off watching, taking the deep breath, if one of my sons wanted to take a ride. Inside it would make me nearly insane, but is something I’d let him do, as I don’t think I should pass my own insecurities and fears to my children.
I’ve been reading you for a few years now. I realized when I read this post, that if they wanted to take a ride, I’d let them fly with you.
What a very lucky young man. Someday he will look back on this with the fuller knowledge of life experience and understand for the first time just what a privilege he had – flying with someone like Lex.
*sigh* Where was all this cool stuff when we were mere
conesstudents at P-cola?- SJS
As a lad my Uncle would take me flying with him out of Hawthorne or Torrance, and whether day or night there was nothing better. As fate would have it I was born short a chromosome, the one needed for perfect color vision. Oh well, there are always other things to do in life.
While serving as one of Uncle Sam’s Mischievous Children in Yuma, I did take on the Private flying in a Grumman American. A sweet little ride… Aux 4 out of Yuma was a particularly great place to practice the various forms of landing: crosswind, steep, short field, et. al.
Thankfully the demonstrated Ability Waiver came into being, allowing some of us to expand into loftier expanses…day or night…
Great post, Lex, and thanks for stirring long forgotten memories.
Good story, Lex. You know, I don’t think you’ve ever told us the story of your first flight…
How fortunate we are when some youngster recalibrates our senses of wonder and delight.
Nice one, Lex.
Secret Asian Man beat me too it. As soon as I saw Flying John I thought of the little room at the back of the plane.
A friend who was Chief Pilot for a very big company you would have heard of tells a funny story. Seems they had one of there executives, who was a little bit inebriated, in the back of one of the smaller jets. Needed to use the facilities, but only the standing up type. Pilot explains that there is a small funnel type device that you ‘fill up’ then pull a lever to evacuate the liquid waste. Passenger mistakes the fire estinguisher for the urinal and when he pulls the lever he, his $1000 suit and the interior of the plane are covered with white foam and urine. I’m sure it would have been much funnier if they didn’t have a several hours plane flight ahead of them and a clean up after.
Captain Lex, you are so lucky to be able to introduce this young man to the love of flying. I’m sure you’re modest as you take up civilians, but I hope this young man knows that one of our Navy’s finest gave him his first ride. Would kind of add to the story in years to come.
When I read posts like this I really think I have my priorities wrong, making the house payment and buying food and such. I would much rather spend that money on getting current and getting the youngsters more flight time. And there is a perfectly good Cessna 182 the CAP will let us fly for a pretty good price.
Oh well, soon, I say, soon.