We’d ten flights scheduled for the Vargas yesterday, split five apiece between myself and Earl-the-Pearl, not to mention four or five biplane rides and one hack in the warbird. Might be that folks are cashing in on gift cards, or it might be pent-up demand – December was very slow – but it was good to be back in the air again.
With all that “work” to do, I was up early. A cup of coffee in hand I let the dogs both greater and lesser out back right at sunrise, stiffening my resolve to face the morning chill. It’s not so much by the standards of folks living in places like Detroit and Rapid City I don’t think, but it does get into the low 50′s over night. Some times into the 40′s. I positively shiver.
I read the sky with profesional interest, something you forget to do when you’re not flying. The winds out back were dead calm, the air warm and flat like a changing of the tide. I looked up to see a crystal clear sky, no trace of the usual coastal fog. I knew the signs: Santa Ana’s were coming.
Nothing much to fret about this time of year, we’ve had some good rain and they never last long enough in the winter to dry the roadside grasses out, allowing some careless motorist to flick the embers of his cigarette into the tinder and burn out a thousand homes in East County. That’s every other October or so. But it can make things interesting in the air.
The first pair were a nice young couple down to LA from the Bay Area, with a side visit down to Sandy Eggo for a half-hour learn to fly, side-by-side. They’d gotten their wires crossed somehow and ended up at Palomar and their delay ran one flight into the next, so it was a pretty hasty brief – “I’ve got it-you’ve got it-I’ve got it” – before we putted out west. The winds on deck were light and westerly, so we flew a formation take-off from runway 28 right, Pearl leading. Loose cruise to Mount Soledad, then a descent down to five hundred feet southbound off LaJolla with me a half mile in trail, around the tip of Point Loma and into San Diego bay itself as far as the sub base before bending them back around again for the trip north. There were sailing regattas off shore and in, surfers and sunbathers on the beaches, limitless visibility in every direction and a strange sense of privilege surrounding it all, something hard to explain. Perfect weather, a lovely oasis in an unlovely world, the ocean brilliantly blue and sparkling. Sailing yachts bent to the breeze and well-filled bikinis no very great distance below, we ourselves above it all. My passenger – guest pilot, I suppose I should say – was in awe and wonder at all of it.
Thirty minutes passes pretty quickly in an airplane. We rejoined just south of LaJolla, and there were many happy snaps between the two guest pilots in formation, each of them with matching iPhones. She couldn’t get the smile off her face, didn’t even try. It reminded me, as these things so often do, of what you can come to take for granted.
My guy was equally entranced, he kept asking things like how much the airplane cost, how long it took to get a pilot’s license, was landing the hardest part?
Not so much in this airplane, I told him, just before having to execute a last second go-around at 50 or 60 feet. The pattern winds were starting to get squirrely, Pearl had put his flaps down on final, I’d gotten closer to him than I wanted to be and settled into his propwash even as I was reaching down to lower my own flaps. Then the stall warning horn went off, which was unsettling. It’s no big deal when it goes off just as the wheels touch down, but there’s a lot that can happen between 50 feet and terra firma in a light single, not all of which is good. There are some things – a safe landing is one – which you should never take for granted. I’d seen enough, and we’d just try that one again. One of the bennies of flying Navy, I think. You get used to the idea of waving off a bad approach.
I led the next hop, a dogfight. In the best traditions of the service, Pearl having been a Marine dinosaur Phantom and Hornet driver before retiring, I gave him the needle during the brief. He smiled through all of it, hammered that needle flat once we got airborne and stuck it between my ribs and twisted during our “proficiency” hack after the paying passengers were done. That’s the last time I give him a hundred feet and 10 knots at a merge in an airplane that can’t legally go vertical.
Sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you.
The next folks planning on a one-hour learn to fly (side-by-side) canceled, which got us caught up on the schedule and gave me a chance for a bite while Pearl briefed our fourth flight, another dogfight. You could feel the sea breeze starting to give way to the Santa Ana’s overhead, and at a thousand feet westbound we were being pushed sideways nearly as fast as we were flying forward, it seemed. Helicopter jocks may be used to it, but going sideways at low altitude always sparks cognitive dissonance in a guy who grew up fast jets.
My guy was a jolly gent with a little bit of flight time up against a lifetime friend, but he laid all that by the side once we’d gotten into the mix. He kept putting on turns that would have worked great in an afterburning jet but which were more than the 150 hp Lycoming could graciously sustain. Right into accelerated stall buffet, and no way I could talk him out of it even with the “stick limiter” in place. The consequences were predictable, and we spent more time looking over our shoulders at a Varga at our six than we did looking out the front at a Varga ahead of us. They still had fun.
I took the lead for the jaunt back to Montgomery Field, checking ATIS before dialing up the tower. Once back over Torrey Pines I started getting that sideways feeling again, and had to ask the tower to say again the active runway. Runway 5 he repeated. I’d never before done an approach to Runway 5 – turns out there are some lovely powerlines a half-mile on final. Had to bump her up to a relatively steep glideslope on a short runway (3400 feet), lowered the flaps again to slow her down, but with the Santa Ana’s in our face we had no problem stopping by the midfield taxiway.
The wind was whipping up to beat the band, the taildragger flights were canceled and upon further reflection the owners scrubbed the last two Varga rides as well. Another 3.2 for the logbook – it’s not five flights, but neither is it nothing. And someone else paid for the gas.
As I was leaving the airport, I saw some old coot in a J-3 Cub working the pattern, and I had to admire his fixity of purpose if not his acumen. You could have ran him down afoot on the upwind leg he was going that slowly, quickly turning into a race car on downwind. Probably 35-40 knots aloft and bumpy as all get out. It must have made for quite a ride.
You see a lot if you’re looking for it in a day at the airport, hear things too. News and gossip between people of shared interests, shared purpose. The power lines you’d never noticed on a runway you’d never used. There’s a slick little Mooney with a flat tire that hasn’t moved in ages, and it speaks to me of a younger man’s long-nurtured dream finally realized just in time for the owner to lose his medical. Then there was the futuristic little DA-20 spending an eternity at the hold short whispering its suspicions about a pilot with more disposable cash than confidence. The little Vargas tucked away at the end of the day hum with their memories of joy and wonder. The Santa Ana’s howling overhead.
Just another Saturday.
Watching the weather channel yesterday morning, I wondered if you’d get to fly. They were talking about the Santa Ana winds. I remember they weren’t too pleasant, even on the ground.
Glad it was all good.
Lex,
Some of the very best days of my youth were spent at the local airport. When I was 16, I had a driver’s license and an old 1950 Dodge pick up truck. Many a Saturday afternoon was spent here:
http://www.northloganecondev.com/logan_cache_airport.htm
When I first stopped by, there was a retired F-100 sitting there, alongside Tri-Pacers, Navions, J-3′s and all manner of Cessnas. Old military hangars and surplus quonset huts with “unlocked” doors just ripe for exploring by an inquisitive young man were always a temptation.
Many times, it was just me backing my truck into a parking space, or between the hangars, and sitting in the bed watching planes bounce in the pattern, or folks doing maitenance, whatever.
Glorious day they were, and whetted my appetite for more.
Nowadays, there’s lots more construction at that old field, with jet traffic now common, and since the “Valley” has been discovered, at least 11 Lears call it their home. The old field is still there, just gussied up and expanded, but not a place for a young man to while a way an afternoon, watching planes, sipping a cold soda and dreaming of his future.
respects,
Sounds like a damn good one too Lex!
Our Saturday was spent with my in-laws – very lovely folks we happily spent most of the day with in MA. Headed home in a blizzard and temps in the teens – which really is a conundrum of sorts.
aaah CAPT…
thanks so much for this article this morning..what a great display of writing talent..
a very positive emotion it leaves me with..
reminds me ..it’s time to hit the tip jar again..
enjoy
Can’t believe you let a Marine whoop you. The shame. Oh, the shame.
Last time I come here, until next time.
Kris … brought up as I was in Wisconsin, I sometimes get homesick for snow. But not this winter, which is certainly overdoing it for you folks up north. Prepare for the coming Ice Age that Gore is hysterically denying. The evidence for it is piling up. Like … um … snow drifts.
The problem is, Mother Nature never does things by halves. Except in Hawaii.
Hang in there, sweetie.
Marianne
Gotta admire the J3 guy. When my Dad was teaching me to fly at age 13 in an Aeronca Champ we used to go flying all the time when the winds were howling. We’d buck around like crazy but he’d say – if you can land it today you can land it anyday. One time a few years back I was flyingback to Manasas, VA from Pittsburgh. Left on one of those early spring days that had snow showers in Pittsburgh climbing though the layers to get on top around 8K. Once in the pattern at Manassas it was a visual approach but the wind was someting like 28 gusting 36 knots. It was only about 30 degrees off the runway but it took a couple of go ’rounds to get it planted firmly. I heard my Dad saying – “just stay with it…” as I jockeyed the yoke and throttle trying not to drop it in….
For the record, it may get up to 70 in Texas with the wind having mostly died down.
Hint, hint.
Growing up (don’t laugh) in L.A. meant trips to Hawthorne and Torrance, where my Uncle was working up for his ATP. The grade school over on the next street was terraced in such a way as to allow a young lad to observe the multitude of approaching a/c to LAX.
My first assignment out of ‘Eh’ School was to lovely MCAS Yuma; Jan ’75. As we of the Aircraft Recovery bent were charged with rigging/de-rigging of certain arresting gear and positioning of the Fresnel Lens according to duty runway, there were those days when “Recovery, Tower. Duty runway now 21.” “Roger, copy runway 21.” 20 minutes later “Recovery, Tower. Duty runway now 03.” “Roger, copy runway 03.” And so it would go on some days…for hours…never a dull moment.
Did my first student flying out of Yuma in a Grumman American, doing short field and crosswind work down at Aux 4. Great liberty town. Nice duty station, but so glad to get orders to K-Bay before summer really set in.
Big D – you are an evil person!
Any day at a small airport is a good day, Lex; glad yours went well. I’ve visited MYF a few times in recent years, and found it a fun little airport, although SoCal airspace has a certain meat-grinder ambiance that always takes a little getting used to.
Yeah, between avoiding the Class B overhead and avoiding noise complaints down below, it does get a little tedious. But, you know: So long as you’re talking to tower…
Pitts: try the Bay area. Same gig, different locale.
Just another Sunday reading about Lex’s Saturday … thanks for the fix!
Always enjoy the writing, Lex.
I have wondered about ACM without going aerobatic. If I’m ever in Sandy Eggo I hope to find out.
Cessna 150.
Winds 300 at 30kts.
Landing on runway 21 with an Interstate highway 50 feet below the threshold.
Cessnas sure are sturdy.
Marianne, the changing of the seasons and snowfall are, once you’re in them, highly over-rated. I believe this is because when one is a young lad or lass the snow is a toy to be used, for making snowmen and sledding upon. When cold, the young lad or lass can scamper indoors to a cup of hot cocoa and warm themselves by the fire.
Memories like that can make one nostalgic for the heavy sodden crap.
I believe if I make the Little Tricycle Motor shovel the walk before being allowed to build a snowman or run her sled down the big drift in the driveway, she will not be so enamored.
And everything is dead. Or dormant. The only signs of life to be found are the footie-prints of the rabbits in the powder, and the flickering glow from the wood stove in the machine shed while I wait for the diesels to warm up.
http://216.235.175.14/thisblows.jpg
Gave it that name for a reason.
Only another couple of months and I’ll be tilling the garden, prepping the motorcycle, and readying the lawn mower for its six months of weekly duty.
I can sure appreciate the cycle that is life on these high plains. Doesn’t mean I need to like this part of the cycle.
– Max
I finally saw a Varga close up a few days ago.
The day after Christmas, I took my nephew up for his first time in a small plane, in this case a Tecnam light sport. We stopped for a while at Hollister’s airport after doing some landings, and the Varga dropped in for fuel about that time. I expected it would be a little bigger…
Nephew had just graduated with a BA in computer science, and he’s jumped out of perfectly good airplanes (Ft. Benning, two summers ago). He’s starting a Masters in a couple weeks, and will be commissioned as an Army 2nd Lt. in May. Busy.
He loved the flight; wants to get both fixed-wing and rotorcraft ratings. It was a good day.
Aw Max – the change of seasons is the whole reason to live in places like you and I do. Or maybe I’m just one of those sick people who don’t mind any of the 4 seasons in New England- including winter.
Kris, you are so right. Marianne touched on two climate zones with which I am familiar; born and raised in Hawaii and currently residing in Wisconsin. I love all four seasons in Wisconsin, but winter is my favorite. I’m not really interested in living in the land of eternal summer.
Lex,
Thanks for that. Any day at the airport is a good day.
Last Wednesday, I was at MIA prepping 38,000 kgs of DoD material for a departure on our trusty DC8-63F. The flight plan called for MIA-YQX 2 hour tech stop-HHN 16 hour crew rest-DOH. Did the weight and balance, got the documents signed off by Customs and Border Protection, ordered 105,000 lbs of fuel, scheduled the airplane to be towed from remote parking, called the caterers for 12 of everything (sandwiches, fruit tray, salads, soft drinks, water, ice and desserts), had the crew picked up from the hotel and scheduled the loaders to meet the airplane on spot 61 in the Western U. Pushback was at 1303, wheels up at 1317. Weather crapped out in Germany so we crew rested in Gander. 13 hours later we flew YQX-HHN-DOH…..a good day.
looking for rick vargas & chris alba wingwalking team. They perfomer the Wing 1990 at fullertin airport calif.
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