So, ’twas down to the aerodrome early-aye-o for to sign up with yet another flying club, one such as has a broader stable of unobtanium than does t’other. An hour’s worth of having to listen to one pilot intersperse flying stories with club by-laws followed by another pilot – the safety officer, as it turns out – telling tales over the course of the second hour of those who’ve balled up otherwise airworthy craft through one means or another. None of which were particularly edifying, your host being familiar with the requirement to maintain an adequate supply of go-juice in the machine and keep her more or less tracking down the prepared surface. The cruel hardship of which was, ourselves being aspirants, like, manners prevented us from one-upping.
Bitter beer indeed.
But! We now have access to – or soon will, after the obligatory check out – a Citabria-type tail dragger that will allow us to revise and extend our newly won proficiency in that type aircraft, all covered by a group insurance policy. Which is not nothing. Conventional wisdom being that if a thing flies, floats or – another “f” word that instantly escapes me – it might be better to rent than buy.
Then over to the weekend gig for a couple of hops, the first being a 30 minute learn-to-fly with two young gentlemen but recently graduated from UCONN and down hither for the holidays. It’s funny I think – not “ha-ha funny” – that I get paid fairly well for work that I occasionally abhor from Monday to Friday, and nearly nothing for the little bit of flying around I do on the weekends, but I feel much more like myself during the latter than I do during the former.
But be that as it may.
It was skies pretty much clear below 30,000 feet and a chilling 75 degrees today, so I was forced to apologize for the weather conditions to our guests from New England. Took them up the coast for a few minutes to experience some power off stalls and steep turns, before cruising down the coast, into the Sandy Eggo bay. At the bridge we wrapped the machine back to the north, got clearance from Lindbergh to traverse their Class B airspace at 1500 – it’s always strange to see jet liners pass beneath you on final approach – and then back into the pattern again.
Didja have fun, I asked?
He did, he replied. Thoughtfully. Adding, what’s it take to get going in this whole aviation gig, the great joy that it is?
All it takes is airspeed and money, I told the young man.
Airspeed and money.
Immediately after we went into a dog fight hop with a nearly monoglot Japanese lady and her stunningly mixed-race daughter and fashion artiste from New York – a lass of some 23 summers whom ex-Tomcat pilot Rookie (the very mere rogue) took flying in his trunk, leaving mama-san to my care. On account of it was his turn to brief, and in his shoes I’d have done the same thing with a song on my lips and laughter in my heart. Being only a man, take me for all in all. Only I’d briefed the first hop, leaving the second to him before the paying customers showed up, so I ended up entirely dished.
These are the breaks of naval air.
The brief having been accomplished with some degree of translation from the young lady, I bundled her mother in the back and broke the surly bonds of earth, doing my best to explain some fairly varsity flying maneuvers in the argot of surly bond breakers with a dark seed of doubt in my heart, for it was clear that she wasn’t entirely grokking me. To such an extent that in the midst of our first fight she over-banked the machine, setting us towards an untimely rendezvous with the hard deck, the dread misfortune that it would entail, the horror and the ignominy. A deck bust counting as a kill.
“Get your nose up, get your nose up,” I cried in my best remonstrating tones. Yet response came there none.
“Nose up, nose up!” I insisted, only to hear her say in a strained voice that she was, she was.
I craned around to look back wondering what it was she was thinking, like, for the lady’s protestations notwithstanding yet we were coming downhill like a son-of-a-b!tch. Only to find the poor dear tenderly holding the stick in her tiny mitts with her physical nose pointing up towards the canopy, chin upthrust to go with it, eyes warring with her non-trivial cheekbones to see where it was we were a-heading.
I should have learned more Japanese.
LOL! Laughed ’til I cried.
I don’t care who you are,that right there is funny.
Glad you made it back safely.
So on takeoff , what happened when you said “Rotate”!
Back in the days of old Double Ugly, I was out for a little 2v2 DACT against the Aggressors. Approaching the merge, my back seater is trying to talk my eyes on to a bandit he has visually acquired at our 11 o’clock, slightly high. Try as I might, I can’t see him. Finally, in desperation, I tell him to take the jet (USAF F-4s not Navy) and point at him. I feel him shake the stick and we drive on, at considerable velocity, but no vector change. I know the F-5 isn’t in my gun sight, so I’m just beginning to ask a question, but happen to catch a glimpse in the mirror of my back seaters left hand pointing up and to the left. Simultaneous with my snort, I see the hand come down and the stick and throttle start to move. Needless to say, I’m laughing so hard that the engagement doesn’t bode well for us. After the knock it off, while repositioning, I’m on the squadron common dictating the doofer book entry. Japanese indeed!
Brings to mind the Japanese tourist couple who went to the grocery store and returned to their hotel room with what they thought was a can of fried chicken… Crisco.
Break the sound barrier? No problem!
Language barrier? Obviously another matter.
Too funny. Glad you didn’t “…have an untimely rendezvous with the hard deck…” Makes me think when I go scuba diving for the first time (in Egypt) over Christmas I better choose an instructor with a good command of English. Arigatou gozaimasu, Lex.
I thought I saw where you were going and all I could think was “I so hope he doesn’t say that…”
Too funny!
Not doubting the Lex-man for a single second, but in the back of my mind I just KNOW someone else once described having a similar “keep your nose up” experience. Can’t remember where or when I read the story, but LOL, it must be an occupational hazard! My guessing is Lex is neither the first nor will he be the last to experience the exquisite charm of the totally clueless neophyte passenger briefly turned equally clueless fledgling pilot.
If you get a chance to score a ride in a “Vans RV-4,6,7,8,9,or 10″; Do it. Closest thing to a fighter short of magabucks.
The RV-4 is a wonderful ship but if you’re on the plus side of 6 feet tall the -8 is a better fit. Both are two place tandem taildraggers.
The -6,7-9 are two place side by side that can be either conventional gear or taildraggers.
The RV-10 is a four place conventional gear homebuilt that will carry four fat folks, full fuel and full baggage at Bonanza speeds.
There’s been more than 6500 kits built and flown. All are close to or more than 200 MPH airplanes.
My RV-8 with a 200hp IO-360 cruises 180-185kts at 7500ft at 75% power.
You can even build one yourself. Check out http://www.vansaircraft.com. E-mail me if you have questions.
Mannan, the RV-8 is on my wish list, once the junior members of the All-Girl Spending Team are bundled off to college and the whole affair paid for.
It is to dream.
Great story, Captain, and one I can well relate too.
Working with those who speak a different language requires diligent self-monitoring and constant adjustment. Giving a presentation to a mixed-language audience has the feeling of giving a press conference: every word and phrase must be carefully chosen. Whenever I return to a native-English-speaking group, I’m amazed at the abundance of idioms, verbal phrases and cultural expressions that make up the conversation; it’s easily more than half sometimes.
This self-modification for the sake of improving communication can become a habit. One (native speaking) English teacher told me that on his infrequent visits back in the States, he was occasionally told that ‘your English is very good’. Rather embarrassing.
As a side note, it is distressing to me when I read postings and even published articles on the internet that are less coherent than what many second-language students might produce. More than once I’ve had to explain to a mystified student that the reason they don’t understand some printed passage is due to the author’s lack of English ability, not their own. Successful communication, even in printed language, requires an effort of heart and character.
Best regards, Peter Warner.
Nagoya, Japan
Mannan,
It’s good to see someone from VAF on here. Dave G. (RV-6) drops in here sometimes.
Lex,
So, all (most) the airplanes in that club are owned by different people? I’m confused by the size and different locations. It seems like it’s too big to keep track of. But, both of the Citabrias rent for a good price. The one I’m flying goes for $100/hr wet. I would have thought things would be more expensive in California than in rural Kentucky.
Also, I can not for the life remember the name of the biplanes Lex’s outfit uses. Anyone know?
It’s an interesting arrangement, the club has no actual ownership of the machines but serves as a kind of business interface between owners and non-owners. Although the club itself is non-profit, the aircraft owners may seek certain benefits, whether in direct profit or for tax purposes.
And the old biplanes are Travelairs, and the boss says I need 100 hours of tailwheel time afore he’ll let me have a crack at ‘em.
More importantly, how much time do you need before he lets you take the SNJ out?
Lex,
That (N8643) looks like a five point harness. Chutes included in the $95.00?
I’ll let you know when I find out!
Ah Lex, you’re the best. I wish I could write with your flair and humor. That last paragraph brought tears of laughter. “eyes warring with her non-trivial cheek bones” – too much, too much.
You don’t need to speak a foreign language to have that kind of problem.
I remember the increasingly frantic dialing in of down trim by my instructor as we steadily held pattern altitude in spite of the approaching preferred touchdown zone, before he looked at me in dismay.
I had said, “The nose is getting kind of heavy.”
He saw my sweating brow and fairly taut arms and quietly said:
“Would you please loosen your grip on the controls”, thereby over-riding his previous, “Just hold what you got.” which apparently meant hold the controls with constant force vice in constant position.
English can tough all the way around.
Good grief, that is absolutely hysterical! It kind of reminded me of the part in Steinbeck’s East of Eden when the mother took her plane ride.
Also, I strongly suspect that after landing with the guests from New England, that one of those called some buddies back home and said, “What’s that? Stranded in a horrific snow storm? Hunh. That’s terrible. Let me tell you what *I* did today…” I feel most certain…
Lex:
So many aircraft, so little time! Go fly the AA-5 for the sheer joy of cruising along at around 120 with the canopy *open*. And it slides back, which makes entry and exit ever so much nice. Except when it rains. Then get time in the SR-22′s. With the exception of the knobology issues, you’ll find it a joyful return to the glass cockpit of the Charlies. Touch base before you do and I’ll send you a lot of gouge, both birds look to be very similarly configured to The Black Hole.
VR,
Comjam
Those young men from New England had a much better day today than they would have at home this weekend. 14 inches of snow, 20 degrees…
Lex:
If you ever get to Northeast Georgia, you have a ride comming in my RV-8. You have my e-mail address. Let me know and I’ll get you my phone number.
In my former life as a Military Documentary Filmmaker, I got rides in T-34s, T33s, T38s and RF-101 Voodoos (supersonic), among sundry multi-engine transports and helicopters. Got to hand fly most of them.
like Lex; going back isn’t possible but the memory remains. My RV-8 is as close as it gets without megabucks.
Regards:
Mannan
Lex, you used to tell a similar tale about having some Arab pilot driving when you were a SERGRAD. “Well under glideslope,” I believe was the phrase that caused repeated confusion. You thought you were telling him he was low, he thought you were telling him he was “well.”