The Cannibal Queen (17 page)
“Sure,” I told her. “I helped with the auditions. The girl that we selected was an exotic dancer who …”
As Nancy and Amy were comparing notes on all the things they saw on the ground and I tied the plane down, a young man walked over. He visited with Nancy while he stared at the Queen. Finally he asked her what I did for a living.
Alas, she told him the truth, that I am a scribbler squandering his royalties. Later I told her that in the future she is to tell people that I am a former president of a savings and loan, and since my prison term doesn’t start until October 1, I am out flying up all the money I stole.
As I suspected, John and Nancy the extroverts had solicited their friends to see if anyone wanted to commit lift in an open-cockpit biplane when John’s vagrant brother turned up, sooner or later. Two women and no men took them up on the invitation, but one of the women backed out. The one who kept her courage was JoAnne Ward. When the time came Friday evening to go to the airport both her daughters and husband decided to go along and watch ol’ Mom do something.really stupid.
I strapped her in as the spectators snapped pictures and Nancy gave them a running commentary based on her vast experience, acquired that morning. When we got back, Tessa, the eldest daughter, decided she’d give it a try. After Tessa’s ride, Randy Ward, the father, pointed to the place where I had tied the
Queen
down. No more riders tonight.
While helping me install the tiedown straps Randy mentioned that he got airsick in small planes. I assured him that had never happened to anyone in the Queen. There’s too much fresh air, the plane is stable, I don’t do any sharp maneuvering, and I keep the rides short. Randy listened politely and nodded but he didn’t change his mind. He didn’t want to chance it.
A lot of people have been sick in small airplanes, including me. I got sick as a hog on my very first ride in a Navy T-34 in Pensacola, Florida. I prayed that I would die right there in the front cockpit, and when I didn’t I swore that if I ever got my feet back on the ground, I would never fly again as long as I lived. Like most of my promises, I didn’t keep that one. Doped to the gills with Dramamine from the dispensary, I flew again and again and fell in love with it. Yet from then on, whenever I had to ride and watch the instructor do the flying I still got sick. I was okay only as long as I had my hands on the stick.
I’m still like that. Last year the Navy invited me to go for a ride in an A-6 Intruder at NAS Oceana and I took them up on it. Fifteen years had passed since I had last strapped an A-6 to my rear, so I sort of thought this ride would be a big nostalgia trip. Yet after an hour in the right seat watching the pilot flip the plane around I begin to feel queasy. I didn’t lose it, but almost.
The admiral invited me to come back and ride in the backseat of an F-14. Thanks, but no thanks—I’ll pass unless they put me up front with the stick and throttles. (If you read this, Admiral, believe me, I could handle that Tomcat. Honest!)
From the stories I’ve heard, I think too many pilots giving introductory plane rides intentionally try to make the novices sick. This is worse than stupid—it’s grotesque. Aviation today needs every friend it can get, and the only way we’re going to get them is one passenger at a time. When I hear some dummy laughing about how he made a passenger sick, I get this powerful urge to kick him in the seat of his pants, where his brains are.
On Saturday John and I set forth to fly the
Queen
to Fallston, Maryland, a little strip near Jarrettsville where Nancy’s Aunt Eb and Uncle George Cairnes reside. The fuel pump at Montgomery County wasn’t open at 7
A.M.
, SO we decided to fly to Frederick and get gas there. Off we went, John white-knuckling it in the front cockpit. Like his wife, he is a fearful flyer. I know he thinks my passionate affair with aviation is proof that I was really adopted by our parents.
In Frederick we made the discovery that the keys to Nancy’s car were in my pocket. And she was supposed to drive to Jarrettsville this morning for a wedding, bringing John’s suit and tie. He made a few phone calls while I stood around looking slightly nonplused. So we flew back to Montgomery County and John got out, his wife’s keys now in his pocket, and I flew on to Fallston alone.
I beat the Cairnes to Fallston. The FBO proprietor was a man named Fred Mills, with whom I was soon acquainted. He said he was a Cessna dealer for 17 years and frequently ferried new Cessnas from Wichita to Fallston. He got out of it, he said, when the company began making more demands than a small distributor could afford to meet. “There was no way I could put in an avionics shop, not sitting here surrounded by three avionics shops that weren’t making a profit.” A wise decision. A year later, in 1986, Cessna stopped making light planes and he would have lost the dealership anyway.
“It’s the liability,” Mills told me glumly as two men sitting on the couch against the far wall talked about who in the area was competent to repair farm tractor magnetos.
“That year Cessna and Piper and Beech lost $300 million in liability suits; Cessna lost $29 million in one suit alone. Hell, somebody just sued Piper claiming that a 1947 Cub had a manufacturing defect. Can you believe it? 1947! Congress ought to do something. If you own a plane five years, the manufacturer ought to be off the hook. How long do you have to own it before it’s yours? It’s crazy. The Cub was a darn good plane in 1947.”
Soon George Cairnes arrived and the rides started. First to go was his granddaughter, Mary. Then George’s son, John, then George. Next a nine-year-old boy named J.P. who just happened to be there, and lastly George’s grandson, John Jr.
There was a little crosswind and it was gusty, so I had a workout on the landings on that 2,400-foot strip. My first landing in Fallston had been poor, with a moderate bounce to emphasize my ineptitude and the Queen’s need for a delicate hand, but no one was watching. Now, performing before an audience, I begin to figure out the winds and set the
Queen
down with a touch of grace. Fool that I am, I began to feel my chest swell slightly. The last landing deflated me. A mere arrival.
The boy, J.P., was devoid of hero worship. As he was being strapped in he wanted to know if I had enough gas. I assured him I did. He just nodded. A nine-year-old cynic! Yet when he got back he told everyone how terrific it had been. Who knows, maybe he’ll become a pilot someday—even an astronaut.
George Cairnes was a B-29 pilot during World War II, but he gave up flying in 1946, when he was discharged. Today he is trim, has most of his hair and all of his teeth and looks ten or fifteen years younger than he has to be.
He took me to lunch before I flew back to Montgomery County. Predictably, we talked about airplanes. He told me about explosive decompression over Chicago, a blown jug over the Pacific that required a month in Hawaii to repair with golf every day, and a night flight through thunderstorms between Kwajalein and Guam with a navigator, one with 35 missions over Germany under his belt, who broke down completely and sobbed that he was lost. This while the other crewmen fought a fire in the radio panel and the giant plane bucked and writhed in vicious turbulence. Flying is like that—some brushes with eternity interwoven with memories of carefree, vagabond adventures with friends back when you and the world were young.
I had let George fly the
Queen
and he did fine, holding altitude nicely even in the turns. I hope that when I’m his age I can do as well.
Mr. Mills helped me gas the
Queen
before I left. They had been baling hay on the fields around the airport that morning and I could still smell it.
The sweet grass smell mixed with the aroma of gasoline, the soft, hazy sun on my back as I stood on the back of the front cockpit seat and watched the fuel flow into the tank, my shadow on the yellow wings, a gentle breeze stirring my hair— life doesn’t get any better. Later you recall that sublime moment and the memory has a wispy texture, like something from a dream, something imagined.
That evening after John, Nancy and Amy returned from the wedding in Jarrettsville, we sat on their back porch and reviewed the day. Here is how John described his morning flight to his wife and daughter:
“When we got to Frederick, Steve parked the plane and killed the engine. He told me I could get out, but one of the earpads on my headset came off as I took off the headset. Uh-oh, I broke the mike button on his stick the last time I was in the plane, now I’ve broken off this earpad. Everything I touch on his airplane just disintegrates. So I decided to sit there and see if I could stuff the pad back into the retainer ring that holds it in place without mentioning the problem to Steve.
“I’m busy at this little chore when Steve said, ‘John, we can’t fuel the plane with you in it.’ There he stands with the fuel hose in his hand. ‘Oh,’ I said, and climbed out, feeling a little stupid.” Here he rolled his eyes and Amy giggled. She really enjoys his stories, so he hams it up to please her.
“After we called Nan about the keys, I got back into the front cockpit and surreptitiously tried to fix the earpad. Steve got the movie camera going and walked around taking my picture. ‘Wave, John.’ ‘Say something, John.’ All this time I’m trying to stuff this earpad back into the retainer ring so Steve won’t know I broke it. Finally he asked, ‘What’re you doing, anyway?’
“So I told him. He flips the retainer ring off, puts the pad in place, then snaps the ring back on. Then he straps himself in and starts the engine.
“The plane won’t move. So he says, ‘We forgot to pull the chocks. John, get out and pull the chocks.’ We forgot. So I got unstrapped and disconnected the headset so I wouldn’t have to take it off and the earpad wouldn’t come off again, and got out and pulled the chocks. But as soon as I was back in the plane Steve restarted the engine and taxied. Now I’m trying to get strapped in and the headset plugged in and the plane is bouncing along, and out of the corner of my eye I see this other plane about a thousand feet away coming right at us. But my headset isn’t plugged in yet.”
He pantomimes to show how frantically he was trying to get the plug in properly. “At last I get it in and shout, ‘There’s a plane taking off right at us!’ Anytime I see another airplane I just know it’s coming right into the cockpit with us. So I shouted. Steve said, ‘Huh?’ and slammed on the brakes. Then I saw that the other plane was merely taxiing in our direction.”
At this point John shrugged and shook his head slowly. Nancy laughed, Amy giggled hugely and I smiled. I don’t remember that our visit to Frederick was this exciting, but John sure can tell a story.
“So we flew back to Montgomery. As we entered the pattern I saw this other airplane ahead of us. Uh-oh! I have to keep my eye on it or we’ll hit it. So I kept my eyes glued on that little plane. Then our plane bounced or something, and I lost it. I couldn’t find it. I just knew it was going to come right into the cockpit with us. So I searched madly and finally spotted the other plane, just about to land, a mile in front of us.” He gave a big sigh of relief. “Saved.”
Amy said, “Oh, Daddy!”
John has more adventures than anyone I know.
On Sunday morning, the 30th of June, John and Amy awoke early to take me to the airport and see me off. When we got there I asked Amy if she wanted another ride. She did.
We found her house in the haze and circled it once, then returned to the airport only to find that a bicyclist was riding up and down the runway. The plane in front of me waved off and I made a low pass. As I went down the runway fifteen feet above the ground I made a rude gesture to the man on the bicycle. I was gone before he had time to return it.
I landed long on the next pass. John said he heard a police siren on the other side of the runway before I landed, so presumably the bicycle rider was on his way downtown to be fingerprinted and photographed.
What in the world gets into people and induces them to pull a stunt like that? If that guy had seen my first landing at Fallston yesterday he wouldn’t have gotten within a half mile of any place that I was trying to plant the big Stearman.
We said our good-byes and Amy Carol gave me a kiss and a big hug. I think she enjoyed her rides in the
Cannibal
Queen. When I lifted off, she and John were waving. I waved back.
A
WARM FRONT STRETCHES FROM
C
APE
C
OD TO WESTERN
P
ENNSYLVANIA
and I am going to fly under it. Showers and isolated thunderstorms are predicted for midafternoon, but I am getting an early start. Visibility in Maryland is five to seven miles, the broken clouds at 4,000 or 5,000 feet. I level at 2,000 and point the
Queen
toward York, Pennsylvania. There I pick up a four-lane highway and follow it across Lancaster and on toward Reading as the haze thickens slightly.
Reading sits in a little glade of sunshine and good visibility. On the ground as I fuel the plane the airplane casts a crisp shadow and one can see the hills in every direction. And it is hot, in the upper 80’s. As I climb out eastbound the sun disappears and the hazy gloom deepens. My track lies between Allentown-Bethlehem and Philadelphia, both with toadstool-shaped controlled airspace sectors that I intend to avoid.
I cross Green Lane Reservoir, Quakertown, and Lake Nockamixon, then alter course more to the north. Still flying at 2,000 feet—about 1,700 feet above the ground—the limited visibility means that I can see no more than three miles in any direction. The plane passes under dark gray areas, then back into lighter areas, but no rain. My finger rests on the chart marking our position, and at every little landmark I make an X and jot the time. These time ticks look like beetle tracks. I feel like a beetle, crawling along in marginal visibility, working hard to stay unlost.
I plan to stop in Newton, New Jersey, for fuel, so I dial in the Unicom frequency, 122.9. Someone else aloft in this goo is lost—he and another airplane are talking back and forth, trying to find a familiar landmark.
Listening now to the rising pitch in the voice of the pilot who is lost, I feel sympathy for him. There is nothing I can do to help. I know where I am but not where he is. The most important thing he can do is keep his wits about him and not panic. He can use electronic navigation aids to get a fix, if he has them and knows how to use them. Even if he doesn’t, he can ask one of the many approach controllers in this area for a steer.
