Flying Like a Bird (A Turd Bird) an email to aAron

Hey bud,
I just booked an introductory flight in a Cessna 172 Skyhawk, this Sunday at noon. I just had to do it man!
I’ve always been fascinated by airplanes. I can’t think of a time when I didn’t look up at the sky and want to fly like a bird.

My second wife had her pilot’s license and the pilots we hung around with were plenty. We, in fact, lived next to an airplane hanger and an airstrip. Tallman, Oregon airport, to be exact –88OR, if you want to look it up. It was just a grass strip much like where you live, there in Alvin. Our Landlord, Bill Johnson lived in the big house at the beginning of the long driveway and we lived in the remodeled Railroad Depot at the end of it, next to the hanger.

There were four airplanes housed there. The V-tailed Beechcraft Bonanza, collecting dust in the southeast corner of the building, was a rebuild project Bill had only nearly finished. He had crashed his first one and the gutted aluminum fuselage of the original was sitting in the opposite corner of the hanger, surrounded by boxes upon boxes of airplane parts. At the active doors of the hanger sat a Piper Tri-Pacer and a Piper Colt, 1940’s era airplanes, they were. Those two planes were operational and annually maintained. The forth plane had been sold to a friend of Bills; his name was Jack. Jack’s plane was a two-place Taylor Craft, a plane much like a Piper J3 Cub. The only real difference between the two models was the J3 sits tandem while the Taylor Craft sat side-by-side. It was a tail-dragger, but it was an OK plane if you like tail-draggers.

Bill was an excellent pilot but had heart problems and couldn’t pass his medical exam. He was a good man but sort of an ass. I would be laying in my bed and snoring away and he would help himself to the front door, come in, walk through the kitchen, then the Living room, and right into our bedroom. He would roust me out of bed and out of my slumber. “Get your ass up and let’s fly to Independence for lunch,” he’d say while tugging away at my foot.

“Bill, you can’t just come into the house like that,” I’d think, while waking up. But, Wow! Here’s another chance to fly.

Bill would put me in the left seat (pilot’s side) of the old Tri-Pacer and he would be to my right. He’d do the run-up (checking the magnetos and such) at the east end of the runway, instructing me on what exactly it all meant. We’d throttle up and take-off to the west. Since the runway had a bit of a dog-leg to it, he’d keep his feet fixed on the rudder pedals. I’d have my hands on the yoke and when we hit sixty knots, I pulled back and rotated up and outta there. We flew North along interstate 5 toward Independence, Oregon.

We were flying along above the freeway and Bill pointed out to me what he thought was the Independence Airport. Now, I knew that Independence was west of the freeway and off the left wing was an airstrip that looked more like our destination. I said, “Bill, isn’t that Independence over there?”

“Oh $#!t, your right” he said, as he made a quick left bank maneuver, rendering my stomach to continue flying northward.

We flew a right downwind leg and left base, but we were still a little too high. When we turned final we were still high and he dropped altitude, in the most intentional way. We nosed-down and I watched the ground coming at me fast-and-furious.

We were still coming in HOT! Probably seventy knots and Bill decided to ‘slip’ it in. ‘Slipping it in’ meant using the fuselage as a means to slow down. It’s accomplished by a combination of opposing rudder and aileron controls. Coming in sideways, so to speak.

Here we are coming in too fast, with 25 knot crosswind gusts, sideways and at a tipped counter-clockwise attitude. All I saw was myself hitting the ground and tumbling in a fiery crash, and sudden death was assured.

As we descended into the ground-effect, the plane smoothed out, straightened out, and lined up to the runway. We were still too fast and hit the ground hard. We bounced off the runway like a basketball. It hurt my already mixed-up guts, but we finally came to a stop. We called the restaurant for the Limo.

The ‘63’ Chevy Impala Station wagon showed up near the tar mat. It was a dingy- brown colored old car and smoked badly due to worn piston rings. And, the Hispanic gentleman that drove it spoke very broken English.

We showed up at the restaurant and ordered whatever on the menu sounded good at the time. When I got my plate, it looked as though someone puked a bunch of rice and re-fried beans on it –then threw a few veggies on there just for looks. It was putrid! Having just gone through what just had, my appetite was little to be desired. I slogged my way through the glop.

We boarded the old Chevy station wagon and made our way back to the airport. The winds had died down by this time and taking off was a breeze.

I was in the pilot’s seat and Bill was next to me at probably 2500 feet over Albany in route home. As the crow flies we were maybe six or seven miles out. We’re cruising along when suddenly –BLAP BLAP---wriiirrr—BLAP BLAP!!!!!. The engine started missing. Bill turned to me and said, “Look down there and find a piece of road where there are no power lines!”

I said, “WHAT???”

“LOOK DOWN THERE AND FIND THE SAFEST PLACE TO CRASH!!!” Bill yelled, with a certain amount of desperation in his voice.

The engine of the old plane smoothed out and we dripped sweat for the next five to ten minutes. We touched down at home base and taxied up to the hanger. Once we closed up the hanger doors, I said, “Bill, I’m gonna go change my shorts and go back to bed –I’ll come out later with a bottle of 409 and try to get the stink out of that seat”