My Flight Journal
By Ron "Chocks" Glover
(Note: The names of some people and planes have been changed to protect the innocent.)
High in the distance the sound of a motor approaches, Scooter, a young boy in Nebraska runs out looking skyward to see where the sound is coming from. He runs to an open field and spots a Curtis "Jenny" just as it's engine falls silent in idle. The "Jenny" glides straight overhead as Scooter falls to his back and watches the aircraft touch down from his now inverted point of view…
It all started when I was 12 years old and my parents took me to a movie. I didn't know what the movie was and didn't really care. I figured it was another one of the old westerns my father always took us to, but little did I know that this would be the day that shaped my future. This day, it would not be a western. No, this was a movie about an Aviator. A larger than life master of the air and the envy of all mortal earth bound men. It would be this movie, "The Great Waldo Pepper" that would capture the imagination and wonder of a 12-year-old boy and set in motion a life long pursuit of flight.
Out of high school, and more of a gear-head than the pilot type, I started my career as an aircraft mechanic. A two-year trade school provided me with the knowledge and A&P license (known as an airframe and powerplant license) needed to repair general and commercial aircraft. I'm much older now and more closely resemble Oliver Hardy, rather than the ultra suave Robert Redford who played the part of Waldo Pepper. Yeah, this guy could fly fourteen hours in an oil puking open cockpit and still emerge as though he just jumped out of GQ magazine. Although I'd never reach the super cool status of Waldo, I knew that one day I'd have to build and fly one of the old World War I aircraft that had intrigued me so long ago.
One day when looking over the airplanes at the Lakeland, Sun-N-Fun airshow in Florida, I found my project. Through lucid waves of noonday heat rising skyward as though in search of cool relief, I spotted a silver spun aluminum nose and fabric covered wing that started to materialize into view. With my curiosity peaked and my head crooked to one side, I subconsciously altered my path so I would hasten my view of the entire plane. It was an open cockpit aircraft sporting a German paint scheme with the old iron cross insignia of World War I. It was a replica of the infamous Fokker Eindecker EIII, the first operational fighter that had a machine gun mounted up front that was timed so that it would fire through the propeller arc without striking the blades. This was the very aircraft that gave birth to the term "Fokker Scourge" as the sight of this little airplane instilled fear into all who were unfortunate to cross its gun site. As I looked at this plane with admiring eyes, my mind was already flying the beautiful bird. I could imagine myself high above the earth, one hand gently grasping the center control stick and the other resting firmly on the throttle while I maneuvered around great billowing cotton colored clouds with an everlasting supply of fuel. It was at this point that I knew I had found my plane at last and would soon be building one of my own.
The thought had soon occurred to me that since I was going to build my own airplane, maybe I should learn to fly. I'd flown radio control aircraft for years but I was soon to realize that the two differ quite a bit. Looking for an affordable flight instructor, I ran across this guy that was quite reasonable. I hadn't seen his plane before we met and it was probably a good thing I didn't. This explained the "reasonable". We had planned a date to meet at an old run down airport by the name of South Fulton Skyport. When I arrived he was waiting at the most pitiful looking airplane I think I had ever laid eyes on. It was a 1959 Cessna 150 that looked like it was crashed, and left in this particular spot for parts. N1234E, (Or November, One, Two, Three, Four, Echo, its registration number as is pronounced in aviation jargon and forever referred to as such.) was sporting a white and red original color scheme trimmed with corrosion and what appeared to be a 40-year buildup of dirt. But with a curiosity more predominant than fear I decided to look the plane over and see how things turned out.
I sat quietly inside the aircraft wondering how I could bail out of my dilemma while he explained the functions of the instruments on board the airplane. I never told him that I had flown with some friends before and that I was an accomplished model pilot with countless hours of sky burning flying under my belt. How much different could it be from model flying anyway? I was soon to find out.
After our cockpit checkout he finally asked the dreaded question.
"You ready to go flying?"
I looked at him and in my mind said "No way" but instead I heard myself say "Sure! Let's do it."
Next my mind said. "You're an idiot Ron."
"OK. Well step on the brakes for me. I'll have to hand prop it. It hasn't been flown in a while."
My mind says. "Yep, it's confirmed. You're an idiot Ron".
While I stood firmly on the brakes, my instructor (We'll just call him Doug) casually walked to the front of the airplane and swung the prop with half-hearted effort. The decrepit looking, salvage yard Cessna shook off its slumber and slowly started coming to life. With the engine running smoothly and the gauges climbing to their operating range, we started our taxi to the run-up area.
After our run-up, instruments and control surface check, Doug back taxied to runway Two-Seven for departure. (Runway headings are designated by their approximate compass headings and are referred to as two single digit figures. For example: A runway near 270 degrees is referred to verbally as "two-seven" and shown as 27 actually painted on the runway.) I guess Doug decided that, by the way I was shaking; I was in no condition to try the takeoff myself. I watched closely as he pushed the throttle forward and maneuvered the little wreck slowly down the 2600-foot runway. He was describing his actions through the takeoff, which helped keep my mind off the fact that I was stuffed in an ugly little soda can with wings. We rotated at 60 mph and Three Four Echo struggled into the hazy June summer heat. As we were climbing to our cruise altitude Doug let me have the plane and gave instructions to maintain a 70 mph climb to 3000 feet. With timid conviction I lightly secured my hands around the old tired looking off white and heat cracked steering device known as a yoke in the world of aviation. My slight movements on the controls kept the Cessna heading in the requested direction and climb to 3000 feet. Noticing that I could master this little task with ease, Doug decided to put me through some climbing turns to specific headings and altitudes. No problem there either.
Then Doug said. "I can tell you've flown before. Done any stalls?"
"Nope."
"You wanna try some?"
"Sure."
I didn't know this, but the next series of maneuvers were going to be a careful orchestration of events leading to an eye-opening situation. As a matter of fact, I believe it was both my eyes and mouth wide open with panic, shouting enough expletives to offend Madonna.
To lightly explain a stall for those not quite fluent in aviation terminology, I'll give you the quick gist of the aerodynamic wonders of a wing stall. The only similarity between an engine stall and a wing stall is that when an engine stalls it quits producing power and when a wing stalls it quits producing lift. As an airplane moves fast through the air, the airflow is smooth over the curved upper surface of the wing. This smooth flow of air produces lift by lowering the atmospheric pressure on top of the wing. By slowing the plane down, the air over the upper surface will become turbulent and start to separate from the wing. At this point the wing will stall, or quit producing lift, and when one wing stalls before the other, a spin is often the undesired result. Can you see where this is going?
We started out with a full flap power off stall that produced a slight buffet before the forward break from flight. Next was one in a standard right turn, again power off, which did not produce any bad attitudes from the plane. Another stall to the left and all was good. This was the confidence builder.
Doug said. "Good job. Let's try some full power stalls, shall we?"
"Duh... Ok"
First was a full power stall straight ahead without flaps. I pulled the nose up high and waited for the airspeed to bleed off. The stall warning started going off long before the plane actually stalled which was comforting to know. When the plane finally stalled it gave us one good buffet and then broke to the left, which was easy to recover from with full right aileron and relaxing the backpressure on the elevator. Next was one to the right and this time the break left brought the plane to a level attitude making recovery to normal flight easy with a slight push on the yoke. I should have been making a mental note of what the plane was telling me because the next stall to the left was a different experience. While holding a standard rate turn to the left and the nose clawing toward the heavens, Satan's little spam can gave me a thrill I wasn't expecting. The Cessna bucked once and then proceeded to flip over onto its back before I could say @#$%, #$%^, #%^&#$ $&^#*(. I'm not sure what happened next but I was looking at a thick green forest below as the nose fell over searching for the nearest impact point. Fighting off shear panic and the thought of how ugly this situation was progressing, I started attempting to correct my little mistake. I knew I needed airspeed so I let the Cessna's nose fall through and build some speed while reversing the controls because it just seemed like the thing to do. I must have been doing something right as my instructor was just sitting with his arm behind my seat as though he were enjoying a nice summer evening drive. The airplane immediately responded to my control inputs and I slowly started to pull the nose up from our vertical dive. I could hear the wind speed increasing through the multiple gaps and breaches within the airplane giving me the sensation that I was speeding through the air in a giant powered whiffle ball. With a smooth pull out and slow climb toward our maneuvering altitude I could sit back and shake off some of the thrill of what had just occurred. My cool, calm and collected instructor looked over with a slight grin. It wasn't one of those condescending type grins you get from people who love to see you poop your pants. I believe he was just proud of my colorful choice of distasteful expressions.
He said. "You know what just happened?"
"Yeah. We almost got killed."
"You weren't watching the ball."
This was the first of many occasions that I would hear the three most favored words of my instructor. "Watch the ball." The ball is a nifty and simple little devise that has been incorporated into just about every aircraft developed after the age of the Wright Flyer. It is an instrument that has a little black ball suspended in a fluid that is visible through a clear tube, much like you find on a carpenters level but curved to resembling a smile. When the airplane is not flying straight, one wing can stall before the other setting the stage for a spin, and depending on altitude and the type of aircraft, the situation can become quite ugly if you are not ready for it. Due to torque, P-factor and a whole host of other technical factors, the plane can become uncoordinated and the ball will slide up one side of the tube alerting one to this undesired condition of flight. With the simple application of proper rudder input, the aircraft will simply straighten itself out and minimize the danger of a spin. The ball on our little Cessna was buried in one side of the tube and I never realized it because I never looked at the instrument.
After our discussion of the ball and what I should have done in this particular stall situation, I once again heard myself ask another stupid question. "Can I try that again?" With a quick grin Doug looked over and said. "Sure." Dumb, dumb, dumb…dumb, dumb.
It was about an hour into this first flight when I started to notice that I wasn't feeling as good as I did when we left. Although we were flying straight and level at the time, my stomach was still inverted. Beads of sweat were trickling from my brow down along the side of my face pooling into little salty drops along the lower jaw line. My teeth were clinched tight hoping that I could hold back an embarrassing fountain of both breakfast and lunch. Doug must have noticed that my particular shade of green was not the original color that I was sporting before we left. He asked if I had enough. I figured it would be a good time to call it a day.
It was an uneventful flight back to the airport, and lucky for me, the plane didn't require any extra interior cleaning after landing. I hopped out tied the plane down and looked it over once again noticing that it didn't look quite as bad as it did before we left. In fact, it was beginning to look pretty good. Yeah, this sweet little Cessna brought my butt home after all the abuse I put it through, and I was feeling quite proud of it.
I said. "You know Doug, this is a nice flying little plane."
"Glad you enjoyed it. When you want to fly again?"
"How about tomorrow?"
I was hooked.
Soon after my encounter with the Fokker Eindecker in Lakeland, I decided to go to Missouri and look over the Airdrome operation. A friend of mine was interested in one of the Airdrome designs called a Dream Classic so we made the trip together. When we arrived at the Airdrome Aeroworks Facility it became apparent that this was a part time, husband and wife organization. It just so happened that he was in the middle of building a Fokker Triplane so we were able to view all the fuselage parts laid out, trimmed and ready to install. We were also treated to a little movie footage of all his different designs showing them up close and in flight. All his designs seemed to confirm an impressive flight and performance envelope. I was still leaning toward the Eindecker as I wasn't a licensed pilot and it could be built as an ultralight. I liked the idea of only having to build one wing too. In any case, the Eindecker looked like a great kit for the price so I decided to go ahead and place my order. My friend also ordered the Dream Classic and we worked out a deal to have them sent in the same box to save on the shipping cost. And it was on this day that I set in motion the proverbial and ever deepening black hole that swallows all your money.
While waiting for my kit to arrive I thought I needed more airtime in the Cessna, so I set out on an extensive training program to perfect my new found skills. It wasn't long before Doug decided he needed something else to laugh at, so he figured that I should shoot a few landing attempts. We flew to Newnan airport rather than practice landing at the airport where the airplane is based. Newnan has a much wider and longer runway that is kept up unlike our home base. Our home airport is more reminiscent of a 2600-foot jeep trail rather than an airport runway and it also happens to be cursed with tall trees at both ends. We set up in a left hand downwind for runway 32. I carefully read off my checklist setting up for my first landing. Seats and belts adjusted, mixture rich, carb heat on, throttle set to 1700 rpm, slow to 70 mph, flaps as required below 80 mph., checklist complete. It was time to pull out all my model flying skills and put this bird down sweet and gentle. After turning my base and final I noticed that I had a slight crosswind from the left. The plane was carrying a light crab angle into the wind and all of a sudden I noticed that I was having a terrible time disconnecting my left thumb, which is used for rudder control on a model, and applying this knowledge to my feet. The plane was all over the place. As I yanked on the yoke and stomped on the rudder pedals, the obedient little Cessna bucked and swerved in unison with my commands. Problem was I really wanted it to fly smooth and gentle. Once again, Doug was feeding me correcting information that I couldn't quite apply to the situation. My stress level was increasing in direct proportion to our decent rate. With my hands and feet moving a blur, and the control surfaces flailing around like the plane was experiencing massive control surface flutter disintegration, I maneuvered the little 150 over the runway for my first attempt at landing. The plane was still in its crab angle and I was working hard to get it all together before we struck the runway. I started my flare too high and as the plane slowed to its stall speed I unwittingly went from pilot to passenger. The airplane met the pavement hard in a sideslip with a horrible sounding screech of the tires and shudder of the plane as it tried to straighten itself out. I looked over at Doug when I felt we were out of the immediate danger.
Doug said "Hey. You did it!"
"Did what? Rip the wheels off your airplane. I think we should get out and do a gear check."
"We're still upright. That counts for something."
We tried a few more landing attempts but it all went down hill from there. I just couldn't seem to get it together. I went home dejected and mentally spent worried about how bad I would do the next time. As it turned out, sometimes you just need to get away from the situation for a while and think about what you were doing wrong. I decide that the next time I flew the plane that I was going to be a pilot and not a passenger. I came to the conclusion that I just wasn't flying the plane. I let it control me and the next time would be different. And different it was. I never had another problem landing after that day.
