Chapter 23

Hairy

Good lord, back in class again. Although I’d never stopped learning now I was getting educated.

There is a difference.

Learning usually happens because I survived. Survival is generally accompanied by sweat, blood and tears ... sometimes feces and urine feature prominently.

“I Told you so,” is frequently heard.

I hate that part.

Educated has instructors and books. Books seldom cause blood ... except a paper cut or two. I never was very good at math and flying has math. At least the devil isn’t in it ... no numbers AND alphabet.

Just numbers is bad enough.

Instructors ... that’s a horse of a different color. Instructors have been known to exact a measure of pain ... not blood. Sweat and tears ... yes.

A certain period of Ground School while the A&P mechanic inspected an already perfect aircraft was required. I needed to know terms.

“Okay,” said my instructor, a fresh faced young lady still in her teens. Amy said. “Lets get in the aircraft.” Thumping my chest with a sharp pencil, she said, “Left seat.” Later, when I took my shower, I checked my chest after ... there were red dots.

I didn’t get Ted ... Ted is window dressing. Ted is there to impress the fish.

When I bought the 150 I’d never seen a Cessna. I’d looked at a Cub, a Taylorcraft, an Aeronica, a Commander, even a Texan, but I bought the 150 sight unseen. It was cheap. So ... I had no idea what I was getting into when I unlocked the doors. Right away I knew that entry precluded modesty. It’s a step. Standing on the tire means a stretch. No celebrating my Scots Irish ancestry. I swung into the cabin. I was immediately bewildered.

My introduction to my Cessna cockpit.

Airspeed, Artificial Horizon, Clock, Altimeter, Direction Finder, Turn and Bank indicator, Direction Indicator. Vertical Speed. Radios, Engine Speed. Carb heat, Throttle, Fuel Mixture, Flaps.

Directly in front of the seat was a device called a Yoke. A cut down and squared-off wheel, it was a push-pull, left-right control. Amy mounted into the cabin from the right hand door, a similar Yoke in front of her seat.

NOT the stick of the Cub. What with the mass of instruments in the Cessna, I knew I was going to miss the simplicity of the Cub.

Rats ... bought the wrong thing ... again.

We buckled up.

Amy said, “Hands just touching the yoke, feet resting lightly on the pedals. Follow me along.”

She reached for the key ... I slapped her hand.

“We’re going nowhere until you run the list,” I said.

Big Grin!

“See, you can learn something,” she said. “Old dog and new tricks.”

“Youngster, I’ll have you know, you can trust me. I won’t be thirty until next May.”

“I thought you were 40,” she said.

We bounced out. The checklist wasn’t very long but it was long enough. The glass fuel tank water trap under the wing was full and there was still water pouring out. I waited.

Gasoline.

I screwed the glass bowl in place and hooked the wire under the bowl. I made certain the tension screw was tight. The other wing tank suffered from the same malady. Water in the fuel is an NTSB accident waiting for a place to happen. I wanted to be a pilot ... not part of a smoking hole.

The engine hours matched the cockpit hour clock and the logbook confirmed it. No unauthorized flights ... joy or otherwise.

The engine oil was brand new and there didn’t seem to be any crankcase leaks. Competent mechanics! God love ‘em.

The hundred hour inspection was signed for ... yesterday. Twenty-five hours since the one before the 100 hour was unnecessary but I insisted.

“Okay?”

“Yes, Ma’am. We can go now.”

We mounted up, she read the Start Up list ... it all worked. She turned the key ... headphones ... check TBP ... call the tower. Cleared. I shut off the auxiliaries ... they use power needed to crank the engine.

“Turning. Ignition. Start.”

Turning the Aux back on, we turned left and taxied out to the approach to runway 26/8 which was closed to local traffic. Turn right and left and taxi to Manila road. Look both ways.

Power up and taxi to the taxiway for runway 17/35. Turn at the Ready Pad. Check Mags. Check the skies for idiots. Finish the turn to 35 and away we went.

More than half way heading north, wheels on the runway, I heard an, “Oh Shit,” comment from the tower. “I forgot about them.” We took off in the face of an Air Force C-130 on final approach to 26.

I’ll admit we were in danger less than a couple of seconds ... but it was interesting. If we had crossed immediately behind the transport, prop wash would have flipped us over.

Learning.