l i f e
running the storm
contributions
christopher@30seconds.org
Splotchy storms coming down from the mountains around Asheville. Sliding over the pine forests and rivers, over the radio towers and slick granite faces of rock.
The pilot of the Reliant fired its radial engine and taxied out onto the runway.
"You coming!"
I looked over my shoulder at a man in a yellow NAVY Stearman bi-plane.
He yelled again, "You coming! Hurry up!"
The plane was twenty yards away just inside the flight line and he had already turned over the Wright Engine. It coughed blue smoke and the fabric covered wooden rudder kicked to the right. The plane began turning and I realized my ride was leaving.
I clutched my camera and ran after the slowly moving plane. I fumbled with my lens cap, dropped it, stopped in mid-stride to pick it up, and then thought better. I started after the Stearman again. To my left flyers and brochures blew off a card table as a young woman tried to pick them up. The prop wash from the Stearman blew back my hair and I could feel the temperature drop for the first time. The radar was right. Off in the distance half the sky was black and muddled gray.
I closed on the Stearman, and grabbed the front cockpit with my right hand as I placed my foot on the wing root and reached up for the grab handle in the upper wing with my left. It was a fluid motion. First one handle, then the other, both feet in the seat, lift...and drop down behind the glass. I buckled in as the pilot behind me gave it the throttle and picked up speed. The rudder pedals and control stick moved crazily in front of me and I could see the pilots face in the rear view. I could also see the storm. A storm he couldn't see, but knew was there.
In front everything was still blue and that was the direction we we're heading. Fast.
There's a brief moment when the plane lifts off and my stomach drops, a moment when it seems I'm almost weightless, I wonder if I'll ever get used to it, or if I want to. Point of no return? It's that one moment that for me can always be clutched, bundled up, and stored away. A moment always the same...and then I might as well have been standing on the ground.
I looked ahead to my 11:00 and checked the fuel. The float was right on 4. We we're fine. Only flying to Greensboro anyway. Only out-running a storm. I settled down and as the pilot banked almost 90 degrees left I saw the B-24 below. The only plane left on the ground, its crew just removing the wheel chocks.
We straightened and climbed to about 3500 feet and I put on my headphones to drown out the sound. I saw the old Reliant about a mile to our left and a little ahead. There was another Stearman with our group and a B-29 as well. I wondered where they were. I imagined the B-24 lumbering off the runway somewhere behind us, breathed deep full breaths, and took a few snap shots.
I touched the canvas inside the plane. A wrapper around the aluminum tubing holding it all together. I noticed how none of the three cylinder head gaskets I could see leaked, although I smelled the gas and oil. I stared at the faint outline of the wooden propeller for a long time and let myself drift so very far away.
goodnight 5.4.98
