s u m m e r
heavy rotation
The call came in Friday evening.
"It's time to start the annual on the Stinson, we could use your help."
"Sure, I'll be there." And so the early morning hours of Saturday found me driving down 220 with one hand, and eating a greasy sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit with the other. I took my time getting there and the drive was pleasant but cold.
The Stinson had been sitting for a couple of months and showed no oil in the sump, but it was all in the engine. Radials do that. The oil seeps down into the jugs and if you were to start one up like that you be looking at a new engine. We pulled the prop through about a dozen times and I watched thick, gummy oil pour out of the exhaust stacks onto the tarmac.
I climbed into the right seat and checked the intercom and ran through the preflight. Except I was just a passenger this time. The engine coughed and sputtered and the oil burned off in the exhaust. The cockpit filled with smoke coming through the firewall and the guys outside were motioning to shut her down, oil was coming out everywhere, but we kept it running, getting hotter and hotter. Soon we taxied out to the threshold and called Moore County unicom. We were off.
An uneventful flight really. Beautiful, and I needed it, but I just sat back and rested my head against the window as we circled within the pattern warming up the engine enough to work on it. Once the engine got warm we ought to be have showed 2.5 gallons of oil in the sump where there had been none. In fact we showed 3. When we touched down that last time I felt bad for not having reached out and grabbed at the controls, for having only looked at the horizon and monitored the oil pressure and engine temperature. It was all vague, but familiar.
I took the cowling off and we stared at all the oil, just a bunch of guys standing around in the early morning looking at an oil splattered radial engine. The Stinson always draws a crowd even at that time of morning. There's just something about a radial engine. It's a beautiful thing.
My job was to take out the interior of the Stinson. All of it. I didn't have the slightest idea how to do it but it didn't seem to matter.
"Just look at it awhile, you'll figure it out."
A couple mechanics jacked up the plane and started taking the wheels off. Others drained the oil and removed the plugs. One guy wandered around with a clipboard writing stuff down. I climbed inside and started pulling stuff apart. The seats. Window frames. Panels. Carpet. Rear cabin. Floor boards. Like I said, everything. When I climbed back down a couple hours later there was nothing left to see but the airframe and fabric. All the wires running to the back, the control cables under where the floor had been. All this was inspected and notes we made as to what needed fixing. It's amazing how little there is to a plane once you expose it. Especially one made of fabric and thin metal tubing. With my job done I wiped the oil and grease off my hands and forearms as best I could. That's when it happened.
I was put on the spot really, taken by surprise completely.
"Hey Wilson, go get that 150 and taxi it over here to the line, it needs some fuel."
I followed the finger pointing out to the flightline and saw the old 150 tied down with the other private aircraft. The five guys standing around all looked at me and I could feel their eyes on my back as I walked out to the plane. Except for the flight that morning I hadn't even seen a plane since November 8th, 1998. There was no one going with me this time. I'd never even been in a 150 before at all. Would I remember what the hell to do? I mean planes are a lot alike for the most part. They've all got the same basic equipment, it's just some are more complicated than others. Of course I'm over simplifying it, but it's pretty much true. At least that's what I was telling myself as I walked the hundred yards out to the plane. For some reason I started thinking of an Elvis Costello song, "Radio, Radio".
I opened the door and got in. Nothing looked like the 152 I was used to. This plane was made in the '50's and the layout was all different. It took me a minute to familiarize myself with all the gauges and when I looked for the checklist, I couldn't find it. Shit. The checklist goes over the starting and run-up instructions for the type plane you're in. Without, you might as well be making shit up, or know it already. I thought, well, it's only a 150. Same basic plane as the 152. A lot older, but it *should* run the same. I went over it in my head. Prime once. Mixture full rich. Throttle one quarter. Master switch on. Mags on. Controls free and correct. Rudder. Alierons. Flaps. Heh. I laughed. This plane had mechanical flaps, like an emergency brake between the seats. I'd never seen that before but was glad I found them. Elevators. Trim. Ah, fuel shut-off, on. Moment of truth. I was sure I'd missed something, but hell all I had to do was start the thing and taxi it down to the hanger, I really didn't need all the other stuff anyway, just force of habit. So I pulled the starter and just like that morning the prop turned slowly a couple times and then kicked to life. Light gray exhaust drifted by the cockpit and I gave it the throttle. You steer with the brakes and it's not that hard really once you realize you have to compensate for the torque of the engine to keep the plane straight.
Well, all went fine, like I said I was only driving really, except when I was going over to the hanger I was checking the gauges, force of habit again. Suction 4.6, oil pressure green, generator light on, compass off a little. I set it with the backup on the dash and then noticed the tanks, the damn fuel tanks were full! Why would they want me to bring over a plane for fueling when it was full? Gauges must be broken, but that didn't make sense.
I found out soon enough.
The door to the passenger side opened, "Let's go."
"Where? Your tanks are full."
"You want to fly don't you?"
"It's been..."
"Do you or don't you?"
The fellows were watching and the passenger side door was buffeting in the propwash.
"Get in."
Now I was really worried, but glad I'd found all the stuff before. I taxied up to the active runway 5 and did my run-up. 1700rpm. Carb heat on, drop. Mags, right, left, okay. Cabin heat on, carb heat off. A check of the controls one more time and I made the call. "One five zero clear active five."
A quick pattern check and a release of the brakes, full throttle and I was gone. A few hundred feet later the little 150 lifted off and I was climbing a little steep at 900 feet a minute. It all came back surprisingly quickly. Yeah, I was rusty I knew it, but it all felt right. We went around the pattern once and I was just happy to be up, "You need to land but watch the front, the strut is weak."
Land?
Oh yeah, the other part. Downwind, base, final at 500, cut power, 20 degrees flaps. Carb heat on. The VASI said I was fine. Nice glide slope. I put her down soft just past the numbers and rolled a hundred feet or so before pushing the throttle back in. I wasn't done yet. I nosed it over at a hundred feet and took up the flaps. Maybe a little low, but I had the airspeed. I held the throttle wide open and was soon climbing around 900 feet a minute again. The rest was cake. Lazy turns, not really too much, just flying.
Just flying!
A few more minutes and I was back on the ground. I probably hadn't flown for more than thirty minutes but it made all the difference in the world to me. I taxied back to the tie-downs and leaned out the mixture, pulled the throttle out, gave everything the once over and shut her off.
I haven't forgotten. The only thing I'd forgotten was the feeling. It's not something that stays with you and it's almost impossible to put into words. I have it again now. I also have my confidence. There is nothing quite like climbing into a machine, starting it up and then leaving the ground far behind before coming back, landing and leaving the machine exactly where it was before. Nothing like it in the world. Nothing.
I was glad I was put on the spot. Those guys treated me like a pilot yesterday and I won't forget it. They cut me no breaks and expected everything of me which I delivered to the best of my ability. I'm not the best pilot in the world, hell, I'm not even a *real* pilot, but I'm beginning to question what that is. I didn't need any help yesterday. I found everything. I put the plane in air and back on the ground and had a lot of fun. The other fellow with me didn't say a word, he let me soak it up. Maybe in some way he was letting me know I could do it without anybody else even though legally he had to be along for the ride. He gave me back what the FAA took away, the joy of flying, and that's what pilots and friends are for. No, I don't have a piece of paper to make it official, but I can and will continue to fly, FAA be damned. As long as there is someone who will let me fly their plane I'll be behind the controls. See you in the clouds.
goodnight 3.14.99