The Lure of Flight
From Matronics
by Austin Tinckler
If you are still here, I would ask of you: "What the heck is flying all about, anyway?"
It is about folks like you and me who feel a strong magnetic draw to challenge the elements, and physics I suppose, to leave the earth and view it from above and maneouvre in the third dimension and feel the magic of playing in the sky and cloud, where mortals should not be. We like to be in an element of the unreal with a hint of danger and individualism all thrown in together to make a stew of adventure which we partake of because it takes a good dash of courage to commit to and also join a band of gamblers.
Go out to an airfield when the weather is frightful. Open the door or canopy, climb in and sit there and watch the rain flow uphill, see the wind sock tormented by the gail, and dream that you are in control of destiny and the winds, and that you can challenge both and win — and have the time of your life in the doing.
In the everyday way of life, people we stroll past in the super market know nothing of who we are and the adventure we seek out, to go aloft and encounter strong winds and dark clouds and talk to the earth, to say who we are and whence we are bound. But we have flown among nature's strongest demonstrations of might and come back home to set upon the ground and put our craft away, happy in the knowing that we did it again and with respect, will rise to meet it once again. It surely reinforces us, tells us who we are and what we are about.
I mention the supermarket because, by happy circumstance, I round a corner and who do I meet but old Franz. My mundane day is transformed. Happy eyes greet each other and I speak the few words of German greeting that I know and Franz's face lights up and we are two flyers from different worlds and times who are melded into a here and now fraternity of flyers who care not, nor how, our pasts differ.
Franz is frail now, but the eyes and mind are sharp and happy and we soon launch into airplane talk and how we mastered this and that. I was telling about the ecstasy of the FW 190, and its' beautiful virtues, and he countered with his love of the 109 and better yet, the 262 — "our life insurance," he said!
I told him that I was building hard, that I may get up there again after having sold my wonderful -6 to get the $$ to do what I had to do now — you know: engine, etc., on and on.
He sympathized with me and said, "I know how it is. I had to sell my beloved Messerschmidt — limited income you know."
I am no hero worshiper, but I would thrill for the day that I could take old Franz up in my RV and let him take us to the glory days, for just a little while.
I saw that the deep scar in his forehead (from a tailgunner's .50 caliber) was more prominent than ever. He fingered it gently and laughed a soft laugh, and told me that it was just one of many reminders of what happened long ago to a tired flier.
"I was shot down 14 times: 10 by bombers — B17s — 3 by flak, and once I shot myself down.
"Once I had been reposted to an area near Bavaria and was shot down above a cloud layer and when I bailed out and pulled the cord. I found myself standing on the ground just a moment or two afterwards. I forgot that we were in mountains and that the ground level was much higher than I thought it was.
"I was picked up by a girl and her father, and later she wanted to see where I hid my parachute — being silk and so — therefore, since we were obliged to report what happened to our equipment, we went into the woods together, and that is where I lost my parachute — with a girl.
"Come to think of it, in the last year of combat, I never returned to base once without bullet holes in my craft!"
What can you say after a chance meeting like this one? The quest for potatoes and milk doesn't seem so real and necessary after a talk like that. I hated to see the end of it, but old Franz had a hip replacement and was tired and wanted to go home.
I will fly with Franz, that is for sure.
He flew with Marseilles in the desert and must also have been a virtuoso of the flying machine to last through to the end of it.
We all have our values and dreams and aspirations, and enjoy the chance to be close to the things we admire and respect, and some fliers certainly instill this respect.
I am a year away from flight, and I remember — just as if it were yesterday — how it was when I flew my -6 for the first time, by myself. My hand was tight on the stick, I pushed forward the "GO" handle, opening the tap, and something pushed me in the back and I was dancing to stay on the black part, and we got light — very light — and sweeping upwards. My God! We are doing it! We did this! We are leaving the green behind and climbing into the blue! She is running hard and bidding me catch up and we are soon out over the sea. I think about back stick and, just with an index finger, we are like the space shuttle, clawing upward to the cloud base — wow! We must come back a bit and see if mount and rider can resolve who is in control!
We soon begin to understand each other's steps, and set off for the underside of the very dark and flat base of a solid cloud deck. But rays of sunlight blast through here and there and give us a beacon to buoy us up and say that home is not far away, and racing in the airway is still okay for now.
I am overwhelmed by the quick and ready response to what I think I want to do through the stick. Just edge her down and leave the throttle where she be, and cast a quick glance at the needle — my God! Are we really at 210? I can hear the wind scream at the canopy and set course for 010 and we are in friendly airspace in a twinkling.
Landing. I am alone and no one else is up. A wonderful wide and sweeping curve and we are on final, over the grass, and engine loafing, touch down and bounce and bounce again — and again — and roll out with veins popping. What a benediction! I am converted for ever!
Old Franz, however old, would feel the thrill of youth again, and remember the old days and how it was, once he got behind the stick of an RV. Those of you flying already know all this. This is for those yet to come. Follow that beacon burning bright, you will love it!
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From what I have been able to determine — guess — imagine &mdash about us RV guys, the vast majority of us enthusiasts are payday-to-payday type of fliers/builders/dreamers. Sure, there are magazine articles about Joe Blow who garners the big award and trophy wherever he goes on the show circuit, having hired all the help and written all the cheques to see fruition of his dream plane. Well and good, hey! If he can do that and wants to go that route to find Nirvana, then great! Keeps the economy going and hurts nobody.
But I honestly think that they are not the norm. Else, why would thee and me burn auto gas to fly more and spend less? No preaching here, but I wish to reflect on flying simply and cheaply and imparting just a little bit of the joy of flying to kids and friends, with the hope that they begin to understand what a privilege it is to fly a plane and do so even if money were not the deciding factor in whether we get the chance to follow our passion, or not at all.
My kid is now 32. When having a sip in front of the fireplace a while back, his buddy leaned over to me and said, "You know, of all the things I know of you and Glen, the thing that tickles me most and that I really get a boot out of is how you let him do a landing in a J5 when he was 10 years old. What a demonstration of trust and understanding."
"My pop and me never even had a heart to heart — not once."
Well, I must say that I was more than just a bit taken aback to think that something between a kid and his Pop, from 22 years ago, remains as fresh and as valued today as it was then.
The J5 was a joy, before RVs came on the scene and I thought that I could ever be in that league. It had an Armstrong starter and Glen would be at the throttle, peering out the door and respond just as required to all the signals. It actually flew like a dog, but was most forgiving and the landings were a piece of cake.
I showed him some stalls and they were a tad wicked — a deep sudden sink of the nose, almost straight down — but he would shriek, put in forward stick, add throttle, pull back, and we would do her again.
It was a perfect vehicle to slow down and look at the school and the house and pick out the trout farm and river course, and learn a bit more of geography and nature from a way different perspective.
Little did I know that this little kid would be giving me advice on how to fix a boo-boo on the RV, how to drill out unacceptable rivets, work with fiberglass and make that canopy fit.
More than that, because of airplanes he has been to parts of the world that I cannot spell, seen the big and small of aviation, military and corporate, and still retained the love of airplanes. Best of all, when he is in the city where I live, he has come with me to sit in the left seat of my RV, take us up and bank off and race hither and yon, and clutter up the intercom with laughter as he punches my knee and smiles and says, "Anita this the life?"
A 10 year old has repaid me over and over for the look behind the door of what aviation can behold. Like it, or pass it by. I know kids who have airplanes in the family and would rather watch grass grow. I feel tremendous sadness at that prospect.
By the way, my girls also had the chance to fly as tads and still love to talk about it and bring out the photos.
I have wondered if I would be on the wrong track to post a notice on the local school bulletin board saying that if any aviation-keen boy or girl (with parents' okay) would want to fly an RV and see this great earth from the seat of a magic carpet, give me a call.
This world and the future of aviation for the ordinary guy and girl are going to be inherited by our kids. Wonder what they will do with it? I am so glad that my time frame allowed me to build a dream machine come true, and that Van, especially, came along at the same time.
The J5 is still alive and tired and in need of a few friendly licks. The grass field, by good fortune, is still there. The free spirit still inhabits the field where coyotes, bunnies and wild berries thrive, and an old dog in a warlord drops in for a weekend bacon and eggs and engines roar and smoke and it is a wonderful place to pause and remember. That old J5 is a Marine veteran, but wears no decorations save the admiration of more 10 year olds, and a few Grandpap.
