First Flight

That’s a Piper Cub, J-3. A single prop, two seat, tail-dragger with a 50-HP Franklin engine. I flew in one of those in 1947. I was 7 years old.

The pilot, who owned a summer cottage on our lake, flew over the frozen lake that winter, came in low and buzzed us. My my little brother, Lee and I were standing on the ice in front of our lake lodge. We jumped up and down and waved our arms. The pilot rolled his wings. It was the most exciting thing to happen that entire winter.

The plane was yellow with large black numbers painted on the side. Its single engine whined as the pilot swooped up, turn and flew back down the lake. Then he tuned and brought the plane down and landed on the ice covered lake.

“He’s coming back!” I shouted. The pilot taxied over to where Lee and I were standing, opened the door and asked if we wanted to go for a ride.

“Yes!” I shouted, and climbed into the back seat. Lee stood frozen in place. The pilot got me buckled in, closed the door, and told me to not touch the stick that stuck up between my knees. He gunned the engine and spun the plane around. We taxied back down the lake, bumping along on clear ice to the far end. He turn into the wind. He gunned the engine, the noise was deafening, as the plane rumbled down the lake, bouncing on the uneven frozen lake. Faster and faster, then the bouncing stopped. We were airborne. I wasn’t so much aware that we were flying, I just noticed the lake began to sink beneath me. I could see Lee. He was no bigger than a toy soldier. Our house, was tiny. I saw the trail through the woods I walked to get the bus each morning. The entire world sank below me. The view captured me. I’d never seen my world that way before, not even in my imagination. The plane climbed higher, the world become small, but at the same time became much larger. I could see all the way to Fiskdale Village, the orchards, and the brook that ran from our lake down to Long Pond. All this I could take in one glance.

The pilot shouted back something about a loop-d-loop. I smiled and nodded. He reached back, grabbed my seatbelt strap and gave it a tug. The plane then tipped and headed directly down toward the lake.

“Hold on he,” shouted back to me. The plane was going straight down. We were going crash into the lake!

The pilot pulled back on the stick, the plane leveled off and then shot straight up. My chin jammed into my chest as the plane went vertical. I got to take one look over the pilots’ shoulder. All I saw was the sky, then plane tipped over, backward. I was upside down. I hung from my seatbelt, looking up, which was really down. I saw the ground where the sky should have been, but wasn’t. Over we went, my world spinning. I didn’t know what was up or down. Then we were heading straight back down again, back to the lake, but we were upside down. The lake was above me. I thought I going to die.

The pilot rotated his plane in a barrel roll and my world returned to normal. The plane touched down on the ice and taxied to a stop beside Lee.

I unbuckled, the pilot opened the door and slid out, staggering away, too shaken, too confused, too full of emotions to even to thank the pilot for the ride.

But I wanted to do I it again.

First Solo

It was 25 years later, I got the opportunity to fly a plane, all by myself. It was in a small Cessna 150, a single engine, two seat, trainer. After a couple of weeks of classroom work, and 7 hours “in the plane” practice, my flight instructor and a I were making a series of “touch and go” landings. After my third go-‘round, he asked me to stop the Cessna right there in the middle of the runway. We sat there for a few seconds, then he said, “You can take her around a few times by yourself.’” he opened the door and climbing out. He shouted over the noise of the plane’s engine, “Call me on VHF if you need,” then closed the door, turned and walked back toward the hanger. I was alone in the plane.

I gunned the engine, spun the small trainer around and taxied to the far end of the runway. As I rumbled down the dirt runway I was running the take off procedures through my mind. I retracted the flaps I’d just used for landing, adjusted the trim tab, scanned the instruments, stopped at the far end, and went thru the pre-flight check list: altimeter set to the current atmospheric pressure, I ran the engine up to 1,200, switch off the left magneto, watched the RPM drop slightly, then back to both, then to right to watch the RMP dipped slightly, then back to both. I throttled back, keyed the radio mike.

“This is Cessna N 4727. Requesting permission to take off.” The flight tower (the girl at the receptionist desk) gave me the go ahead. I looked downwind to see the flight pattern was clear, gunned the engine, spun the plane into position, wiped my sweating hands on my trousers and reached for the throttle with my right hand, my left hand on the yoke. The toes in my shoes were pressing on the top of the foot peddles (the wheel breaks) then pushed the throttle, slowly, all the way to the wall. When the RPM climbed to 2400, I released the brakes and the small plane leaped forward, throwing me back in the seat. My eyes were glued to the speed indicator. The speed began to climbed 20, 30, 40 knots. Out of the corners of my eyes, my peripheral vision watched the ground on both sides of the plane slip by in a blur. When the speed reached 50 I pulled back the yoke slightly to raise the nose wheel. It came off the ground and at 60 knots the plane rotated, a term they use to describe “taking off.” The plane just left the ground. I rotated the yoke to the right to compensate for the torque of the engine.

Off the ground now, the speed increased to 72 knots as the plane climbed into the sky.

I was flying solo for the first time.