Like, why was it that whenever I got interested in flying and then did something about it (and only then) was I abruptly confronted with "The Bad"?
What kind of bad?
Well, like Pietenpol Down bad.
That was a sad sight to see: A crumpled Pietenpol Sky Scout at the far end of a grass runway. I'd never seen a crashed aircraft in person before.
Pietenpol Sky Scouts are one-holers. Made out of wood and fabric, dope and wire. I thought: When all of those wooden sticks break into spears in a crash, suddenly moving at 60 mph relative to the pilot -- where do they all go? I pictured the pilot clutching at a wooden spike straight through his heart, blood spurting everywhere, all over the wreckage, himself, and his mighty fine vintage flight suit. What good is a dashing mustache, leather hat, and goggles when you get a stake through your heart??? And, why didn't the Pietenpol burst into flames when it crashed, killing the sole occupant, the pilot in command, an ATP (Airline Transport Pilot)?
Those are the kinds of thoughts that go through your head when you see something like that in person.
I had wondered aloud to a fellow pilot at the Kingsbury Aerodrome why it hadn't burst into flames.
"No ignition source. A Model A engine has no electric ignition."
I stared at him and thought, well, have you ever poured gasoline onto a red hot exhaust pipe? Have you ever done that? But I didn't say it. It was one of those moments where you think it but you don't say it. There was no fire because the gas didn't spill out everywhere. It didn't burst out all over the wreckage as it used to do in Formula One car crashes. No fire can also mean there was no gas left to spray. Thank the Sky Gods: An ATP will eventually return to his airline cockpit a bit the wiser, with a new story to tell. With having "just" had some broken bones and a brief spate in the hospital.
I didn't know what went wrong. The pilot didn't know what went wrong. But something had very definitely gone wrong. The preliminary NTSB report specified no cause. It said that the engine had quit. End of story. It quit -- and the pilot either spun in or crashed landed into a tree line. Brave. Alive. Very lucky. In the moment of truth he apparently pointed the nose down.
So that was the latest curse: The Pietenpol crash. And it happened on the same day I'd taken my first steps back into aviation after 10 years adrift.
But the very first curse happened on my very first flight, the so-called "discovery flight". The discovery flight is a marketing ploy for aviation; for $59 find out what it's like to fly! So on this flight, the appetizer if you will -- my very first taste of flight -- I got a real mouthful.
We flew for over an hour, stopping for gas at a small airport, Lago Vista (RYW), which was situated on a lovely hilltop just outside of Austin. When we were returning to Austin Bergstrom (AUS) from Lago Vista I had started to overhear radio communications that indicated some kind of urgent situation at the Austin airport. We were just turning base leg. The radio talk was all mumbo jumbo to me. The flight instructor was handling radio communications. Things were happening fast. I mean, for God's sake, this was my very first flight. I couldn't handle the radio, let alone an emergency. But I was flying the plane.
I said to the flight instructor: "What was that? What did the tower just say???"
"Well," the flight instructor said calmly, "There's a plane coming in with an engine out, over there on three five right -- and they've deployed fire trucks just in case."
She pointed out to starboard, "There. Do you see them?"
No I didn't see them. I didn't see anything she was talking about except the other runway. An emergency? Really?
We turned final and then all I was seeing was the runway we were assigned to land on. It was rising up at us -- vaguely like I'd experienced in the MS Flight Simulator I'd spent hundreds of hours playing on my laptop computer at home. Suddenly I was pure concentration. It sure looked cool -- just like the simulator.
But now it was the real thing. And it was relentless. There was no "pause" button on the keyboard. I couldn't go get another beer from the fridge or talk on the phone.
I focused on establishing a stable glide path back down to earth. The instructor was still letting me fly the plane. "You've got this," she said. "You're doing fine." I kept glancing out the starboard side, past her, and when we were at about 500 ft AGL I saw a twin engine aircraft rocketing toward the parallel runway at an extremely low approach angle. My instructor saw them too.
"There they are!" she said.
The plane had one prop windmilling; I've never seen such a low and fast approach. The fire trucks were stationed, lights flashing. What was going to happen? I didn't have time to find out, because runway three five left, 9000 odd feet long, was now dominating my world.
When our little Cessna 152 Aerobat was about 20 feet above the runway I said "Do you think maybe you could make sure I don't crash us?" She laughed. "No worries," she said, "you're still doing fine."
Just before stalling onto the runway I asked her to take the controls. "Don't worry," she said, "I've got my pinky finger on the yoke." Within two or three seconds the plane touched down, and I breathed again. I was soaked with sweat, fists clenched around the yoke, knuckles white, dry mouth, and probably not smelling very good. I realized later that I must have been a little scared.
But by God for the first 45 minutes of the flight I'd been Mr Balls. All Balls! Yes -- yes I'd taken off from Austin and done VOR nav out to Lago Vista (I got this -- I'm Mr Balls!!!). And flying back over downtown Austin it was like, wow, I AM the Pilot In Command! I wasn't thinking about how the instructor had landed and taken off in a 15 knot gusty crosswind out at Lago Vista. I would have crashed us on that little runway, there and then. Smashed into pieces. Instead ... I was MR BALLS!!!
Everything had just worked.
Until that twin engine aircraft had an emergency right outside my window.
"Take the controls," I'd said. But the stall warning whined and then faded out as the main gear touched down. My flight instructor sat next to me, rather impassive, maybe smirking a little.
I thought: "Shit, I just landed this plane! I just landed a plane on my very first flight!!!"
Taxiing to the ramp, my faux balls swelled up yet again: "How much of that landing did I do myself?" I asked.
"Oh, probably 95%"
YES! I thought. All that simulator practice had paid off. Microsoft Flight Simulator had taught me how to fly! I'd gotten to take off, do VOR, fly into a pattern (like, twice!), fly the crosswind, the downwind, the base. And the final approach to a pretty smooth landing. I was like: "Dude, I have SO got this."
But I was wrong. All wrong. A curse is a wagging finger, a crooked smile, a warning. And soon enough I'd see for myself what it intended.
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