Perpetual Fowl Weather

Copyright © 2013 by J.L. Vaughan
All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

Perpetual Fowl Weather - A Pilot Confessional

By J.L. Vaughan

On a Tuesday in the Fall Roger and I showed up for our usual Tuesday schedule.  When I initially started a career in corporate aviation I did so partially to avoid the mundane routine that is found in the schedule of the airplanes that you find lining the tarmac of your friendly air terminal.  Flying from Atlanta to Dallas three times a day, every day for a three months just didn’t have much of an appeal to me.  What I didn’t realize was that corporate aviation had its routines just like everything else. On our Tuesday’s we would make the same four milk run flights, every summer the same companies would charter our plane for the same winery tours, and every winter the same families would charter our plane to go skiing at their favorite mountain, which was always the same one.  So Tuesday’s local flights, or milk runs as we liked to call them, were something Roger and I had grown used to.  It was the same rainy weather, with the same low ceilings, moving the same passengers around the same four airports. Today our day started at Arlington airport with a planned stop in Hoquiam, Washington to drop off two passengers on our way down to Salem, Oregon. In the afternoon we would do the same flight in reverse, taking everyone home.

Our flight enroute to Hoquiam was uneventful until we dropped south of the Olympic Mountain Range. Flying into Hoquiam one can expect a number of things, but most of all you can expect the cloud ceilings to be low, the wind to be blowing and it to be either raining currently, the ramp wet because it had just stopped raining or the clouds to be building because the rain was just about to start. I don’t mean to be harsh on the neighborhood but that just tended to be the reality of things. It didn’t get the name Grays Harbor because of its wealth of sunshine.  Either way as we started down on the approach into Hoquiam we weren’t surprised to not see the airport until we were within a few hundred feet of the approach end of the runway, and then to find the wind hollowing.  As we neared our flair on final I saw one other constant occurrence at this airport–birds. They were always there, and somewhere along the line that morning they had decided the middle of the runway was the best place to congregate. Midway down the runway there was a flock of seagulls numbering close to one hundred. As Roger threw out a few choice words in their general direction, I decided that there was enough room for us to put the airplane down and stop before getting anywhere near them.  I put the airplane down just before the numbers and had it stopped with plenty of space to spare.  Partially to clear the runway for our coming take off and partially to get back at them for making me use reverse, I taxied the airplane through the conversing group of feathered menaces with a little bit of a smile on my face as they nervously took to the air. We taxied off the runway to the ramp letting out our two passengers then closed the door and taxied back to the end of the runway. We picked up our clearance without a hitch and I was pointed down the runway giving it full power just as Roger finished putting the last bit of our course into the GPS. 

Midway through our take off roll I caught a slight shadow out of the corner of my eye. Roger stared through my window and let out an “Ah Crap!” before I saw them coming – just as I pulled the plane off the runway. The same group of fowl intruders that I’d just sent packing, those damned seagulls, were heading back to their asphalt nesting area which put them on a collision course with the nose of our airplane.  Being as close to the ground as we were, turning wasn’t an option. My only choice was to wrench the nose up and pray, both I most certainly did. Our attitude passing through fifteen degrees up, Roger and I both held our breath as seagulls ducked and dived in all directions around us.  Forcing myself to take that first breath, Roger and I looked each other in the eyes then looked toward our passenger in the back. We were both surprised to see her fully contempt and unaware. She was sipping her coffee and reading the newspaper. She then took the opportunity to add her Irish Coffee additive (whiskey), which Roger had given her prior to take off, into her drink. Already up into the clouds now, Roger and I scoured all parts of the airplane that we could see for signs of damage. We hadn’t heard anything hit and couldn’t find any damage ourselves.  We decided that we had gotten lucky, that the avian crowd in Hoquiam were quicker in reflexes than the rest.  Along the way Roger started in on a story from his instructor days that he was reminded of.  Roger used to be a flight instructor down at Montgomery field, just outside of San Diego, California and he loved telling stories about his old students.

“I had this student that I had been trying to get to solo for weeks,” Roger started in. “He was an older guy. He knew what he was doing, but he was wound up tighter than a rat-terrier on methamphetamines. I was afraid to break wind around the guy for fear that the noise would make him jump and hit the ceiling, that or give him a heart attack. Teaching the guy to fly was like walking on eggshells every second, but I was determined to get him up there. Mostly he just needed convincing that he was doing fine. So the day came that he was as put together as he ever would be. We spent a half hour doing landings and every one of them was as slick as cow snot. I got out’ the airplane, told him to give’er hell. As usual, I stood out on the ramp to watch as he made his first venture into the air by himself. As the airplane rounded the corner onto final I watched them coming and knew there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening. It was that damned flock of green parrots. Probably ten years prior some idiot had let loose of a couple of pet parrots somewhere in San Diego, and ever since they’d been lingering around the area multiplying. Seeing’s how their family tree was one straight line, they was as dumb as rocks and right then all eight of ‘em was lined up to meet my student on short final. I had no radio to warn him, standing there on the side of the runway, my only option was to wait for the inevitable. I swear I saw it in slow motion, my guts sunk down into my boots.

“I prayed to God. I asked God to keep my student from wrecking the airplane…too bad. That he might keep my student from dying and that even though I’d lose my Instructor License over the wreck, that I might be able to get it back; maybe someday. Then, on short final just as I’d expected, the birds flew in front of the airplane. Next came the cloud of green feathers, right then I doubled over with my hand covering my face.  When I looked back up the most amazing thing happened–he landed! He put the airplane down on the runway softer than three-ply Charmin. As he taxied to the ramp I could see the green circle of feathers just above the nose wheel and another on the right wing. As he got out of the airplane I just stood there dumbfounded and silent; shocked he hadn’t freaked out and ended up in a fiery ball at the end of the runway. He asked me if I saw the birds in front of him and then strolled right on into the airport lobby, as if nothing interesting had happened.”

Around the time Roger had finished telling his story we were on our descent into Salem. The weather was clear so our approach was quick. My phone beeped as I opened the cabin door. Walking down the stairwell to the tarmac to take our passenger’s bag it became very clear to me that Roger and I hadn’t been as lucky as we had originally thought. The left side of our airplane was redecorated in red. One of the birds had gotten caught into the slip stream of our propellers, proof of its path was the thick line of blood that ran at an angle up the side of the airplane then stopped and picked back up five feet further down as the bird had spiraled back into the airplane. Just above the windows there was another crimson line as another seagull had met its fate.  We found yet another line running along the bottom of our wing, another area we couldn’t see from the cockpit.

A midst my quick assessment the car that was waiting to pick up our passenger drove out alongside the now morbidly painted airplane. Without even a glance back our passenger walked off the airplane, took her bag and hopped into the passenger side of the car and then drove off. She had not even a clue of what was behind her.  Turns out, the message on my phone was from the Hoquiam Airport Manager. He wanted to know if he should put the birds he found lying dead on his runway on ice for us; if we wanted to cook our kill for dinner.  After letting Roger in on our successful bird hunt I called dispatch, his and my day of flying was done until a mechanic could assess the damage done by our fallen fellow aviators.

The End

*The story above is fictional with some level of truth in, with and under it. At what level fiction takes over reality and whether this has its basis with the authors own situation or one that he may have heard via other parties is for only the author to know. The author felt the need to write it in first person in order to give the story the needed effect for the sake of the reader.