Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Inverted Flight



 
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As I’ve mentioned before, I have a rather unnatural work schedule being a corporate pilot.  I don’t have a work week involving weekends and holidays.  For me there are those days I work and those days I don’t.  On one of those work days, I think it was a Thursday, Roger(my copilot) and I were asked to fly to a rural part of Eastern Washington in the middle of the summer.  The destination that our passenger was trying to go to was void of any airstrip so it took a little research to find a patch of asphalt in the area that was big enough to suite an airplane the size that we fly. We decided on a tiny little strip that wasn’t much more than a twenty minute drive for our one passenger to get to where he wanted to go. Personally I love that stuff, give me a runway a few inches longer than what the book tells me I can land our plane, one skinny enough our wingtips hang over the sides a little and I’ll smile for a week prepping and two weeks after.  I’m always after a new challenge.  

The next morning at six fourty-five Roger, our passenger and I took off for our the one and a half hour trip to the Whitman County airport. Once there we landed amongst a swarm of crop dusters, all  making their daily rounds as the temperature still hovered low enough for their "products" to be effective. Touching down on the strip our wings hung out past the edges of the runway just enough to kick up a cloud of dust behind as we rolled below the summer sun. We found a small out of the way part of the ramp to park and exited our airplane to some inquisitive looks. Our one passenger made his quick exit before the owner of the nearest crop dusting outfit came over to greet us. Apparently our plane was the largest aircraft Whitman County had seen on the strip since she had taken ownership of her Ag-flying business. Roger, the proprietress and I started into an array of aviation chit chat as the three of us watched crop dusters work their way through the ramp at her refueling station. 

That morning we learned from our new friend that a very energetic type of aphid had been ravaging the wheat crops of the area and ag-pilots from all over the area had flown in to help this infestation keep from turning into one of biblical proportions.  I think Susanne (the business owner) even made a few references to Revelations chapter nine.  As we talked, the three of us watched as planes were loaded with fuel and pesticide then sent to the end of runway with assembly line speed.  These folks were running at full scale and were a sight amongst themselves. Inside of ten minutes they had moved enough planes to make an air carrier deck jealous. Whatever Hemiptera this was, he was taking a bombardment. On the ramp with engines still running the airplanes were pumped full of their needed fluids while each pilot, donning orange jumpsuit and crash helmet, ran into the ramp office to grab coffee, food and take care of their own personal “tank sumpings.”  Each pilot was in his airplane and seated just in time to watch hoses being retracted and caps taking their places.  

 With their grizzled faces and oil marked suits we could tell that these pilots had been at this a while. I watched Roger's eyes widen as he watched one particular pilot, while walking out his cockpit onto his wing, let the most holy of holy’s drop from his face back into the cabinhis aviators sunglasses.

There is a particular bond between a pilot and his aviator sunglasses, commonly referred to in the industry as just his “aviators” and there is a reason for that.  Most professional pilots won’t hesitate to tell you that the drop out rate in the onset of any flight training is high. With the high cost of training, hours spent studying a curriculum that is almost an entirely new language in itself and small margins for error, added to the fact that there is no shortage of people thinking they would like to take to the skies. Some have estimated that about a quarter of those who start off into this career choice actually get there, personally I think those figure are very optimistic.  Looking back at it now the indicators of those who would land short of their pilots license is pretty easy to see. Among them was the premature donning of pilot nicknames(a student going by the name of LearJet who didn’t last a quarter comes to mind), widely used pilot attire(shirts with space for captains bars should never be purchased prior to being given the bars), and well the early arrival of ones aviator sunglasses.  As those of us in training watched students around us drop like flies some of us acquired certain hesitations toward jumping on to the pilot band wagon too early. Consider it an attempt at restraining egos.

 For a pilot, specifically a professional pilot, to reach a point in his/her career where he/she could comfortably wear this icon of aviation in eye protection form they had paid their dues, pulled the wool over the eyes of the authorities or a little bit of both. Consider it a rite of passage. To the untrained eye, watching this seasoned veteran drop his “aviators” might seem like a lite thing without knowing their deep felt meaning and the level of attachment this man had for them. Roger's cringe as he watched the man’s glasses fall into the cabin and out of view to me made perfect sense, it even riled a little sympathy in my own heart. The two of us watched the man, standing on the wing of a still idling aircraft, bend down to get them and we both felt relief, which we found later was very premature. As this man lowered his head into the aircraft cabin he somehow managed to loose his footing on the slick metal wing. Falling ass over tea kettle he hit his knees on the side of the cockpit before falling headlong into the pilot seat.
Now I’ve never really had a chance to look over the cockpit of any airplanes used in agricultural flying but I’d imagine that their parking brakes functions much the same as any other smaller aircraft. To engage the parking break on the wheels the pilot simultaneously pushes the top of the rudder(feet) pedals while pulling out the knob marked "parking brake."  Releasing the break only requires pushing that same knob back in, which is very simple and easy to do, being very unfortunate for this particular gentleman. As Roger and I watched the legs of the sunglassless pilot toss and turn in the air, the aircraft slowly began to pulled forward.  Our new friend Susanne saw it right away and was at dead sprint inside of a second. The orange and blue aircraft started out straight then took a hard left as it built up speed. It had been park perpendicular to three spaced rows of other parked aircraft and started between them toward the runway.  Roger and I stood frozen in awe as the yellow ag-plane taxied a perfectly straight line between the two rows of parked airplanes.  The entire crew scrambled in chase behind the airplane.  As it reached the end of the row nearing a small ditch that separated the runway from the taxiway one man dove onto its left wing.  Just as he landed the airplane took a sharp right which flung him back off the wing.  The man tumbled down into the ditch as the plane somehow straightened out once again with the two black boots still sticking up from the pilot seat.  Then, as if guided by principalities from above, the airplane took another hard right, circling the airplanes at the end of the row turning back toward Susanne's business. Once again the airplane managed to follow the centerline between two rows of planes neirly following it perfectly. All hands, except for the one man lost in the ditch were in trail and picking up speed. My first thought was that somehow the pilot was steering the airplane but, judging by the helpless flailing of both legs I soon gave up on that notion and leaned back toward a gracious higher power trying to keep damage costs to a minimum. The airplane was closing in on the Susanne's building, more specifically the three story steel tank sitting at the east end surround by fuel hoses. This being a scene both Roger and I had watched play out in a number of action movies involving pyrotechnics; the two of us dove for the nearest ditch attempting to find safety.  Unable to completely look away both Roger and I raised up to see the propeller of the airplane dig into the side of the tank with sparks flying in all directions.  The sound was horrendous. Think nails on a chalkboard time one-thousand.  We both lay in the ditch waiting for the inevitable flash and bang but it never came. Clear fluid poured from the side of the tank and the airplane was engulfed in steam as it ran through the aircraft's engine compartment. Looking closer I saw the words "water" written on its side. Apparently the fuel tank was on the west side of the building and was waiting for him had he hooked a left at the runway instead of a right..  The engine was now forcibly ruined and stopped the pilot emerged from amongst the cloud, proudly holding his sunglasses in hand. 

Under most circumstances both Roger and I would have stuck around, having been witnesses. But these were crop dusters.  They weren’t our crowd and certain stigmas tended to follow them. Most times a situation like this would require the involvement of the FAA and a large amount of paperwork but that’s not how men(and women) working in “Ag” flying work. More often than not, their level of involvement of the authorities mirrored that of certain “families” in Chicago during the 1920s. Quite frankly their rule of law tended toward “if no one saw it did it really happen?”  Roger and I decided that we didn’t want to impede on their situation; seeings how there were plenty of shovels scattered about with plenty of wide open spaces where holes could be dug and “inquiring eyes” could be taken care of. The two of us hopped into our airplane, taxied to the end of the runway and made for home.  Before plotting a course for Arlington we circled the runway one last time on climb out. Hot steam still rose from the airplane as people scurried in all directions.
  
Roger turned to me and with a smile said, “Man I hope he really liked them sunglasses.”


*The 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, one he made up, or one that he may have heard via other parties is for only the author to know.




Copyright © 2013 by J.L. Vaughan

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