Take Me Flying, Daddy
by Lee H. Goldberg
I was not used to hear these words coming out of my five-year-old daughter's mouth. Anwyn had been, until this point, a willing but indifferent passenger on the airborne excursions I'd dragged her on since she was two. Whether it was a fly-in breakfast at some strange airport, or a short local hop to break the monotony of a Sunday afternoon, she'd gamely hop into the back seat, put on her headphones, and perform her assigned task -- to yell "clear" in her loudest voice before we started the engine -- and then settle in for a nap. Because she'd been flying since she so young, I'd come to assume that some of the magic of what we did together escaped her because it was just too ordinary.
Other than the fact that the flights themselves seemed to be nothing more than noisy car rides to her, flying with Anwyn has been one of the ways I most liked to spend time with her. Since she was old enough to sit upright in a shoulder pack, we've been hanging out at a couple of the small airports I fly out of. With my eight-month-old daughter on my back, I'd hike the full length of the 4200 ft. runway at Robbinsville to give us both some much-needed fresh air. Part of the fun was giving a running commentary of the comings and goings at the small field to my captive audience, complete with critiques of all the landings of incoming aircraft. I'd explain to her which stage of landing the plane was in, whether it was high or low on final approach, and we'd both in discomfort when a student's over-zealous attempts to find the ground resulted in multiple bounces before settling on the runway.
When she started to talk, one of the first things Anwyn had a word for was "airplane." As with many other words that were difficult to get her untrained lips around, she made up her own. So, right after we figured out that she'd named her oatmeal "bo-bo," we noticed that whenever an airplane would pass overhead, she'd point to it and solemnly pronounce "baah-dee." A couple of months later I was pointing out a helicopter taking off, repeating the word "helicopter" to her several times. She watched with fascination as it hovered, and then lifted into the air in an exceedingly un-airplane-like manner. Later that day, when she spotted another chopper making a landing at the field, she pointed at the approaching rotorcraft and explained to me that this was a "ha-baah-dee".
Thanks to the sage advice of Stephanie, my instructor (who has a young son she flies with), I have used the liberal and regular application of bribes in the form of chips, crackers, candy, and soda to help her associate flying with fun. She now sort of regards any place where planes land and take off as part of her neighborhood. When we land at a strange field my daughter, the seasoned aviator, immediately makes a beeline for the vending machines in the pilot's lounge, and then amuses herself by watching the comings and goings of the planes or charming the FBO staff.
This particular time we went flying together came as an unexpected gift. I found myself at the confluence of a Friday morning that was so beautiful I couldn't bear to sit at the computer and work, and Anwyn's reluctance to go to preschool. She'd enjoyed the cheerful classroom where she'd spent the fall and winter, but as spring approached, she became restless, as if she'd outgrown the routines and games that had filled her life so well until then. We weren't sure whether she was beginning to need the more stimulating environment of a kindergarten, or if she was remembering college spring break from a previous life.
Since I'd already decided to take the day off, and I'd recently returned from a business trip that had separated us for several days, it was not a tough decision to change my plans to include my daughter. After puttering around the house for a bit, we got in the car to run a few errands. I routed the trip so we ended up near a park where we took a short walk until it was time for lunch at the local pizza joint. Since it was a special day, we had dessert at the ice cream stand that had recently opened its doors for the approaching summer season.
I was sitting on the bench near the ice cream stand, savoring the rapturous look on Anwyn's face as she devoured her chocolate sprinkle cone, when I asked her what we should do next. I'd had in mind another walk, pet some animals at a local farm stand, or perhaps to rent a canoe and go paddling on the canal near our house. She caught me completely by surprise when she turned to me and said, "Take me flying, Daddy."
We headed over to Twin Pines, the small grass strip where I'd learned to fly. The 2300 ft. runway and the small collection of ramshackle buildings has been a haven for me for many years, with its collection of old airplanes and a tolerance for the eccentric people who owned them. I found Dave, my flight instructor, reading yesterday's paper in the shade of the small grove of trees that sits next to the sagging two-room shack that serves as his office. Dave's dog, Kelly, an aging hound of mostly Golden Lab extraction was laying at his feet. Without moving anther part of her body, she announced our arrival with the thumping of her tail.
"Hey Dave, what's up?" I said. "Haven't seen you for a while," replied Dave, "you been traveling?" That was a lot of words for Dave, who usually punctuates an hour's flight lesson with a few dozen grunts and monosyllables. We traded news and agreed that I'd rent '58F on the condition I had it back before 5:00 when he was expecting a student for a lesson.
I took the keys off the pegboard inside the shack, collected Anwyn who was petting Kelly's upturned belly, and headed out towards the plane. N5758F is not much to look at, but she's an old friend: She's an early 60s vintage Cherokee 140 that, even before an accident had caused her right wing to be replaced with a differently-colored one, looked a bit shopworn and neglected. Dave's not much on appearances and her interior is faded, with torn fabric and cracked plastic complementing the thick mat of dog hair accumulated in the back seat from years of Kelly riding with Dave on most of the lessons he gives.
Despite appearances, she's one of my favorite planes to fly. While Dave neglects the cosmetics he keeps up after '58F's mechanicals pretty well. Both her elderly Narco radios usually work, as do the transponder, flight instruments, and all the switches and controls, except the carb heat and EGT. The 160 hp engine she was refitted with gets her in and out of the short grass strip rather nicely, as long as you pay attention to how much fuel you've got, and the tall tree on the West end of the field. More important, she's the airplane I learned to fly in. She endured my early ham-handed attempts at landings, and later carried me to Harrisburg and New Castle on my long cross-country flight. She's even taken me to Boston twice on business trips. We're old friends who know and trust each other, either in spite of, or perhaps because of, how well we know each other's faults and virtues.
As we approached the airplane, I began my safety check, paying special attention since I was going to have my daughter on board. After satisfying myself that there was nothing more grossly wrong with the plane's appearances than usual, I scrambled up the wing to unlock the cabin. Anwyn followed me and played in the back seat as I checked the tach, Hobbs, and fuel gauges, and dropped the flaps for preflight inspection. I'd started to untie the right wing when Anwyn popped out of the cockpit and announced she wanted to help.
After releasing all three tie-down lines for me, she still wanted to be a part of the pre-flight, so she worked alongside me as we drained the fuel sumps and checked for water, inspected the brakes and tires, and made sure the flap and aileron linkages were secure. When I popped the cowling to check the oil and inspect the engine for bird's nests, I had to lift her up so she could also inspect it too.
Once we were finished, we climbed aboard and secured ourselves in our seats. After making sure Anwyn was buckled safely and wearing her headset, my hands began to guide me through the familiar liturgy of pre-flight. Radios and transponder off, flaps up, fuel on fullest tank, two shots of prime, throttle, mixture, mags, and master in the right place to wake the engine.
I opened up the little window on the pilot's side, turned around to Anwyn and grinned "Honey, pre-flight's complete. What do we say ?" She smiled from under her headset and let out with a loud cry of "Clear!" I hit the starter. The Lycoming spun three blades past the windshield and grumbled to life.
As we taxied out across the high grass, I noticed that for once my daughter was not settling down for a nap, and instead was alert, and taking everything in. We got to the end of the runway, I kicked the plane to the left a bit, set the parking brake, and got ready for run-up. "Honey, I'm going to test the engine before we take off, OK?" She smiled and I ran to 1700 rpm, checked the mags, saw a charge on the ammeter, and suction in the green before backing the throttle down. I scanned the pattern one last time for traffic as I jockeyed '58F to line up with the narrow swatch of closely mowed turf that Bill, the airport's owner, had hacked out from the surrounding foot-high tangle. With luck and good weather, Bill, or one of the retired guys who hung out at Twin Pines would widen the "runway" some time that weekend.
Power rolled on smoothly and we trundled down the field, gently swerving to avoid the two biggest mud puddles as we gathered speed. "40, airspeed's alive," I mumbled to myself. I held heavy backpressure to keep the nose out of the grass and the ruts it hid. '58F accelerated, gently, and I let the nose settle a bit as she entered ground effect at just above 50. "60, begin rotation" I reminded myself and gently began to pull again as the bushes at the end of the field began to swell slightly in the windshield.
After we left the pattern I turned round to see my daughter smiling as she looked out the window. "Hey Babe," I asked, "should we go fly over Grandma's house?" Her smile widened as she managed to squawk into her headphone's mike an enthusiastic "Yeah!"
We climbed to 1800 ft. and got permission to cross Trenton Airport's Class D airspace on the way to the Delaware River. The nicest way to find Mom's house in Lambertville is to head up the river, passing by the bridge at Washington's Crossing, the rock quarry, and then a small ridgeline that lies just to the south of the town. Just beyond that, nestled in a small valley lies the little row home where my Mom lives.
We'd leveled off and I'd pulled the power back to a leisurely cruise of 100 mph when I heard "Daddy!" in my headset. I looked around to see Anwyn with her nose pressed against the window. "Daddy, we're so high up!" she yelled, as if it was the first time she realized where we were. Smiling with amazement, she said, "Look, everything's so small! The cars and houses look like toys!" Memories of my own childhood amazement brought a smile to my face as we shared the joy of seeing things as the hawks must while they soar the ridges along the Delaware.
Nearing Lambertville, I brought back the throttle and descended to 1200 ft.. We passed over the ridge and entered a gently banked turn towards Anwyn's side of the plane as we began a wide orbit over Mom's house. "Look Honey, there's Grandma's house! The one with the white car in front!" I don't think she ever really was able to pick out the place where she spends happy overnights with her Grandma Caryll, but she seemed to enjoy the swooping and the sight of a toy town passing below her.
After a few passes, we climbed out and headed for home. Well before Washington's Crossing passed beneath our belly, the engine's drone had finally done its usual job of lulling Anwyn to sleep. With my daughter slumped in the seat with her headphones slightly askew, I angled Eastward a little to take a direct route back to Twin Pines.
The mushroom-shaped water tower came into sight, the landmark that helps me find the tiny airfield amongst the sea of farmland, and the housing developments that are rapidly devouring it. I slowed '58F and entered the downwind part of the right-hand pattern we use to keep from flying above one of those new developments when landing to the East.
I got the white barn I use as a reference centered in the windshield as I passed the midfield point of my downwind. Power came back as the end of the runway passed under the wing, and the first notch of flaps began to slow us to the appropriate speed. I swung gently over the ball field that marks the place I usually turn my base leg and added a second notch of flaps. Turning onto final, I added the last notch of flaps and adjusted power to carry me around 20 feet above the large tree that stands across the street from the end of the runway.
We slid down the old familiar glide path that '58F and I had traveled so many times and as we crossed the piece of grass where the runway numbers would be on a paved field, I flared -- a little too enthusiastically: The nose came up a tad too much and '58F tried to climb until I eased off the backpressure slightly, leveled out, and waited a long second for the plane to begin settling before I flared again. The thump of the gear touching down woke Anwyn, and when I'd finally slowed down enough to turn off, she was stretching and rubbing her eyes.
"Are we home Daddy" she asked. "Yup, we're back at Twin Pines" I said. "Why didn't we stop somewhere for a soda, Daddy?" she asked, registering surprise and a little disappointment. "Sorry hon, we didn't have time today. I've got to give Dave his plane back so he can take someone else flying. I'll tell you what," I said, "If the weather's good on Sunday, how about we go flying and I'll be sure to find an airport that has soda, and chips?" I didn't need an answer as Anwyn's smile told me all I needed to know.
lgoldberg@green-electronics.com.