Flying High: None

By Oscar G. Williams

Flying High is a chronicle of flying experiences and observations which will stimulate forgotten memories of old pilots, peak the curiosity of new or to be new pilots and give the general public a glance into the world of a private pilot. The book will amuse some and cause many to shake their heads in disbelief.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 18, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462067152

Oscar G. Williams

Oscar Williams has been a pilot since 1955. He has flown twelve types of aircraft, ranging from a sixty five horse Piper Cub to a high performance two hundred and twenty five horse T-34 Mentor. He has owned two aircraft, a World War II Fairchild PT-26 and a Cessna 172.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

Piper Cub J-3

Aeronca 7AC

Piper Tri-Pacer PA-22

Aeronca Tri-Champ

Fairchild PT-26 Cornell

Aeronca L-16

T-34 Mentor

Cherokee 140 and 180

Citabria

Cessna 172 Skyhawk

The Big One

Decision Time

Nostalgia

Get Real

Aviation 101

APPENDIX A

Flight Planning Fresno to Washington, D. C.

APPENDIX B

Airports Visited

Thanks to my wife Charlene Gong Williams for the many hours

she spent editing my book and for sharing many hours of fun flying with me

Introduction

One might wonder what the title, „Flying High, denotes. The title has many different connotations. One is the high every pilot feels on his first solo. When a pilot looks at the empty seat his instructor occupied for what felt like an eternity, a lump forms in his throat. He looks down the runway, opens the throttle and the adrenalin begins to surge through his system. In an instant he is catapulted into the air. His spirit soars. There is no greater high. Then there is the high a pilot experiences when landing at his home base after completing his first crosscountry solo. He struts into the office with his chest stuck out. He feels like he is walking on air when his instructor congratulates him. He smiles with a new found confidence when he receives pats on the back and a couple of atta boys from his peers. There is the big high a pilot gets when he tucks that new ticket into his pocket that proclaims, I’m a pilot." This high will keep him on cloud nine for days. Of course there is that other connotation of flying high, which the Federal Aeronautics Administration would rather not hear about.

This book describes one pilot’s journey through the trials and tribulations of getting that coveted ticket—a pilot’s license. It shows the growth of a young bold pilot to that of an old, not so bold pilot, and the perils or risk associated with the sport. If you are a pilot, the book will probably bring back some old long forgotten memories. It shares with the readers, more than likely fellow pilots or future pilots, the essence of flying. It begins with the little seed or itch, which won’t go away until it germinates into a conscious desire to get that coveted ticket.

It is hard to tell when or why the flying bug bites someone. Often it’s because of the influence of a relative or friend who flies. The desire to fly comes to some people spontaneously, like the birth of the Universe. Boom there it is. I can’t tie down when or why I decided I had to be a pilot. I may have been influenced as a kid, watching World War II planes swirling around the skies of Wichita, Kansas. Wichita was a Mecca of aircraft production during World War II. Or maybe my desire to soar may have been stimulated by watching the news footage at the movies every Saturday, showing Mustangs knocking German Focke-Wulfs out of the sky. When I was ten my mother and I moved to California. We lived near Norton Air Force Base in San Bernardino. I always had my face pointed toward the sky, watching the planes going into and out of Norton. I was hooked so bad that when I was twelve I talked my mother into letting me do a mural on one of my bedroom walls. It showed all of the American, German and Japanese aircraft in dog fights. There were Thunder Bolts and Mustangs tangling with ME-109’s, Focke-Wulfs and Zeros. When I was fourteen I joined the Civil Air Patrol Squadron in San Bernardino, California. I had my first airplane ride in our squadron’s L-5. I was hooked for life. Our Civil Air Patrol Squadron had a Link C Flight Simulator. The cadets just called it a Link Trainer. Every week we cadets spent hours flying the simulator. Here is a picture of a Link Flight Simulator identical to the one our squadron had. In this picture the hood is up and the door is open.

Image361.JPG

Many people develop a desire to fly. Sadly sometimes the ember burns out and the desire never crystallizes. Others have the desire grow and gnaw at them until they have to do something to relieve the pent up frustration. If the person is lucky there is an airport nearby and he finds himself at the airport on weekends walking among the tied down aircraft and watching others come and go. Unfortunately many never get beyond this point. Because of financial responsibilities, family obligations and in some cases just a fear of the unknown, this group slowly disappears into the distance and are never seen again. However, there are a few who cannot suppress the desire to get in the cockpit. These are the ones who go into the fixed base operator’s (FBO’s) office to ask questions. If it is a little airport, they ask around about the availability of an instructor. When they get this far, they are usually hooked for life. Do you remember when the flying bug bit you?

There is an old saying directed exclusively to us pilots. I don’t know where it originated, but I have heard it bantered around ever since I started flying. I know many of you have heard it but for the few who have not, it goes like this: There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots. Thank God I got through the bold youthful period of flying and have lived long enough to become an old pilot.

Piper Cub J-3

In July of 1955, I decided to stop procrastinating and get into the air. My excuses up to this point for not getting to an airport and getting started were the usual. I didn‘t have the time because I had been working full time at night and going to college full time during the day. In 1954 I got married and in 1955 we had our first kid. In other words I let the word „busy" dissuade me from starting to fly. So in July of 1955 in spite of the job, school, wife and child I made up my mind. I was committed. I was going to start work on getting my pilot‘s license. I went to the San Bernardino Airport and asked around about finding an instructor. A couple of guys mentioned Vernon Mick. They said he had a Piper Cub he trained people in. I finally caught up with him. Mick, as everyone called him,was the typical instructor of the time. He was a man of few words. He never smiled. He never complemented or reprimanded. He took me on as a student. Our first flight was on July 3, 1955. There I was, all six feet seven inches of me, crammed into the front seat of a Cub J-3. The Cub‘s certificate number was N3660K. I had a little headroom, but my knees were stuck up almost under my shoulders. I could get my toes on the rudder bars, but it was virtually impossible for me to get both of my heels on those little brake studs sticking out of the floor. I had to do a real contortion act to twist around so that I could push one brake and then twist the other way to touch the other brake. Thank goodness for the fact that you really don‘t need brakes on a Piper Cub.

In 1955 I set a pattern of flying which I have followed off and on throughout my flying career. This pattern was one in which I would go months or sometimes years without flying. Then I would get the flying bug real bad and I couldn‘t be kept away from an airplane. In 1955 I had four lessons in the month of July for a total of two hours and forty-five minutes. I took a year off from flying. There was no particular reason; time just flew by. In July of 1956 I took three lessons for a total of one hour and twenty-five minutes. It was almost like I had a taste of good wine and it lasted me a year. Then when the taste faded, I had to have another one. I laid off flying again until January of 1967. In January of 1967 I took two lessons for a total of one hour and fifty minutes. At the time I used minutes instead of tenths of an hour in log entries because that was how Mick started me off. Many moons later I switched to tenths of an hour in keeping my log of flying hours. Most pilots use tenths of an hour in keeping track of their flight time because it is simpler to add.

One day I happened to look at my logbook and realized I had a total of six hours and forty minutes of flying time. Back in the fifties there were two things you could not do and still be an honorable pilot. You had to solo within eight hours and you had to get your license within forty hours. If you exceeded either of these two bench marks, other pilots would snicker at you behind your back. When I realized I had six hours and forty minutes I almost panicked. In March of 1957 I went to Mick and said I had to solo. He gave me a one-hour lesson and the following day he gave me a ten-minute lesson. I know this sounds odd, and it was odd. The ten-minute lesson is in my logbook where Mick entered it. The lesson was more a lesson in judgment than flying. It consisted of one trip around the pattern. The ten-minute lesson in judgment occurred because I was determined not to let anything stand in the way of my solo flight. When I woke up on the morning I was to have the final check flight with Mick, the wind was howling down Cajon Pass. The San Bernardino Airport sat right at the bottom of the pass. At times the pass served as a funnel as the high desert winds sweep down into the valley. I found Mick in the coffee shop. I asked him if he was ready to go. He gave me that passionless stare and asked, „You want to go up now? I assured him I did. I didn‘t catch the tone in his voice, which really said, „Dummy, do you want to try and fly my Cub in this wind? He shrugged his shoulders and we trudged over to the hanger. I got the Cub out. I crammed myself into it. He propped it, climbed in and we were off. I began to get an uncomfortable feeling about this flight the moment I got the plane away from the shelter of the hanger and the full force of the wind hit us. Someway I got it to the end of the runway. I gave it the throttle. It leaped off of the ground into that horrendous head wind. I think it actually went backwards for a moment. At that point I knew I was in over my head. I was in deep trouble. I was too proud to yell uncle. I fought that plane all over the sky. After about five minutes of this tug of war with the Cub I got the front end pointed down wind. Even though I got the front end pointed down wind, it did its best to try and go tail first. Finally Mick asked, „Want me to take it? I yelled, „yes, and gave up the controls. Mick took over. I couldn‘t believe how he kept the plane under complete control. We were going up and down but the wings were always level and the nose was pointed straight down wind. I could see how he was walking the rudders and also the crisp movement of the stick. I felt I was doing the same thing but obviously I wasn‘t. I realized now, I was reacting to what the plane did. Mick was anticipating the movement of the aircraft and acting before it got away. He did a French landing, held the tail up all the way to the hanger before he put it down. We got out. I put the Cub away and we went back to the coffee shop. I bought the coffee. Mick logged ten minutes of dual in my logbook. We sat there in silence sipping our coffee. Lesson learned.

Finally the big day arrived. Mick gave me a final ride. I now had eight hours and thirty minutes of flying time. I kind of made the eight-hour solo limit. Also if you subtract the ten-minute lesson in judgment I really only had eight hours and twenty minutes. I mean it wasn‘t nine hours so I didn‘t have to hang my head in shame. That experience of being in the plane by myself looking down that runway was one of the most awesome experiences in my life. I sat there in the back seat of that Cub staring down the runway, pushed the throttle and I was gone. With just my weight the little Cub hopped right into the air. My first solo lasted twenty minutes. I have participated in sport parachuting, aerobatics, white water rafting, skiing and most other sports, but none of these activities got the adrenalin flowing and gave me a high like my first solo.

By the end of July of 1957 I had flown that little Cub for a total of twenty-one hours. For you technical airplane buffs, here are the specifications and a picture of a Piper Cub.

Image368.JPG

In 1938 Piper introduced the Cub J-3. It was powered by a 40-hp Continental, Lycoming or Franklin engine. It sold for $1,300. In a short period of time the engine power was raised to 50 and by 1940 it had reached sixty-five where it remained. Just as Henry Ford’s model T’s were all black, all of William Piper’s cubs were yellow with black trim. During the war the army ordered over six thousand, which were designated as the L-4, O-59 and NE-1. When production ended in 1947 Piper had produced 14,125 Cub J-3’s. If you want more data on the Cub, one place to find it is http://www.geocities.com.

J-3 Cub Specifications

Aeronca 7AC

After flying the Cub for twenty-one hours I laid off flying for about six months. However, the guilt and the anxiety began to build up to the point I had to have a flying fix. I started looking around for something else to fly. I was following a trend I have observed since I started flying in 1955. Pilots were always looking for something bigger and faster to fly. The Cub I started out in had a sixty five-horse engine and a maximum speed of eighty-five miles per hour. Of course that was in a dive, with full power and a tail wind. I had a need for more power and speed.

I found an instructor at Flabob Airport in Riverside, California who had an Aeronca 7AC Champ for rent. The instructor’s name was Donald C. Hart. He gave me the usual one-hour check ride and then I was on my own. The Aeronca had a Continental engine with eighty-five screaming horses. I felt like I had moved to the big league. By this time tooling around the country and buzzing my friend’s houses had become pretty monotonous. I needed company, someone to share my flying with. I had a friend in the office who often questioned me about my flying. I also had a buddy who was interested in flying but didn’t have enough interest or desire to want to take lessons. The two of them became my regular flying partners. I know the FAA says a student pilot is not supposed to carry passengers. I only have two excuses. Every parent knows the first excuse. Kids use it all of the time when they tell you, Everybody does it, so obviously it must be alright. Most of the pilots I knew had done the same thing. The other reason, excuse or alibi for taking someone up with me was the fact that it gets mighty lonely just flying around aimlessly for hours, going no