A Gift of Wings

“His mother told him about it. His mother! Do you think that any fifteen-year-old rebel would ever investigate anything that his mother told him about?”

There was no need to answer. What is true has a way of making its point even over the roar of engine and wind.

This is the end of the story. Perhaps by now the kid has found his way or perhaps he’s hooked on heroin or perhaps he’s dead. The fellow had his own life to live and he lived it the way he wanted to. We can offer a gift, but can never make anybody accept it who doesn’t want it.

I’m not discouraged. I’ll try again, and maybe someday I can get started on repaying my debt to old Bob Keech, my first instructor, who walked out to meet me one morning at the airport and changed my life with a smile and the words, “Now this is what we call a ‘wing’ …”

The dream fly-in

It was the strangest fly-in I had ever seen. Maybe it was a dream, it was so strange. There was this new-satin sky, not quite real, with silk-fluff clouds sewn way high (not enough of them to block the sun, which was all lemon light), with green-velvet grass for landing on and concrete white and hard as ivory for taking off. Some big trees around, leafy wide umbrellas for people to sit under and watch the flying. Sandwiches. Cold orangeade.

Parked here and there about this gentle-sloping lawn were airplanes, twenty of them or so, some taxied under the tree shade. Two-place high-wingers, most of them.

I was sitting in this place under the wing of my Cub taking in this strange sight, watching a Cessna flare to land, when this fellow stopped by. He watched the Cessna, too, and then he said, “She’s a pretty Cub, you have here. You going to fly in the Test?”

Like anyone who considers himself among the world’s most skillful airmen, I’m always game for competition, which is what I figured the Test would be, though I had never heard the word used this way before.

“Of course,” I said.

“Glad to have you,” he said, and jotted the number of my airplane on his clipboard. He didn’t ask my name.

“Is that a sixty-five-horse engine?” he said.

“Eighty-five.”

“Height of propeller?”

Now that was a strange question. “Height of prop? Why do you need …? Seven feet, I guess.”

He shook his head and reached for a tape measure. “What do you do with pilots who come for a Test and don’t even know their height-of-propeller?” He walked to the nose of the Cub. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. I’d like to know.”

The tape sighed out, carefully, stretched from the ground to the tip of the propeller. “Nine feet four and a quarter,” he said, jotting that number on his board. “And now we need your factor.”

“Factor?”

“Performance factor. Wing loading to power loading. Say, is this the first Test you’ve flown?” He seemed surprised.

“Well, with height-of-prop and factors, I’ve got to admit, yes.”

“Oh! I’m sorry! Welcome aboard! Glad to have you here.” He thumbed a sheaf of listing. “Let’s see. A Reed Clip-Wing Cub, eighty-five horse … here we go. Wing loading eight point five, power loading fourteen point three, and your factor is one point seven.” He noted this on his pad. “You don’t worry about that,” he said, and smiled. “You just fly.”

“The Wedge is first. Start engines on the hour. Fly your best.” He handed me a thin booklet and then he was gone with his clipboard to an all-white Taylorcraft parked by blanket and picnic basket on the slope opposite.

The booklet was engraved printing in dark blue ink, elegant as an invitation to dine.

THE TEST

PILOTS

OCTOBER 14, 1972

I was skeptical. I don’t like my fly-ins quite so organized.

“For those who do not like their fly-ins quite so organized,” it said, part way down the first page, “there is a list on page nineteen of conventional fly-ins in the local area. This meeting is designed for those aviators who believe that they are among the best airmen in the world. This meet is the Test to see if they are.”

There was a note about the history of the affair, some technical information about the performance factor and judging, and then began an outline of a series of weird challenges, the like of which I had never imagined before. The booklet pointed out that most pilots don’t become good at airplane control without practice, but practice or not, the only way to score well in the test was to fly very skillfully indeed.