FLY BOY

Flyboy
author: Milton Pashcow
11-11-14

The runways at Stewart Air-force Base in Orange County, New York stood out clearly through the windshield of my twin engine Cessna as I approached slowly descending, on that October day. A few puffy cumulus clouds floated lazily by, seeming to eye my performance. I braced myself.

From the tower; “Cessna 2 6 6 8 Y . . YANKEE clear to land runway 32. Land short and take the first taxi way off at BRAVO. A 727 is holding for you for immediate take-off. Then go to ground control, 121.7. Roger that.”

I descended slowly on a long final, three lights showing the landing gear safely down, fifty percent flaps, airspeed one hundred knots, fuel mixtures full rich, spoilers deployed, going right over the military 727 transport.

One of the great feelings on any flight is a fully controlled approach to a “greased” landing on the very spot selected, and feeling the wheels kiss the runway without a bounce.

A ground vehicle sporting checkered flags led us to a parking ramp. I walked to the world war two terminal building, and into an ample lunch room off to one side of it. It was empty. In former days it served as a busy flight training center and was now a ghost-like image of its former self. The fixed based operator waived a pleasant hello, happy for some company, I think.

“Where you from?” he asked.
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“Farmingdale, I like this place but I don’t remember seeing you . . . must have had big doings when the Air Corp was here . . . were you here at that time?”

“I didn’t live far away. Don’t forget, it was all military then. I had a job in the military PX here, and had a chance to meet a lot of great guys, as I dished out the cigarettes and candy.”

Let me introduce myself, Pete is the name.”

“I’m Chris,” I answered. “Isn’t it pretty lonely now that the war is over?”
“It sure is,” said Pete. “I’ve had a lot of good memories. Right now we have only about a dozen operations a day, and sell a little gas. They will close the tower for sure any day now, and operate it as an uncontrolled field. I only keep a few sandwiches for fellows like you.” He offered one at no charge.

“At one time,” said Pete, “they had big dreams of making this a reliever airport for Kennedy, and Kennedy really needed it.”

“Yeah,” said Chris, “I remember that, but I never thought it would go over. It never did.”

A sudden roar of a taxiing aircraft broke the quiet as it approached the parking ramp.

“Looks like we’ve got company, Pete.”

A pretty young lady walked in dressed in a dark zippered jumpsuit. She removed a cap and gloves and took a seat at a nearby table. “She reminded me of actress Lana Turner.”

“Need any gas?” asked Pete, hopefully. “We’d be glad to have you join us.”

We non-professional Pilots were not as highly sociable as we might be. We were so absorbed in flying stories and skills, among ourselves to temporarily lessen an interest in other passions, such as women . . . a girl in every airport is pure fiction.

She broke the rule and pulled up a chair.

“Thank you. Would you please fill the main tanks only?” She sat at our little table and ordered some coffee. Pete complied and walked out to the lady’s airplane, leaving the two alone.

“My name is Chris, glad you could join us,” he said, grateful for the company.

“Mine’s Gladys,” she replied simply.

Chris: “If you don’t mind, you ladies lend a lot of class to a pilot’s world. We need more of you.”

“Thank you, you’re very gracious, slow down a little.”

“I’m sorry,” rebounded Chris. “I didn’t intend it, but you couldn’t blame me if I did. Maybe I came on too strong.”
She looked up from her coffee, and said defensively, “The gentler sex is waking up. This is 1965, and I think it is about time.” Then cordially, “By the way, is that your twin Cessna out there? It makes my single engine Piper next to it look sick. I will start on my instrument ticket soon. Twin engine will come much later. But I love that little puddle jumper of mine.”

“You should, as long as it gets you up there. I’d be glad to take you up, but I think my wife might not like it.” said Chris, “You understand.

“I’ll be frank,” he continued. “My plane is my only mistress. Gina trusts me. I’m happily married and don’t look for any trouble. Sorry if I offended you.”

“You’ve met your match, Chris.” She answered, “I feel the same way. Let’s not risk it. I’m forty and divorced. Flying and love-life don’t mix, as far as I am concerned.” She wondered what made her move to his table, and break that rule.

Chris wondered about the same thing.

“I wouldn’t mind being your safety pilot if you want to practice some blind flying. I’m a certified instructor.”

“Give me your phone number, if you don’t mind. I’d like to keep in touch with you. I’d rather you didn’t take mine. You can understand.”

“I might take you up on your offer, but let’s keep it professional,” she sounded as if she meant it.

“I’m with you a hundred percent. Do you have any pilot friends, Gladys?”

“Only my uncle, who passed away recently.”

“How did you become interested in flying?”

“My uncle was a B-17 Pilot. He got shot up once, but finished his twenty-five missions. He flew piper cubs when he returned. And I loved it after my first flight with him. So, I guess it runs in the family.”

“I never found anything that could match the thrill of it; not just the thrill of ‘breaking the bonds of earth’, but seeing the world from another dimension and realize how insignificant some of our personal concerns were in the perspective of God’s vast universe. Isolation also crystallizes our simultaneous feelings of power and humility.
Alone in the cockpit, a man’s true assessment of his self confidence and invincibility are tested as by few other challenges. When I have the time that’s where I want to be,” she said pointing upward.

“How did your husband feel about this?” asked Chris.

“He wanted no part of airplanes. That was the reason we broke up, Chris. He believed I loved my airplane more than him. I never admitted it, but maybe he was right. He thought I was obsessed with it. I’d probably still be married if it weren’t for my little puddle jumper.”

Chris took it all in. “I don’t have that problem Gladys. My wife and I fly to Florida quite a bit. Once in awhile I’m solo on weekends.”

Gladys paid the bill. “Gotta go back to my tiedown at Bridgeport.”​

“I’ll call you the next free weekend I have.” Chris said.



The next weekend wife Gina and I spent in Florida. She decided to stay for a week or two. So I flew home alone. I thought it was a good time to call Gladys about flying this Saturday.

She was enthusiastic. “I’m so glad you remembered. So do you mind if I bring a friend?”

I didn’t expect that. ‘Didn’t she trust me?’ She didn’t say male or female.’ “Sure” I said, “as long as your friend is not queasy.”

“Let’s meet Saturday morning, in the visitor’s ramp at Farmingdale.” he said. “Give me your N number, so I can find you.”

We all met early on the following Saturday. She looked lovely, and I complimented her. She kept her distance. Her friend was a cute looking young lady who introduced herself as ‘Wendy’ and bravely jumped right into one of the rear seats and said nothing. The weather was clear.

“Have you your windshield blocking glasses?” I asked.

“Yes, Sir,” reported Gladys firmly.

We took off and headed over Long Island Sound at twenty-five hundred feet, away from traffic.

“The first and most important thing,” I began, “is to control the airplane in all it’s attitudes, like turning, climbing, banking, etc. With reference only to the instrument panel. Put on your blue glasses to block the windshield vision . . . Auto-pilot off. Fly straight and level. Your GYRO horizon instrument is now your only vitally important horizon reference. Maintain heading 090 degrees. Scan your panel instruments often, until it becomes second nature. I’m watching for air traffic; so don’t worry.”

“Are you alright back there, Wendy?” “I’m fine. Don’t mind me,” she said very assuredly.

Later as we taxied back, Gladys said she loved it and was ready for more.

“This is only an introduction,” I warned her, “to become familiar with the controls without reference to outside visual clues, that you have always been familiar with in the past. It is important that you become psychologically comfortable inside your cocoon. Frankly, it’s not for every pilot. But you did well . . . Lost control a few times, but you attempted recovery properly. Very good for a first. You’ll do alright.”

Wendy did pretty well also, but kept staring at me. She seemed a more sociable type than Gladys. But I remembered Gina, in Florida.

Gladys got me on the side, away from Wendy, as we walked back to the terminal.

“I’m not bringing Wendy again. She’s too distracting,” said Gladys.

“Distracting to me or to you, Gladys?” I asked, looking into her frowning eyes.

“Don’t get any ideas, I’m not jealous.”

“Yes you are,” said Chris. “Don’t forget it was your idea to bring her along and you didn’t like her making eyes at me.” I don’t want to break up a friendship; next time, don’t bring company.”

“I’m sorry,” she explained. “But I have other reasons, for which I don’t think I can see you again. The first time we met I should have refused to join you and Pete at your table. I broke my own rule about romantic entanglements in the air,” she paused to catch her breath. “I must admit, you do have a nice face. I have no intention of breaking up your happy marriage. I also know that life takes many strange twists and turns before it’s over, and the unexpected happens at the most unexpected time or place.”

“You’re a remarkable person,” said Chris. “As you said, we never see the last of life’s changes. You’ve always got your two feet on the ground, even when you fly. I will remember you.”

“I watched as she took off and disappeared into the sky. I knew we had parted forever.

In the clear air high above, I hoped she would finally discover that life and love go on no matter whether on the ground or in the air.

Under the heading of ‘comments’ in my logbook, I wondered what kind of an appropriate entry I would make that would fit my experience.

After a sandwich at Pete’s lunch counter I called wife, Gina, on my cell phone.

“Sweetheart, I miss you. I’ll fly down to Florida to see and celebrate.”

“Celebrate what, cara mia?” she asked anxiously.

“Don’t worry about that, amore mio, you’ll know when I get there.”


1898 words

11-11-2014







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