Dylan Smith
December 17th 03, 06:51 PM
The Manx flag flying above the gate flapped in the wind. The gate
dismally creaked as I opened it, and Bob drove his diesel station wagon
through. Weak winter sunshine reflected off the damp patches on the
ground. I closed the gate, and thought of Douglas Adams's description,
"several billion tonnes of superhot exploding hydrogen nuclei managed to
look cold, weak and slightly damp".
But like a jewel in the windswept dampness, the windscreen of a Grumman
Cheetah glinted. Parked beneath a wind-battered windsock, it lay silent,
merely potential flight. The sound of an engine starting broke the
silence, as the old Auster started up nearby - the ancient aircraft
having been built before the 50th anniversary of the events at Kill
Devil Hills had been celebrated. After visiting the small airfield
clubhouse, we crunched out over the gravel to the Grumman.
One preflight later, Bob and I were ready to go. We thundered down
Andreas's pockmarked World War II runway, and broke ground, supported
easily by our wings on the moist air. Our 100 year celebration had
begun. The mission - do some takeoffs and landings to maintain currency,
then fly down to the Calf of Man, and around Chicken Rock and back
again.
We shared the circuit with the old Auster. Our journey was all so easy
compared to the Wrights - the aircraft stable and easily controllable,
climbing well in the cool winter air. We needed no rail to take off.
There was little danger of our flight lasting 12 seconds. Still, it was
a big event, and we needed few of the additions of the modern flying
experience - just like the Wrights, we had no air traffic control for
our takeoffs and landings. After our circuit bashing, we headed over to
the west coast, then southbound towards the Calf. Now we needed those
modern inventions of air traffic control to traverse Ronaldsway's Class
D airspace. The sounds of airline captain's voices filled our headsets,
as another normal day went on for the passengers on the commercial
airlines. The soft Scottish accent of the flying club's helicopter pilot
rang out, as he transited low past the runway threshold. The sea below
crashed against the jagged coastline, and we were treated to a view of
the icy north Irish Sea pouring through the straits between the Calf of
Man and the mainland. Leaving north, I turned the controls over to Bob
and we went back up the coast, climbing above the thin clouds. As we
passed the top of the inversion, the sun went from looking weak and damp
to brilliant brightness in a cobalt blue sky, the little Lycoming engine
pulling us ever higher.
A little while later, we descended back for landing. Touching down, we
had just flown for 1.2 hours rather than 12 seconds. 12 seconds that
were achieved by a pair who had a dream - a dream that has allowed
millions since to simply travel, but has allowed kindred spirits to
be part of that dream - to learn to fly, and be able to fly - just
because it's there.
At the same time, this momentous anniversary is filled with irony.
Nearly 4000 miles from Kill Devil Hills, we had the freedom to just go
and fly. But at the little airstrip at Kill Devil Hills, normal private
pilots were grounded by a Presidential TFR. With luck, President Bush
will stay away from our island and not impose this scourge on us.
--
Dylan Smith, Castletown, Isle of Man
Flying: http://www.dylansmith.net
Frontier Elite Universe: http://www.alioth.net
"Maintain thine airspeed, lest the ground come up and smite thee"
dismally creaked as I opened it, and Bob drove his diesel station wagon
through. Weak winter sunshine reflected off the damp patches on the
ground. I closed the gate, and thought of Douglas Adams's description,
"several billion tonnes of superhot exploding hydrogen nuclei managed to
look cold, weak and slightly damp".
But like a jewel in the windswept dampness, the windscreen of a Grumman
Cheetah glinted. Parked beneath a wind-battered windsock, it lay silent,
merely potential flight. The sound of an engine starting broke the
silence, as the old Auster started up nearby - the ancient aircraft
having been built before the 50th anniversary of the events at Kill
Devil Hills had been celebrated. After visiting the small airfield
clubhouse, we crunched out over the gravel to the Grumman.
One preflight later, Bob and I were ready to go. We thundered down
Andreas's pockmarked World War II runway, and broke ground, supported
easily by our wings on the moist air. Our 100 year celebration had
begun. The mission - do some takeoffs and landings to maintain currency,
then fly down to the Calf of Man, and around Chicken Rock and back
again.
We shared the circuit with the old Auster. Our journey was all so easy
compared to the Wrights - the aircraft stable and easily controllable,
climbing well in the cool winter air. We needed no rail to take off.
There was little danger of our flight lasting 12 seconds. Still, it was
a big event, and we needed few of the additions of the modern flying
experience - just like the Wrights, we had no air traffic control for
our takeoffs and landings. After our circuit bashing, we headed over to
the west coast, then southbound towards the Calf. Now we needed those
modern inventions of air traffic control to traverse Ronaldsway's Class
D airspace. The sounds of airline captain's voices filled our headsets,
as another normal day went on for the passengers on the commercial
airlines. The soft Scottish accent of the flying club's helicopter pilot
rang out, as he transited low past the runway threshold. The sea below
crashed against the jagged coastline, and we were treated to a view of
the icy north Irish Sea pouring through the straits between the Calf of
Man and the mainland. Leaving north, I turned the controls over to Bob
and we went back up the coast, climbing above the thin clouds. As we
passed the top of the inversion, the sun went from looking weak and damp
to brilliant brightness in a cobalt blue sky, the little Lycoming engine
pulling us ever higher.
A little while later, we descended back for landing. Touching down, we
had just flown for 1.2 hours rather than 12 seconds. 12 seconds that
were achieved by a pair who had a dream - a dream that has allowed
millions since to simply travel, but has allowed kindred spirits to
be part of that dream - to learn to fly, and be able to fly - just
because it's there.
At the same time, this momentous anniversary is filled with irony.
Nearly 4000 miles from Kill Devil Hills, we had the freedom to just go
and fly. But at the little airstrip at Kill Devil Hills, normal private
pilots were grounded by a Presidential TFR. With luck, President Bush
will stay away from our island and not impose this scourge on us.
--
Dylan Smith, Castletown, Isle of Man
Flying: http://www.dylansmith.net
Frontier Elite Universe: http://www.alioth.net
"Maintain thine airspeed, lest the ground come up and smite thee"