Years ago--OK, decades ago as a teenager--I was flying my first Chester, SC regional contest in a 1-26. I had finally made it to, IIRC, Monroe and headed out to Pageland. The big highway made it easy and I barely consulted the compass. That's good because it apparently wasn't working; it was at least 45 degrees off. I finally arrived at Pageland (in a 1-26 at the end of the day, the miles just crawled by) and slowly lost altitude searching for the airport. My crew had gone on from Monroe to Pageland (this was back in the day when most crews followed their pilots around the course) but their voices on the radio were getting curiously scratchier and weaker the closer our positions converged.

Finally, discouraged, bewildered, and frustrated, I turned final for a nice field not far out of town. There on the water tower was the name of the town: Marshville. That big highway was new enough that it wasn't on my sectional chart. The compass had been spot on all along. The scorer was a young Billy Hill and he had a great time poking good-natured fun at the embarrassed kid when I arrived back at the Chester airport that night.

I won't say I never doubted my compass again but whenever I did, it was always right. As festooned with electronics as my current cockpit is, I still occasionally glance at the compass just for reassurance, the same way I pull out my cardboard final glide calculator once in a while to do a sanity check on the flight computer's promises that I can make it in from afar.

Chip Bearden
ASW 24 "JB"
U.S.A.