Rusty meets the Super Cruiser

Well, just for grins I decided to satisfy the biennial 1 hour of flight
instruction requirement by getting in some partial panel hood time...
The CFI not only agreed that partial panel was a good plan, but
actually looked happy as he said, "Ja, ve can do dot." Turns out to be
a r e a l partial panel, as in needle, ball, airspeed, and whiskey
compass, and they turn out to be mounted on the panel of his PA12 Cub
Super Cruiser, not the friendly gyros in my fat belly Apache...
Now, this Cub is way nicer than anything that ever rolled off the line
at Locke Haven... It feels and smells new and the custom cream and
green paint looks sharp... The brand new 115 horse engine starts on the
second blade... Listening to the engine and feeling the light weight
airframe rock in time to the engine while I scramble to get the heel
brakes set, it is suddenly the early 1950's and I'm a kid holding the
throttle while my dad props the 65 HP Continental on his Yellow J3 Cub,
trusting his only son won't do dear old dad in... Now it's the 1960's
and I'm a 'hot stick' in my BC12D T'Craft, N43837, doing one wheel,
cross wind touch and goes... I come back to the present as the
Prussian drill master behind me impatiently wiggles the stick, the
engine is showing temperature and it is time to go...

Taxi at a slow trot feels normal as I work my way around the maze of
taxiways playing a symphony on the rudder pedals and heel brakes,
lowering the appropriate aileron into the wind, etc... "Guess I'm not
that rusty.", I think as I smartly wheel it onto the active, line it up
on the center line, smoothly advance the throttle and start a wiggling
roll. "Gee, I don't remember the pedals being that sensitive. Heck
it's only been, 15 uhh, 25 uhh, gosh maybe 40 years!" I don't get the
tail up in time and it begins crow hopping in the cross wind... "Vee
are going to fly sometime today, ja?", comes the query in the
headset... So, we fly, the needle and ball imitating a penduluum - but
swinging in opposite directions...

Climb out goes OK afteer a few hundred feet and the needle and ball
start semi cooperating... Turns and stalls are nominal if not exactly
ATP quality... This right hand stick, left hand throttle is fifty years
in the past and it is taking time to get the arm limbered up... Just as
I'm beginning to feel good and starting to hot dog a little the hand
comes over my shoulder bearing a hood... "Hmm, this should be
interesting" so I put it on and reflexively begin to scan... I look up
at the top of the glare shield... No compass!
"Wait a daggone minute, where's the compass?"... He grunts, I guess
that means something in German... I finally locate a vertical card
compass down on the lower right panel...
"What happened to the standard Tee, coach?"
"Giff me a level 360 to the right, then climb and maintain 3000 on a
heading of zero zero.", comes the crisp reply...
I look at the compass card to see where North is, and roll into a right
turn. The needle goes right, the ball goes left, and the vertical
compass card takes off like a Beagle after a rabbit... "lessee, the
whiskey compass leads North and lags South... Uhh, or is it the
opposite?", I mutter... The compass doesn't answer... Looking down at
the compass I roll level as it reaches North... The compass slowly
rolls on past North, I am off by 30 degrees, there's my answer... I
roll into a standard left turn, count ten 'one thousands' (yes, no
clock and the watch on my right wrist is busy with the stick) and roll
out... I'm within 5 degrees... I'm feeling pretty cocky as I advance
the throttle to climb, a 100 feet below 3000 I smoothly retard the
throttle, reach down with the left hand and spin the trim crank,
whacking his jack boot with each turn, the nose drops gently, bobs
twice, and we are dead nuts on 3000... Smugly I say, "Three point
zero, coach."
"Giff me slow flight.", is my reward... Is there any other kind of
flight in a short wing Piper, I query in my head, but cage my tongue...
We wallow along in slow flight... A stall under the hood goes well...
A descending turn... A 720 to the left... He grunts...
"Vee do landings now."

The brain goes into stall mode - landings, ulp... in a cross wind,
gulp... "Landings?", I squeak...
"Ja!", is the grunt...

So we do landings... Now Ghod looks out for the unfortunate, the slow,
and the just plane incompetent... The first, three pointer is good, not
air show quality, but I'm not too wobbly on the cross wind roll out...
I exhale happily and start aiming for taxiway bravo...
"Vee go again... NOW!", comes the barked command...
Vee not go again, my rebellious brain says, but my traitor hands obey
the barked 'NOW' reflexively.... Throttle forward, carb heat off, the
left hand drops to the trim crank and begins whacking his boot with
each rotation... Lift off is marginally better than the first one, one
crow hop and still too much tail wag...
The next landing is bad, but at least there's no ground loop...
"Again.", comes the grunt... I taxi back...
The third landing is a disaster that doesn't get a chance to run it's
course... The Cub balloons into the air like a drunken sailor off a
diving board, the brain thinks we can save it - the disaster in the
making - the spinal cord finally waking up says, 'b**l s**t on that'
and the left hand slams the throttle forward, then begins spinning the
trim crank, and we climb out... Silence from the back seat...
The fourth landing is a greaser Yes, Ghod)... The Cub rolls smoothly
to a stop , the prop ticking over...
"Gut, vee get coffee."...
A hundred thirty dollars and a signature later, I am signed off for
another two years...
"You did gut."
"I'm rusty."
"Ja, dots true."
Silence for a minute as we both study the wind sock...
"Next week?"
"Ja, vee can do dot."
"See ya, coach."
"Zee ya, Rusty."


denny ...