Creature of Habit

Creature of Habit

by Chucky

Yogi Bera said it best and the same can be said of flying. “Ninety percent of baseball is mental. The other 50% is physical. In-flight emergencies must be addressed quickly and accurately. When a pilots mind is under severe pressure preparation and practice of procedure will serve him more than thinking. There isn’t time to think, as the following  personal missive illustrates.

In 1984, my job was a  routine midnight freight flight in a twin-engine plane from Southend, England to Brussels, Belgium and back. Normally, like all flights, everything went smoothly. This winter night I would earn my pay. Some would say it is a pilot's skill that enables him or her to cuddle the grandkids.  Skill? In the cockpit, skill can be defined by practice and mental preparation for in-flight procedures.

The flight from Southend to Brussels, after checking the weather, filing a flight plan, passing emigration (I held a British ATP, but a USA passport and therefore was not a member of the European Community which had transparent borders), and preflight and liftoff from Southend was uneventful. I banked East at 500’ AGL, preferring ditching in the icy waters of the Channel in case of engine failure to negotiating a landing in the cement of the city. The weather was CAVU. (Clear and Visibility Unrestricted).  Brussels Approach expected me and after the initial radio call gave me  the altimeter setting and handed me off to the tower. After landing, I parked the aircraft in the general aviation section, set the mixtures to rich because previous experience taught me that they would be frozen in place after sitting on the ramp for the hour it took TNT to unload the freight.

The flight back is the interesting part of this story. Checking the weather I learned that the temperature-dewpoint spread was within two degrees so after takeoff from Brussels I monitored the weather continuously, and by the time I was over Manston, it had dropped to within one degree. The temperature dewpoint spread is a good indication of fog. The winds being light and variable warned me that ground fog was inevitable if the two numbers met. It wouldn’t come gradually, but would appear in the snap of a finger. I’d seen it before but not from 6000 feet.

There are a number of alternatives to the possibility of not being able to land at the intended destination. Manston, directly below me was a giant airfield with Ground controlled Radar capable of talking me down in zero-zero weather till my wheels screeched on the runway pavement. At 4 am, Manston was closed.  GCA was developed by MIT in 1942 and was installed at 3 major aerodromes at the height of WWII, and still used for emergency backdoor 0/0  weather alternatives. They were Prestwick, Scotland, Lyneham, Wiltshire and Manston, Kent. Lyneham and Manston were closed and Prestwick was beyond fuel range for the  Cessna Titan 404.

From Manston my destination, South End, on the southeast coast of England was 120 miles distant. About 45 minutes flying time. Chances are that I wasn’t going to make it if the temp dewpoint closed any further.

Visibility was clear and unrestricted. I continued listening to the weather radio and watching twinkling lights from street lights and automobiles slide by my side window.

About 15 miles north of Manston twinkles were barely visible through the white, fuzzy cloth covering the ground. I made a radio call to Terminal Control, deciding that my best bet was Heathrow. By then the view ahead to the city of Southend showed a blanket of ground level fog. Although visibility through ground fog appeared acceptable looking down through it from above, landing in it was impossible. Looking down its only 50’ thick. Looking ahead its miles thick. Essentially zero visibility.

London Approach, gulf delta alpha foxtrot sierra ten miles north of Manston, altitude 6000 request vector to Heathrow for full stop landing. Heathrow was my alternate. Every IFR flight requires an alternate and 45 minutes of fuel left in the tanks upon landing.

Foxtrot Sierra, approach Heathrow is accepting Cat II approaches only due to 0/0 visibility, came the reply. Altimeter two niner niner two.

Although ILS (Instrument Landing System) was developed in years subsequent to GCA( Ground Controlled Approach),  ILS Cat II  required highly sophisticated electronics and specially trained pilots for a 0/0 landing. GCA merely required a number of practice approaches, which I  had, but useless still if the operators were home in bed; the normal procedure which, in the face of a true emergency, such as a pilot trapped over an impenetrable cloud deck with no available alternate,  they would be called out by Terminal Services.

I asked approach for suitable alternative airports.

London Approach responded that Calais was reporting cavu.

Calais, France is on the coast, a short hop back across the Channel.

I immediately  banked east and responded that I was descending to 5000’ and proceeding across the Channel to Calais. I pulled the approach plate from my flight bag. On the way over I did a routine scan of my instruments, checking heading, altitude, and the engine while setting a course.

Even though its cool in the cockpit, my brow beaded with nervous sweat from concentration and concern whether Calais will become socked in also before my arrival. I’m trueing out at 180 kts and can see the lights of Calais from over the Channel.  I estimate 13 minutes to cover the 40-mile flight. Halfway over the Channel I spy the airport strobe and alter course slightly straight for it.

Listening to the radio for weather on the Continent, the unemotional drone from the radio announces  dewpoint spread is closing.

I set up for a visual approach to 06 after crossing the runway and turning downwind, pull off some power for the decent and run through a mental checklist:  Brakes tapped, gear handle down, flaps set, power check, radios set, altimeter set, auxiliary fuel pumps on, mixtures rich, props, icing check.

I did a double check of my checklist in anticipation of turning final.  No greens! Three greens for the landing gear down are not lit. My mind races. I didn’t hear the gear noise. All three lights can’t be out.

The gear is still in its well. Three lights can’t be out by coincidence and they were lit before takeoff from Southend earlier.  No chance of abandoning the approach and troubleshooting it further for fear of the closing dewpoint temp spread. I turn final approach, the runway lights looming larger as I close on the threshold  I  decided to use emergency procedures and blow the gear down, but first, one more try and I once again cycled the gear. Nothing. No sound or vibration. I placed the gear handle in the down position. Nothing, waiting for the three greens: nothing. Right! Very little time left. The fingers on my left hand count the circuit breakers on the panel by my left elbow as practiced many times previously in anticipation of the situation in a dark cockpit. Three over and four back. Without looking, I pull the circuit breaker for the landing gear motor and Immediately reached for the red handle connecting a cable attached to a compressed air bottle in the nose if the aircraft.

 The compressed air from this bottle will blow the gear down. There is only one bottle. Double check: gear handle down and breaker pulled.

“Its now or never.” I am whispering to myself.

 Either way I am landing at Calais as my mind races by habit to the pilots creed: the most important two questions good pilots keep asking themselves: What if and what’s next?

So what if the bottle blows and still no three greens? With the strong possibility of ground fog and not wanting to take a chance I committed to landing, gear or no gear.

I will at least save the engines and shut them down and feather the props before touchdown. I will also shut off the fuel feed having already shutdown the engines by pulling the mixtures back to full lean. By this time, I’m no longer whispering.

I ran through the checklist items mentally, power off, feather props, mixtures lean, fuel valve off, magnetos off after close enough to make the runway, fly the airplane. The adrenalin is pumping as three green lights appear and crossing the runway threshold, ease the craft down to a smooth and uneventful landing. The buildings are dark so I taxi to a nearby ramp where other small aircraft are parked and secure the aircraft.

I find a phone and call a taxi, which drives me to a hotel. I will phone the office in the morning. Another flight where the end result was never in doubt. Whew!

Oh. Burst hydraulic line.

The Steel Weight

by Chuck

The shadow streaking across the ground reflected all of the doubts he ever had of himself as an aircrft pilot. Not a flier, but a pilot. A pilot is a technician and being such is by definition self trained for attention to detail of the craft. Now an overly helpful line boy and an interrupted thought process in the cockpit has placed him in the middle of the ultimate “What if sceniaro”.

In 1981 I accepted a job flying DDT on cotton in The Sudan on the continent of Africa.
It was a typical day flying cotton on the banks of the Nile River in Wad Medni, about 100 miles south of Khartoum. Early breakfast at the hooch, which was a leftover villa from the British Era, as were all the lime trees growing unattended now. After a season applying Nitram on Rape and Potatoes in Linconshire, England, Chuck picked up the contract to fly DDT on summer cotton in The Sudan. There was only one catch: He had to fly the aircraft from England to the Sudan. Forty four flying hours and two weeks later his wheels touched down on a lone gravel strip in Wad Medni, about 100 miles south of Khartoum on the western bank of the Nile. The mechs removed the ferry equipment and prepared the aircraft for the task ahead. A few days after arrival he was rearing to go. Out to the aircraft. Some early morning stretching in prep for the 12 hour day hanging in the straps of a C model Pawnee 235. The flying was ideal; great flying weather and few obstructions. What power and telephone lines the British had built were fallen down or otherwise sagging into the non-obstruction category. The fields were 90 acre parcels, all laid out adjacent and end to end and flying them was a cropdusters dream come true. Load up with 100 gallons of DDT and the trick was to takeoff, make a pass through one field and then another and bank into another in a large circle winding back up on final approach for another load just as the last gallon of chemical had been sprayed. It was a challenge keeping track of exactly which track of the field you had just sprayed on the previous run, indeed which field in your self-planned sequence of fields, and then returning to the strip before your partner, otherwise eat his dust on his takeoff. Chuck’s partner was Patty Mckay. Patty was a feisty little Irishman who had flown the length of the Sahara as well as the mountains of Sweden. When they weren’t working they were dog-fighting and Patty knew all the tricks. Trying to get Patty off his tail, Chuck would bank and roll, dive, but always Patty’s “rat tat tat, rat tat tat” over the radio or his infernal landing light blinking. It was hard to shake him. He came out of the sun and before Chuck had a chance to turn it was too late. “Rat tat tat, rat tat tat” . We were like Cato and the Pink Panther. Out of nowhere he would come with that infernal ‘ratt tatt tatt” over the radio. Both were capable duster pilots who could choose which rut they wanted their wheels to hit first on a landing. With over 100 landings a day in a typical season. Yeah. They knew how to fly an ag plane. We flew enough together off of the same strip that season that they didn’t really need a radio. They could read each other just by the tilt of their wing or the attitude of their craft, and the knowledge that neither was going to cut the other any slack flying within the definition of safe. There was one approach where both Patty and Chuck had finished their last gallon and were flying toward the airfield. Chuck from the tank end and Patty from the downwind end of the runway. Ordinarily they would land with the approach starting at the non-tank end of the runway without regard to the wind. This way they could land, swing around beside the chemical tank at the end of the rollout and be in takeoff position after filling another load. Cropdusters usually don’t fly on windy days; not enough control of the application. On this day, in the position Chuck was in he would be landing downwind, then do a 180 and taxi back up to the pump for a refill, all the time preventing Patty from landing because he would be on the strip, he thought. Chuck had Patty beat to the strip and there was no way Patty was going to land first. Yes! Patty would be eating dust this time on Chuck’s takeoff. “ I’m too close. Nothing you can do about it Sucker”! thought Chuck. After Chuck’s downwind landing while he was rolling out Patty flew directly over him in the opposite direction full flaps and short-fielded his aircraft right in front of the pump and was standing on the wing laughing when Chuck rolled up. “Aye Mate. It’ll be a cold day on the Nile before a Yank ever gets the best of Patty Mckay”, he quips. “You never cease to surprise me Patty. It’s a pleasure flying with you, you amazing little leprechon.” Patty taught Chuck to water ski. Water ski on the Nile. Water ski on the Nile while in an aircraft. “You have to lock the wheels Mate or you’ll burn the the wheel bearings out”. Water skiing a tail dragger is quite safe if done correctly. The approach to the water is very shallow, feeling for the surface with speed at around 100 kts. The wheels form an adhesive or hydraulic bond to the water. Needless to say the water surface must be glassy smooth to ski safely. Once the water-rubber bond is formed the pilot can let go of the contols. Low-hour pilots please do not try this at home…pilots with any brains at all please do not try this at home. The answer to the ‘what if’ question of “what if it quits now” is a given. Chuck skied the Nile in formation up and down the river, under bridges, water spraying from the wheels with Per Ane the chief pilot in his Ag Cat, and Patty and Cranley Leigh the Kiwi and the appropriately named Angus the Scot who moved to Sweden “because the language is similar and the girls can get their knickers off quicker” and the rest of the multi-national crew that was flying cotton in Wad Medni that fine summer of 1981.

So it was that one had to look out for oneself amongst these fellows: experienced aviators from the four corners of the globe. Twelve of them there were. Including an Indian who flew with his headset clamped over his turban, two look-a-like blond Swede boys whose every waking moment they got in town they spent entertaining the local ladies of the evening. Australia, Sweden, Ireland, India, New Zealand, and Finland. All natives of their country except Angus the expatriate Scot, whose only allegiance was to which ever female got naked first, and Chuck, the lone American. With only 1200 hours total flying hours logged compared to their 4000 to 12000 hours. Chuck had to be very careful. He was always conscious about being the low hour pilot, but also about representing the good ole USA and not being embarrassed by getting caught doing anything considered unprofessional. Water-skiing the Nile AND losing your engine? Yes. They would have considered that unprofessional. He had to stand alone over the dinner table against the Per Ane questioning his judgement in refusing to fly because of a small oil leak, bearing the silent and wondering stares of the rest of the pilots. His stock went up when, at a loss of anything else to do, Per Ane ordered the mechs to tear down the engine. “That’s the first time I have ever seen a transversal cylinder crack” , he said the next evening. Chuck could hear in his minds ear the pilots at the table that evening finishing what the CP was hesitant to admit: the very likely probability that the engine had less than 5 hours before failure. Good call for the Yank. These thoughts were in the forefront of his mind the next day with his newly repaired engine flying with Patty McKay.

A couple of loads into the morning Chuck perceived the engine drone sounding funny, something not right. As a ground hugger, crop dusters trained themselves to be ever mindful of the sound of their engine. There is little forgiveness 5 foot above the ground. Airspeed is one of the Ag Pilots only friends at that altitude. No altitude, no airspeed. “You’re in the water..Sharks in the water?…Oh Danny Boy the..” An engine will talk to the pilot and usually warn him, by sound or vibration, if not on the instruments, of trouble on his path. The mind filters out constant noise but a cropduster listens to each tic and hum of his engine no matter what else he is doing while flying. The engine talks and the pilot listens. It was such a subtle change. Even through the play dough earplugs, Chuck perceived something different. Maybe it was just because the engine had just come out of an oil leak repair. That could have been it. This engine had yet to prove itself and was material for constant suspicion and justified close scrutiny until such a time of dependable performance revealed itself to be a reliable member of the Chuck squadron. Maybe it was the air density that changed that day, but those little bells started tingling. Those little bells, ever so faint at first, that every experienced pilot starts hearing when ever the regular drum roll develops a subtly different tune, regardless of how random. Instrument check. Oil pressure good, temp normal for this outside temp in the Sudan Summer. No strange vibrations, just that little something that has changed. It’s probably because of the engine re-build and he is just noticing it. An exterior walk around and dipstick check revealed nothing unusual.
“Patty, I’m going back and have my engine checked out, something doesn’t sound right”.

The hangar was within site of the spraying strip they were working from that day. In the distance the small but ever familiar pattern of spray planes making their post run pull ups and turns were barely visible in the distance. The sun was bright. Not a cloud in the sky. Chuck flew the 10 miles to the hangar and set up on final for the gravel strip. The gray beaded quarter mile path growing ever larger in his windscreen. At this point sightseeing is over. The pilot is totally focused on the chore before him. Interesting animals copulating beside the runway, fast cars on the highway, pretty girls sunning themselves by their pools have to wait their turn for a change. CCGUMP +W . Cowls, coolers, gas, Undercarriage in this case to include flaps, Mixtures, Props + Wheels, Chuck’s addition to the age-old anagram for Wheels not locked after water-skiing the Nile Dummy! One wheel locked landing was plenty. Good thing the strip was gravel. He had released them on the second bounce with no one the wiser. There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. Ok. But Bob Hoover doesn’t count because he will warp any pilots grading curve. Chuck knows that keeping the senses sharp in a flying environment is a constant chore. When he first started flying Chuck would say aloud to himself: “ I am flying an airplane. I am flying an airplane”, repeating his benediction occasionally throughout the flight. The flying environment demands near perfection and dead pilots cry from their graves: “Near perfection is not good enough”! At its very best it is totally unforgiving of complacency.

The crew on that contract consisted of pilots, mechanics and ground crew who assisted the mechanics and did general chores around the hangar, the line boys. The strip was gravel and the ramp beside the hangar, where the aircraft were parked at night was dirt. An aircraft could no sooner land and shut down before an overly helpful Pakistani was buzzing around opening up the engine cowlings for engine cooling and tying down the aircraft for the evening while enquiring if you had a good day and is there anything wrong with the aircraft. It was their attentiveness that almost sunk him that day. It’s a miracle that no one noticed. Or maybe someone did and became a secret, silent and smiling friend to the Yank that day. If so, salute. They all landed one after the other that evening. All lined up on final. Twelve aircraft slipping on to that gravel and dust strip beside the hangar and taxiing to tie down, greedily timed to coincide exactly with the moment after dusk when low visibility made VFR flying no longer safe. The acre, or hectare paid them, which was a little over 2 acres. Chuck timed it to land last, with a low approach. He taxied up to his parking place, fortuitously on the near end of the parking line. Pivoted the tail around for a perfect position, thinking. “Not a lot of room for error Chuck”. The plan was to jump out on the wing and wait till all of the aircraft were parked on the lee side and then heave the thing as hard as he could.

“Did you have a good day Mister”?

“Anything wrong with the Aircraft Mister?”

The line boy was unlatching the cowlings as the prop swung through its last arc. Except for him, that pesky line boy.

“No nothing wrong I had a good day”, he replied while scanning for other aircraft in the vicinity that could spot him. There were none. They were all down-line and engaged in some degree of bedding their aircraft down for the evening. Chuck exited the aircraft and stood by the cockpit as the line boy ducked to tie down the far wing, grabbed the thing with an adrenalin rush, lifted and heaved with all his might. It landed with a dull thud.

Immediately the line boy’s head appeared from under the leading edge of the right wing. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Chuck questioned.

“That noise, like the engine falling off the aircraft and hitting the bloody ground Mister”

“I didn’t hear anything”.

Blank stare and perplexed look. He swiveled a 270-degree arc and noted nothing out of place so he went back to tieing down the wing. Chuck jumped off the wing and began helping him, making small talk and trying not to sound too relieved before climbing aboard the bus for the ride to the hooch.



There was no weather to speak of. Just the normal beautiful day with a light summer breeze so he saw no need to tie the aircraft down for the short while he would be gone.

“I’m going to the hooch for a minute while you have a look ok”?

He turned to see Heike the Fin mechanic lifting the tail of an aircraft onto two cylinder blocks.

Heike nodded. “I’ve never met a man as strong as that guy. He’s a bull”, thought Chuck to himself.

“I’ll getdoo it as zoon as pozzible Shuck”

“OK Heike, you do zat”, thought Chuck as he started his walk for the house. Heike was a Fin and he had a beautiful blond, and slightly plump wife who he was always showing off with pictures of her standing in front of their idyllic country cottage holding a freshly cooked pastry, somewhere in Finland. Heike spent most of his off hours reading books with pictures full of dead Russians. Heike hated Russians. A great mechanic and a fun fella at the dinner table. He never talked about Russians. Just read books full of gruesome pictures of Russians however dead. All killed and strewn about in horrible final poses. After dinner you could find Heike in his bunk surrounded by books about dead Russians. He would have his nose stuck in one, daring you to interrupt him. He brought a book with him to work and during lunch he was off by himself in the shade; munching his sandwich and just silently reading his book full of pictures of “Ivans no longer wid us Ha Ha”.


“Dere’s nuttn wrong wid da Shuck. I ran it ubtoo vull power for over da minute an da verking fine. Good engine”, says Heike
“Good enough for me Heike. Thanks a bunch” Chuck was yelling over his shoulder as he ran toward his aircraft. It was sitting just as he had left it. The engine was hot from Heike’s runnup and the cowlings were unlatched. Chuck checked the oil out of habit, gave the engine a quick eyeballing and snapped them closed, did a quick cursory walk around and hopped in. Fuel, flaps, Mags on, Starter. The prop swung through two arcs and became a grey circle when the engine fired. Oil pressure check. In the green. Controls free. Good to go, daylights a wasting. Forward on the throttle and toward the strip. The rolling takeoff was normal enough. Nothing unusual. Power, feed in some right rudder to keep her straight, tail wheel up and ease the stick back to assume a take-off angle of attack on the wings. She lifted off.

“Hmm. Funny. Lots of forward stick. Didn’t he check the trim before takeoff. The trim indicator showed zero. Right in the middle where it should be. He cranked the trim handle on the left bulkhead until the pressure began coming off the palm of his hand. The handle wouldn’t turn anymore and he was still holding forward pressure. A quick glance revealed the trim indicator showing full forward trim. The aircraft is aft loaded for sure, but flyable. He began a gentle bank toward his destination. “I’ve got full forward trim and still holding forward pressure on the stick. Have to get this sorted out”, he thought. She is flying. Minding the pilots first rule of survival that he has drilled into himself since stepping into his first cockpit solo. “Still no problem the strip is available if I have to set her down. But what is causing the aft loading”. The friendly face of his overly-helpful line boy faded into view from his subconscious. “ Oh NO! “ He maneuvered the aircraft so its rippling shadow was in full view as it bee-lined heedless of fences and crop rows across the desert floor.

His first thoughts were how to remedy the situation without getting found out. That was the absolute first thing that entered his mind. Survival. Not that the taxi and takeoff were so normal that he hadn’t noticed. Not that despite 500 hours in the Pawnee, it occurred to him that the distinct possibility existed that he was a ham-handed Bozo who had no sensitivity for handling his aircraft. The aircraft was flyable. Not workable but it was flying within its operational envelope and there was no immediate danger of loss of control. There was an immediate danger of having to buy grease paint and a poka dot suit and a red wig to fit his new image if anyone notices what he had done.

“No need to land at the strip. I’ll just continue on and see if I can sneak in while Patty is away from the field.”, he thought. “If I land back at the hangar they will all wonder what is wrong and my goose will be cooked for sure”. He eased the throttle forward for 5 more knots of airspeed. Scanning the horizon, he could make out some aircraft in their typical working patterns; mere specs but visible. Their pilots were too far away and too involved in their back and forths, ups and downs to notice him.

But where is Patty? Patty is the immediate danger. Patty might not let the cat out of the bag, but that is a chance not worth a bet. Even with odds. The chances of becoming reduced to foreign accented dinner table conversation froze him with horror. He could hear the laughter. Like a dream where all you can remember is in pastels. They were all slapping their thighs, tossing their food to keep from choking and laughing, laughing out loud in foreign accents. Oh God! Foreign accents; and the “Yank” ..Clarabel.

As he approached the strip he noticed Patty working a field a few miles away. He wouldn’t be that far away from the pump if he were anywhere done. He jammed the throttle forward to max power. “The sooner I get there the better off I will be”, he said to himself. He knew that he would have to land hot. Hot means at a speed greater than normally necessary. No sense taking a chance on a hi-speed stall on approach. The strip was long enough to handle the roll out and he maneuvered for an up wind final. Keeping an eye on Patty, before he disappeared in the haze or the distant horizon. Speed and efficiency was of the utmost necessity if he were to secure his embarrassment from view before Patty showed up on final. No sooner had his wheels touched that he judged the distance from the pump so he could cut the engine. As he approached the pump the prop had swung through its last arc. He jumped out.

“What is that Mister? That what you are doing”. Chuck hid it behind the wheel of the chemical tank.
“Just keep it here and don’t tell Patty. It’s a surprise” I will pick it up at the end of the day”
Everything went according to plan with no one the wiser. In retrospect he could have done it differently, but he chose to carry it back to the base strip rather than taking the chance of having it missed and eventually discovered on the field strip, or worse, the loading master appearing in front of everyone and saying something like: “Captain Chuck! You forgot your surprise”. At the end of the day he waited and maneuvered so that Patty left for the hangar strip first. In the distance he counted aircraft heading toward the strip in the dusk. If he timed it right he would arrive just after all of the other pilots had parked and headed back to the villa. He saw the Land Rover, with Angus running behind as usual, turning the bushy corner on the dusty road just as he was on short final for the strip. The weight of the thing was such that he thought it would go through the floor on touchdown. As he taxxied up to his tiedown point the line boy ran to meet the aircraft. Damn! He was shutdown and out on the wing as the lineboy opened the cowels. As soon as the lineboy turned to duck under the nose for the otherside he lifted the weight and heaved it as hard as he could toward the tail of the aircraft.

"What was that Captain?' The lineboy's head was poking up at him from under the left side of the nose.

"What was what?" "That sound like a thud".

"Harrumph!" he replied.

Its been too many years to remember why they used huge hunks of scrap iron as anchors for aircraft tie downs on that strip. Maybe they had no other proper anchors available. The overly helpful line boys resist forgetting though. Especially the one that chained the tail of the aircraft down while Chuck had gone to the hooch. No. He’ll never forget him, and never stop remembering him in his prayers for the lesson he taught him.

No Bounce in a Different Direction

NO BOUNCE IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION

My first jump: Zephyrhills, Florida 1973

Terminal velocity for a falling man of average weight is 133mph The maximum g forces the human body can sustain is around 39gs or 39 times his weight.
The sudden stop at the end of the fall, graphically termed a bounce, takes place within ¼ of an inch and generates over, well F=MA You do the math.

What I want to describe to you is the anxiety of making that first jump. I want to share the experience with you to illustrate what it did for me. How it provided growth and contributed to my self confidence. This story will illustrate to you the value of stepping out of the box once in a while. Not the value of gambling but of taking a calculated risk in order to progress to a higher existential plane.

The four hours of training that comes with the course helps. I mean by the time you get through going through all the motions of hanging in the straps, jumping off a platform and practicing rolling It gets progressively harder to say “no” and go home.
Its like they lead you down the path anyway. There aren’t any refunds.” Except if your parachute doesn’t open” AHHARHAR! Every jumpmaster’s favorite joke.
Every nerve in my body is screaming at me: RUN! Get out and run. There is still time. You will never see these people again! Get in your car and go home. Get in bed and never come back here and thank you God.
Again the jumpmaster (authorative stance)

“When you go out the door you will be on a static line. Your instructor will ensure that you don’t forget to hook your static line hook to the aircraft. You will be jumping at 3000 feet. THREE THOUSAND FEET!!!!!”
And it all comes rushing back. The terror you were wallowing in before the distraction of the recent training. Now its getting serious. You look around and smell the air. No chance of rain?. “Now is as good as time as any to die” you whimper to yourself.
“This will be the first of your three jump package. You can make all three today if you like or you can return next week.”“HOW ABOUT I COME BACK NEXT WEEK FOR MY FIRST?” I almost blurt.
“This is a unique day for you. One to be valued. Look around and take it all in. Smell the flowers, smile at the nice people. Listen to the birds chirping on the telephone wires outside. He says. I’m sure he’s describing my last day on Earth”.
We suit up. The Jumpmaster hands us our chute and later checks the fit of the straps.
(authorative stance) “You need to grab your handle and pull it after you leave the door. You look, eyes on, grab it and pull. Don’t let go of it. You are just practicing for when you progress from static line to free fall.”“HAH! I’M NEVER COMING BACK AFTER THIS ONE” I want to shout. .
I practice it a few times. I catch myself reviewing my streamer procedures in case my first chute doesn’t open, and praying, praying .
But really the scariest part wasn’t suiting up or walking toward the aircraft or climbing up to 3000 feet. The scariest part was sitting securely in the open door, legs dangling complimenting myself on how brave I was. when the instructor tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a little step welded way out on the strut.
“You climb out there and hold on. Keep your eyes on me and let go on my signal. Don’t forget to grab and pull your practice handle!. I’ll be watching.”“WHAT!! CLIMB OUT ON THE STRUT!!!? AND STAND ON THAT LITTLE STEP? YOU’RE JOKING RIGHT??” This was not in the brochure!
I thought all I had to do was jump out the door. I can keep my eyes closed doing that. Now I have to keep my eyes wide open and pay attention to every detail of what I’m doing or I could slip in the 120mph hour wind and fall to a screaming miserable death. The scariest part wasn’t standing out there, Hands crinkling the aluminum. No. Without a doubt the absolute horrific part was GETTING out there.
I don’t mind saying it took a lot of what has become termed as “the right stuff” to get out there. I grew in those moments.

On his signal, heart in my throat I left the step, spread my arms, looked toward my practice handle, grabbed and pulled it. As I did so I saw him watching me from the aircraft door. As my gaze returned to Mother Earth hurrying eagerly toward me I felt a PLOP. I looked up and saw the giant canopy lazily floating above me. “Thankyou God, Thankyou God. Thank you Thank you. Never having that sort of un obstructed visibility before, I noticed the view was spectacular. Ok now for the landing procedures. Steer toward the big bulls eye in front of the jump shack. Steer into the wind. Keep tension in the legs, ankles together.


The jump shack had a little 4 x 4 concrete pad infront of the entrance. I landed ankles together, tension in my legs and rolled inside the door. My chute draped itself over the top of the roof. There was a little dog lieing just inside of that door. He jumped 10 feet with fright and never stopped barking at me for 15 minutes. Like a little k-9 drill instructor he was. “arf arf arf Waddayamean landing there and scaring me like that?arf arf You are supposed to land on the big red and white thingy like I’m used to seeing everyone else do. Whadda ya Crazy. You could have killed me…you’re no good you know that? You don’t know nothing. bark yap yap bark .
Then the debrief.The beautiful debrief that I remember word for word to this day: “Chuck, You didn’t waste a lot of shoe leather on that landing but you were the only one who gave me a decent let-go. The rest of you sort of just collapsed off the strut like they had already resigned themselves to dieing. The other guy who chickened out altogether can come back next week if he wants his money’s worth cause there ain’t no refunds

It turned out to be quite a learning experience. We go through life with people approving and disapproving of us. The first thing I heard upon landing was the dog. At times that dog barks at each and every one of us. But what made a difference was the words from the jumpmaster. From a seed of an idea conceived in boredom and a quest to do something unusual in life, through working up the nerve and concentrating on the end result to the reward which made it all a worthwhile enterprise: the jumpmasters debrief statement which said to me that I was capable of greater things. “Chuck, you were the only one who gave me a decent let-go”. I grew 10 feet that day. With those words.. I drove home and began changing friends. Long gone are the dogs in my life and have sought the company of jumpmasters ever since.

The Best Lime I've ever Tasted

It was another bright, sunny Sudan day at our spray site on the western bank of the Blue Nile in Wad Medani. While finishing up a fertilizer contract in England, I had accepted a job spraying DDT on cotton in Sudan, Africa. How I got there is another story but there I was, living in an old British plantation house with all the other ‘croppers’ who had a seat spraying cotton that summer. Yes, it was a beautiful August morning, in the year 1981. The day usually starts with a fruit and egg breakfast, followed by a discussion with the chief pilot of the days spraying assignments. I was working with Paddy Mckay as usual. Paddy was a spirited little Irishman. He had flown the length and breath of the Sahara and knew all the tricks. We would dogfight between jobs. I got really tired of the sound of his “tika tika tika” in my earphones. He would come out of the sun, out of a cloud, from underneath like Albert Ball, straight down at me occasionally. Sometimes I would get on his tail, but then he would throttle back and throw out all his flaps and I would be in front of him again. "Tika tika tika" We would compete for first place on the strip, hot and dusty as it was, laughing with full throttle on takeoff while the other faded into the dusty Sahara behind. Paddy was a better flier though. At over 100 landings and takeoffs a day on some pretty precarious airstrips, we were all proficient. Cropdusters are among the best light aircraft handlers in the business. Patty was better than that for a number of reasons. It would be hard to describe in detail, but he just was.

Sudanese cotton fields are laid out within irrigation distance straddling the Blue Nile. There are no trees of any height, the telephone and electric grid setup by the British were in the advanced stages of disrepair and had fallen down long ago. In short there were few obstructions on the 90-acre fields in which the cotton was planted. Rather than spray one field at a time, we found it faster to dip into one field after another in a circular pattern, presumably ending up back at the strip with an empty hopper to land for a refill of insecticide. Naturally, we kept a weather eye on each other, hoping to make it back to the strip first, thereby making the other wait and laughing out loud during the entire takeoff run as the other sweats in his 120 degree cockpit whilst choking down propwash in tiny bits of the Sahara. So it was first to the loading bay that won this game of one-upmanship we played with each other. The stakes were high: Pride.

During one of these bouts Patty and I found ourselves returning at exactly the same time but on opposite ends of the strip. Patty was on the approach end while I was on the tank loader end. I dove for a downwind landing reasoning that the strip was long enough and that if I landed short and turned around quickly enough I would be between Patty and the loading dock in case he tried to pull any of his fancy flying tricks. I landed first alright and as short as I could. Stick forward with throttle and left brake got the tail off the ground and spun the aircraft around. I saw Patty close on final so I gunned the throttle to close the distance between my aircraft and the dock as quickly as possible. Not good enough. I don’t know where he found the room but the next thing I knew his aircraft started filling up the top of my windscreen. He plopped it down right in front of me, rolling it up and swinging it around in front of the dock. He took what I thought to be quite a chance, but the sight of him laughing, he was so loud I could practically hear him over the engines, said that it had never crossed his mind. I take comfort in telling myself that there are some things I never do and am still here to tell the tale, but it hurts to know that there are some things Patty will always do and is also here to tell the tale. Yes, he was better than me at this game, for sure.

So it is no wonder that what I experienced later that afternoon I would never have wanted Patty to find out. And he didn’t. No body did, not even the resident mechanics and line boys, for surely they would have told Patty and all the other pilots and I would have never heard the last of it. They didn’t though and I left the Sudan that year with my soul intact.

We had a well-oiled and truly motley crew that year in Wad Medani, Sudanese and East Indian line boys who would do anything for a buck. The mechanic was a Finn named Heike whom I once saw pick up the tail end of a Thrush 600 with one hand. In his off hours he read book after book illustrated with dead Russians. “Vee don’t like Russians Chuck”, he once told me when I inquired. Then there was the chief pilot, PerAne, who brought his wife. There was two blond twins from Sweden, whose memory is forever defined in a downtown houseoftherisingsun contrasted side by side with two embarrassed, young black girls. There were two wild Kiwis who were used to airstrips on the sides of mountains. Then Angus, the appropriately named Scot who moved to Sweden because “it’s the only place where the lassies get their knickers off quicker than Scotland Mate..” There was the Siek from India who flew with his headset wrapped around his headdress, and me who was “that crazy Yank who flew the Sahara alone”. Actually I followed the Nile River for the most part from Cairo to Wad Medani, so I don’t consider myself that crazy. Ok a little crazy but not die of thirst drinking camel weewee in the middle of the stinking desert crazy. Not that crazy.

On about my third load after lunch I had thought I heard a change in my engine. Crop dusting is flying with the head out of the cockpit. Everything is by feel with an occasional glance at the oil pressure gauge, but with 10 hours and a hundred power changes a day the ear becomes one with the aircraft environment. That day something changed. I couldn’t determine what it was but the engine sounded different. About the third takeoff I noticed a small oil leak. Not so much as to cause a serious loss of fluid but clearly, the 235 horses on my C model Pawnee were talking to me. I informed the load supervisor that I was heading back to base to have Heike look at it. I flew the 10 miles to the gravel strip, lined up on final. There was no one around. I hoped Heike was working in the hangar. I rolled up to one of the parking areas and pulled the mixtures to lean. The prop wound to a stop and I switched off the mags, pulled of my helmet and hopped out on to the wing. Heike was working on the wing of a Turbo Thrush just inside the hangar. I walked the 100 or so feet to greet him. “Hey Heike. My engine has developed a tic and I would like you to look at it”. “Nuting wrong wit dat engine Chuck”. He replied. I heard you land and roll up. How is your oil pressure, any fluctuations?” “No, nothing like that. The needle’s steady” “Ok vell gut to go den. I look at it closer tonight”
“OK. See you tonight Heike”.

I walked back out to the aircraft noting that it was exactly as I had left it. Not a soul around. “Hmm, wonder where the line boys are? Heike must have them off running errands, I thought.”In the next few moments I would wish that he had them off running errands. “No sense doing a walkaround “ I thought. No one around and I had only been gone for 5 minutes. Mixtures rich, mags on, on start the oil pressure came right up to 80lbs. I taxied to the strip, did a mag check, set the trim to neutral and applied full power. On roll out the tail didn’t want to seem to come up. I had plenty of runway so continuing the takeoff run I eased her back a little and the gravel runway fell away behind me. I was holding full forward stick and still climbing out. A large serving of forward trim eased the pressure on my palm. Something was certainly off kilter here. Full forward trim meant the ship was tail heavy. I turned so that the aircrafts shadow was visible from the cockpit side window. I tied my tail to that shadow every night. That steel weight we tied our tails to every night was now a shadow dangling from its chain off of my tail. “Damn those overly helpful invisible line boys.” I thought. Surely one of them ran out and tied my tail down as I was walking toward the hangar. If I turned around and landed either Heike or the line boys would spot me and my dangling embarrassment for sure. My best bet was to land at the strip and hide it. I saw Patty off in the distance winging his way through his sequential pattern of fields. It looked as though I would be able to reach the strip before he arrived. I lined up on final and made a quick landing, hoping that the iron plate dragging behind behaved itself and didn’t bounce up and sucker punch my fuselage. “Lucky Me”, I thought as I climbed out of the cockpit and rushed back to the tail to see the steel plate lieing impotently at the end of its chain. A quick scan of the horizon did not show Patty any where in sight. I unhooked the chain and hid it behind the loading tank; the Sudanese loading supervisor gaping at all of this with a questioning look on his face. “Surprise for Captain Patty”, I said. “Please don’t spoil his surprise by saying anything about this”. “Yes Captain Chuck. We will surprise him good!”, he said smiling.

“Ok great, now to load up” (and act normal). The next trick will be to get it loaded and back to the strip at days end without any one the wiser. .. We had a great afternoon, Patty and I. The wind was slightly out of the East, just enough to encourage a good drift of the chemical on to the crop and out of our way on the next spray run. Ordinarily, on still days I snap my cockpit vent closed during the run then pop it back open for the turn. Yes, that afternoon went well. The sun came to rest on the horizon and off in the distance I began to see aircraft heading back to the strip. I wanted to be last..the very last. I planned on loading the steel weight into the cockpit and standing it on edge on the floor beside me. I fiddle farted around, wasting as much time as I could without raising suspicion and finally saw Patty heading for the home strip. I landed and loaded the steel up onto the wing and then into the cockpit. It was a good thing I was young and in halfway decent shape. The weight of that metal threatened to push through the thin sheet metal floor of the aircraft. It had to weigh over 100 lbs. Sun getting orange in the distance, I took off and headed back. By the time I had landed all of the pilots and mechs were on their way back to the house. I knew they wouldn’t wait if I was late enough. If you dallied at the field or flew just one more load no one was going to miss their shower for you. As I surveyed my approach to my parking space, the Indian line boy ran out and began guiding me in. As if I needed guiding in. The line boys were certainly overly helpful at times. Today was one of them. As soon as the prop stopped he ran over and opened the cowling for engine cooling. Before he left that evening he would tie the aircraft down, check the oil, clean the cockpit and check the tire air pressure. After he opened the cowling he ducked his head into the engine compartment. I reached in and grabbed the steel with all my might. I knew he was probably looking at the engine oil leak and would not be paying much attention in my direction. I lifted the steel to my chest and heaved it toward the tail as hard as what little strength I had left in me would permit. It landed with a thud. Out came his head and he looked up at me . “What was that?” “What was what? “ I replied. “That noise like a cow falling down” said he. “Noise? I didn’t hear any noise like a cow falling down” He looked around curiously then looked up again with an exasperated look on his face. “I am telling you and telling you and telling you I heard a noise like a cow falling down and there is no cow around here to fall down. I am not crazy, but I am telling you that I heard a noise like a cow falling down”.
“ Well, I’ve never heard a cow falling down so I don’t know what it sounds like”.
“ In India we have lots of cows and when one dies sometimes it falls down. That’s what it sounds like Captain.”
I climbed down from the wing and began the lone walk home. The sun was already set and the lime trees that the British had planted years and years ago were heavy with fruit. I plucked one and turned around to see the line boy tying the aircraft down. He would never know why he heard a cow fall down in Wad Medani on the western side of the Blue Nile in Sudan Africa where there were no cows around--and neither would Patty.

Patty could come out of the sun or the clouds at me with his rat-tat-tat in my headphones. He could do Immelmans and his infernal loops to get on my tail, he could land over me to a short roll up to the loading dock, but he would never know about the cow falling down. Nothing is sweeter than winning the final battle. I chuckled at the thought as I sucked on the hole I had punched in the lime. Yes. In so many ways that lime tasted of victory, success, with a little tang of luck. Yes it was a good day in the Sudan on August 2nd of 1981.