* * * * *
Launching off the Van Nuys
Airport.
And so in the middle of March 1965, after successfully completing the
FAA’s Flight Instructor’s check ride, my flight school, Valley Pilots Flying
Service at the Van Nuys Airport, hired me.
Out of their fleet of a half-dozen Cessna 150s, I was assigned my own
personal aircraft: N136VP. Chief Pilot
Dick Weaver (a no bullshit, fire-eating, ex-WWII fighter jock) insisted all
Flight Instructors have their own planes, which no one else was allowed to
fly. In the long run it proved to be
sound judgment – I found flying the same bird six days a week gave me an edge –
instinctively, I could tell if anything mechanical was going
wrong.
Location
of Valley Pilots Flying Service on the Van Nuys Airport in
1966.
Our fleet of Cessnas were 1962 150Bs - no rear windows or swept tails –
with a lot of time on their airframes.
They also had a high wing, which shaded a cramped cockpit with two
side-by-side seats. For air conditioning
you’d simply open either, or both, side windows on the ground or in flight; the
prop-wash ventilated you. The engine was
a Continental Flat-4 that produced 100 hp, and gave us an average cruise speed
of 100 mph. Having a tricycle landing
gear made it dead easy to taxi or land.
Its main gear was designed like the spring on a buckboard wagon; allowing
a student to slam into the ground and bounce back airborne with no harm
done.
My Cessna
150.
My Office.
Yeee-Haw, buckaroos...let ‘er rip!
I truly loved that little trainer, dear reader. On the other hand, I was soon to learn that
being 22 and a new, green Flight Instructor was not exactly the safest of
occupations.
On average, during the first 1,000 hours of flight
instructing, the new Flight Instructor is learning just as much, and at the same
rate, as the Student Pilot! While during
this period, the Flight Instructor is constantly faced with these never ending
questions: Exactly how far should I let a student go when totally screwing up a
maneuver? Can I really recover from this
student’s screw-up? Will this student
ever be safe to solo? Will this student
ultimately kill me?
We learn by our mistakes. This is
especially true in flying. And, if we
survive our mistakes, through the miracle of learning we’ll never repeat
them. Just the same, through ignorance,
and no fault of their own, students would from time to time inadvertently
attempt to kill me. This was especially
true upon attempting to teach them short field landings, or landings in
crosswind conditions. Even so,
amazingly, I got through that first 1,000 hours as a Flight Instructor, and
somehow never banged up an airplane or a Student Pilot.
While at the same time there were other unforeseen events - which had
nothing to do with students - that attempted to cash in my
chips.
* *
* * *
On the afternoon of 1st May 1965, I was taking my fourth student of the
day out to Fox Field, at Lancaster in the Antelope Valley, for an introduction
to crosswind landings. Fox Field was
notorious for its dependable, afternoon desert crosswinds. My Student Pilot was a successful TV
screenplay writer terrified of flying; who almost quit aviation when he was
dropped by another, older Flight Instructor.
Being low-man on the totem pole, the squirrely writer got foisted on to
me.
My route
from Van Nuys (VNY) to Fox Field (FOX). Plus Agua Dulce Arpt buried in the
mountains.
My student had just leveled out our Cessna 150 at 3,500 feet, over the
west end of the San Gabriel Mountains.
He re-trimmed for level flight, and then laboriously attempted to
lean-out the fuel mixture in order to conserve fuel. Right in the middle of this chore there
occurred a huge “CLANK!” Followed by the entire engine vibrating so badly, I
seriously thought it was about to tear loose from its engine
mounts!
Immediately I cut power to idle, shoved the mixture in to “Rich,” reduced
to 80 mph – the best glide speed - and started hunting for a place to land. Much to my dismay, we’re now over desert
mountain ranges without a flat spot in sight for miles. Off to my right however, I knew that
somewhere was this little airstrip, called Agua Dulce, buried at the bottom of
one of these ranges. Question was: Which
one?
Runway
diagram for Agua Dulce Airport. No Tower or Navigations
Aids.
I had only been in there once. So
I took a “SWAG” (Scientific Wild Ass Guess) and headed for a mountain range that
I “felt” hid the airstrip.
I then glanced at my student, dear reader, which was a big mistake. He was sheet white, and hanging onto a hand
strap in a death-grip with both hands. “Well...” I thought, “he’ll sure as hell
give up flying now! That is of
course...if he survives this day.”
At that point my student looked back at me, and asked, “Are you
scared?”
I ignored him, got back to work trying to find that damned airstrip, but
quickly replied, “Ed...we’ll discuss it on the ground.”
That’s another odd thing I’ve noticed, dear reader. When I get in a jam like this...I don’t
stutter. It’s really fucking weird and
annoying.
My dice-shoot paid off. I found
the right valley with the airstrip at the bottom, and had so much altitude to
spare, I didn’t need power to land. In
fact, I had to make a 360 in order to lose the extra
height.
On Final Approach for the “elusive” Agua
Dulce.
Maintenance found a piston had “swallowed” a valve. But because I had kept the engine at idle –
milking the glide for all its worth – the engine wasn’t torn up. Which meant it could be easily repaired and
re-used - saving the flight school lots of money - making my boss very
happy.
As for my student, he didn’t give up flying. Strangely, this event settled him down, and I
ended up taking him all the way to his Private Pilot’s
License.
* *
* * *
The 14th of July, 1965, rolled around.
The first student that day, taxied my 150 all the way to the end of
Runway One Six Right, at Van Nuys.
For non-aviators, dear reader, runways are
lined up on the magnetic compass.
For
example: Runway One Six Right is on a magnetic heading of 160° (southeast). Whereas its opposite end, Runway Three Four
Left, is on a magnetic heading of 340° (northwest).
Even though it was only nine A.M. in the
morning, the warm prop-wash fanning through our open side windows, indicated the
day was going to be another scorcher in the San Fernando
Valley.
Upon reaching the run-up area and parking, my student, a college kid by
the name of Brock, scanned the instruments through wired-rimmed glasses, while
he slowly labored through the Before Takeoff Checklist.
The week before, Brock and I had been out at Fox Field doing
“touch-and-goes” (or “crash-and-dash”). He was struggling with learning how to land in
a crosswind, which was pretty stiff that afternoon, with gusts up to 20
knots.
Fox
Field surrounded by desert.
On Final Approach for Runway Two-Four at Fox
Field.
After taking a break - getting coffee to settle our nerves - we
saddled-up again and taxied to the end of Runway Two Four. Looking for traffic at this uncontrolled
airfield, we spotted a factory-new, twin-engine Piper Aztec on final
approach. I pointed out to Brock, how
the Aztec had the proper crab angle, and to watch it straighten out at the last
moment for a smooth touch down. The
Aztec did exactly as I prophesied – touching down beautifully despite the stiff
crosswind – except for one minor detail.
The “Weenie-Pilot” at the controls forgot to lower his landing gear! Sparks and chunks of asphalt flew as both
propellers smote the runway; the prop tips bending as though made of wax! The Aztec slid to a halt - flat on its belly
- resembling a beached whale.
In response I said, “N-No...that’s not quite how you want to do it,
P-Pardner. It works a lot b-better when
you remember to put the rollers down.”
However strange as it may seem, dear reader, Brock and I weren’t
finished observing aviation accidents.
A week later, on July 14th at Van Nuys, I’m in the right seat watching
Brock laboring with the Before Take Off checklist. With warm prop wash fanning my body, I’m
getting hot and bored.
Glancing outside, I spy a
Beechcraft Baron pull up alongside in the run-up area - 50 yards off our right
side. The executive light-twin glistens
white, under the hot morning sun, in streamlined, factory-new perfection.
Mentally I began to actually drool over this vision, dear reader,
desperately wanting to get my hands on one of these beauties – convinced it was
an unattainable mirage.
The Baron began to run-up its left engine, to check the
magnetos and cycle its propeller.
In the corner of my eye, something came charging out of the side taxiway
leading to Skyways; the Cessna dealer.
It was a Cessna 195, a single engine plane with a serious design flaw for
taxiing. Its fuselage rests on a tail
wheel, causing the large, round Jacobs’ engine to completely block out the
pilot’s forward visibility. In order to
see what’s in front on the taxiway, a pilot must taxi slowly and fishtail;
swinging its enormous, round nose from side to side.
This 195 however, was traveling straight as an arrow at a high rate of
speed! Finally, much to my horror, I
could actually see the pilot in silhouette; looking down as if adjusting the
elevator trim wheel!
About the time my brain screamed: “HE DOESN'T SEE THE BARON!” It was too late, dear
reader.
The 195’s right wing slammed into the Baron’s left
engine! Causing the Baron’s left
propeller, to slice through the 195’s right fuel tank! A huge sheet of red-dyed, 80/87 octane,
aviation fuel shot into the air! Then
fell like misting, pink rain, onto both the Baron’s and 195’s hot
engines!
Now my brain screams: “WE’RE ABOUT TO BE BLOWN UP!”
Grabbing the controls, I threw the coal to my 150, swung left to clear
the runway’s threshold behind me – then snaked right - and launched out of the
run-up area. Getting into the air, I
“declared an emergency” with the control tower and told them to roll the fire
trucks!
Only God is privy to the reason, as to why both of those aircraft didn’t
explode, dear reader. Even after all the
engines were shut down, they merely sat there – hot metal ticking as it cooled –
with vaporized fuel washing and dripping over them.
A few months later I was called
in by the FAA to a federal court inquiry downtown, as an eyewitness to this
accident, and met the pilot of the Cessna 195 face-to-face. Having close set eyes, freckles, and
jug-handled ears framing a comical face; instantly I recognized him as a
character actor I had seen in many films and TV shows. But, I was at a total loss for his
name.
Doodles Weaver in Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds.”
Doodles “arresting” Bob Hope.
Ultimately I learned his stage name was Doodles Weaver - an actor,
comedian, singer and musician - having a long career that stretched from 1936 to
1981. In later life he was apparently an
alcoholic and, in 1983 at the age of 71, he was purported to have committed
suicide due to depression and poor health.
Which personally, I find a bit suspicious, dear reader, since he was
shot twice in the chest. I wonder if
anyone has really investigated his death.
His other claim to fame is the fact that one of my favorite actresses was
his niece: Sigourney Weaver.
I wonder if Ms. Weaver ever loses any sleep, dear reader, over the
fact her uncle almost blew me up! Once
again confirming there must be a God...and He loves “Weenies” (green, idiot
pilots). Isn’t life
bizarre?
* * *
* *
Now that I’m also reaching
the end of my life, and have got a better handle on
what my
folks experienced to keep body and soul together, I’ve developed an acute
desire
to spend
simply five minutes with my father face-to-face. Okay...so he was
flawed,
self centered and not much of a
businessman. Even so, where I
was
concerned, I always had food on the table, a roof over my head and
clothes on my
back. In short, while he was alive, he
diligently
kept the wolf from my door. And,
most
importantly,
he introduced me to aviation; giving my life purpose and
direction.
Therefore, dear reader, if by some miracle my wish were to come true - what
exactly would I say to my old man?
I'd look him square in the eye and say this: "Dad, you've got nothing to be
ashamed of where I'm concerned. You did okay by me...and I still love you."
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