dmccormack
Touchdown! Greaser!
- Joined
- May 11, 2007
- Messages
- 10,945
- Location
- Lancaster County, Pennsylvania
- Display Name
Display name:
Dan Mc
My Introduction to Flying (Story-Part 1 and 2 - now complete!)
I was eleven when my parents split up. It was the mid-70's, and divorce had not yet become a badge of enlightenment. Some of my friends disappeared after that – their parents unwilling to have their own tainted by D I V O R C E.
I spent summers in Ontario and Quebec with aunts and uncles while my mother worked as a waitress. After returning late August I learned that my mother was “dating.” I was old enough to have an idea what “dating” was, but I also knew I wasn't pleased with any of the suitors that pretended to be nice to me.
One night my mom was telling me about a “friend” she'd met and wanted me to meet. I said, “Why do I want to meet him?” She hadn't included me in the vetting process before...
“He's a Pie-lot...” she said, in her French Canadian accent that made the word “Pilot” carry two very distinct syllables.
She knew what effect that would have on me – instantly suspicion turned to curiosity.
“What kind of pilot – commercial pilot?” I asked. I knew Commercial Pilots were the cream of the crop – just a step below Astronauts.
“I don't know – you'll have to ask him when he comes over.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Will he give me a ride?”
“He has a hairplane – I'm sure he will give you a ride...” she replied (her French Canadian accent refused to leave the H off any word that began with A), with that smile I knew meant “I'll try this and see if it works...”
I picked though my collection of flying books – Jane's Aircraft Identification Guide, World Book AVIATION, and my pile of Flying magazines. I'd quiz this guy and see what sort of pilot he was – did he know a Constellation from a Tupolev? Probably not.
A week, then two went by. Still no pie-lot, still no hairplane ride.
I walked home from school, climbed up the stairs to the apartment, and a man was sitting in my living room. He had dark, sorta slicked back hair, and he was shorter than a man was supposed to be – Six foot, one inch, like my dad.
“Hello.” he said, New Jersey accent thick – I hated that accent (even though I probably had one myself) – it reminded me of the little Italian kids at the Catholic school that wanted to fight me every single day because I was “big.”
“Hi.” I replied, trying to be In Charge.
My mom walked in and broke up the tension. I had this guy in my sights and he was feeling the pressure.
She sat down, “Daniel, this is Hal.”
I offered my hand and we shook hands.
“Hal is a pie-lot.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You like airplanes?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“I'll have to take you up.”
(“Take me up?” Was this pilot lingo?)
“Umm, ok...”
My mom smiled, leaning a bit too close to “Hal.”
I didn't like him. He wasn't wearing a uniform, or a pilot hat. I expected the Captain of a Pan Am flight from London -- What I saw was a guy wearing jeans and cowboy boots and a big belt and a too tight shirt. Yeah, he looked like he had lots of muscles, but none of the pilots in Flying had lots of muscles. They were tall and thin and some wore glasses, were from Ohio and other nice places and all had neat, short hair, not slicked back poofy hair...
I went to my room and grabbed the Aircraft Identification Guide, returned and laid it on the coffee table. “What kind of plane do you fly?”
“Oh, I've flown a Jay- three, a Tee thirty six, but lately I fly a Cherokee...”
My mind flipped through the pages inJane's – a Tee thirty six? A Jay three? What were those???
“Are you a Commercial Pilot?” I asked, feeling superior.
“Nah.” he let it hang.
NOT a commercial pilot? Why kind of pilot was this guy? You either are or you aren't!
“I fly for fun.” he added.
What? FUN? Who flies for fun?!?
There was a long pause while I tried to get my twelve-year old mind around this new concept. I knew there were airplanes for fighting, some for carrying, some for spraying – but some used just for fun? It seemed incredible.
A few weeks went by and “Hal” didn't come. I would hint to my mom, “So when is he coming over?” which was my cover for “When do I get to go up?” (I could use pilot lingo, too).
“I don't know...”
Don't tell me you dropped a pilot? After all the other losers that traipsed through here?
It was June and it was time to head back to Ontario. I flew commercial from Newark to Toronto – I had a window seat but we were over clouds most of the time and so I didn't get to see much. Flying was no fun in clouds! I saved the Air Canada drink stirrer that came in the Ginger Ale.
My aunt and cousin Pierre were waiting for me and we drove to Burlington. I felt as though there should have been more after landing – some sort of parade and airlock like the astronauts -- hadn't I just been up in the air? Above the clouds? And yet now I was in their Volkswagen, driving in the rain, back on the ground where everything looked so gray and ordinary. We passed the massive base of what Pierre said would be the “CN Tower.”
It looked really big. Much too big for Toronto, which seemed like a pretend city compared to New York.
We spent the summer taking canoe and lifeguard lessons, floating a small wooden sailboat from the dock into Lake Ontario, pushing the boundaries of explored regions beyond the apartment building, and generally raising hell with the elevators.
Each night I went to bed re-reading one of the few Flying magazines I'd packed, or the Aircraft Identification Guide. I knew any good pilot would be able to identify every other airplane – and every one was in this palm-sized book – even the secret Russian ones.
One of the kids we played tennis with kept insisting that Russian (he called them “Soviets”) airplanes were much better than American airplanes. He said the Soviets were peaceful, and that the Americans were always pushing for war.
I told him if he kept it up I'd beat him up
He persisted, so I chased him up ten flights of stairs, him screaming the whole way, me driven ever upward by the desire to defend American honor.
When my Aunt said we were going to Harold's for dinner tonight, I looked at my cousin and nearly crumpled to the floor. If my aunt found out I was fighting she'd send me home – she was above all a French Canadian, and she knew how those Americans were...
We went up to dinner which Harold's dad made – a Russian meal, with awful Russian beet soup and other Russian inedibles – no wonder they wanted to dominate the world – they needed Pizza and Raviolis. Harold and I observed Detente across the wide dining room table, but I felt superior in my firepower. Never again would American Technology be sullied. I had vanquished the foe.
I missed my mom, and wrote from time to time, and called once a week for a very short time in which we exchanged the most banal of pleasantries. I never asked and she never offered – Are you still dating the pilot?
At the end of August we drove to Quebec City, where my mother would meet us. We camped along the way which was neat, because unlike Boy Scout camping we had tables and chairs and ate out in restaurants each night for dinner.
We arrived at my Grandmother's house in Ste Foy, just outside the walls of Quebec. Pierre and I spoke more French and less English, and played a lot of “Amazing catches,” where we would throw the baseball just out of reach, forcing the catcher to make incredible dives.
My mother drove up in our 1969 green Ford Galaxie fastback and I was overjoyed to see her. We hugged and she kissed me and told me she missed me. I looked in the car and she was alone. I couldn't stand it -- “Where is Al?'
“He couldn't take vacation, but you'll see him when we get home. He wants to take you on a hairplane ride...”
The trip back to New Jersey was interminable for many reasons – I was back with my mom who I'd missed all summer, but now I was leaving my family in Canada – who seemed to live better, and have more stuff, and fight less...
As expected the traffic became more congested, and the heat more steamy, and the overall atmosphere more tense as we left the blessed “Northway” and entered the NY Thruway. New Jersey was a nightmare of smoke and people and noise after the clear blue skies of Ontario and Quebec.
We arrived home and I ran all my things up the flight of stairs to our apartment. Al wasn't there, but a few more Flying magazines had arrived over the summer.
School started in a few days, and once again I was in the midst of little Italians and Bigger Poles who all wanted a shot at me. I missed Canada where fighting was a rare event, and where I could beat up most of them anyway, since they didn't have as much practice.
As the weather cooled Al came over more frequently Finally, he said we'd be going to the airport on Saturday to “go up.”
Several Ice Ages passed by on Friday night. Saturday morning I was ready – camera, Aircraft Identification Handbook (in case we spotted other airplanes in flight), and a light blue windbreaker jacket which looked something like what Real Pilots wore.
We drove out to Caldwell Airport in Al's big loud car – he told me it had “a lot of power.” I figured it had to being so loud. We couldn't talk much because the windows were rolled down letting in all the power.
We rolled into the parking lot and just beyond the chain link fence I saw – airplanes. Not one, not a couple such as I could spy from the gate at Newark, but dozens of airplanes, all sitting there looking like they were ready to leap into the sky. I didn't have to open my Aircraft Identification Guide – I knew most of these airplanes by heart – a Cessna, a Piper, and a few two engine ones that looked kinda like a Beech something.
A guy in a leather jacket and sunglasses and short hair walked over to us – he had to be a pilot.
“Hi Joe, this is Daniel – is it alright if he sits in back for this one?” said Al. He shook Joe's hand and acted like he was a long-lost brother.
“Sure.” said Joe, the Pilot.
We walked over to a Piper Cherokee. Joe and Al walked around the airplane and opened the engine and stuff and talked about spotting that frayed wire the last time. I wanted to get in and get going! But it took a while while they undid ropes and moved the ailerons – I knew what those were!
Soon I was sitting in the back, seat belt across my hips, camera in hand, listening as Joe talked into the hand-held microphone. Al was sitting in the Pilot's seat, but Joe was doing all the talking in the co-pilot seat. I though the co-pilot just helped the real pilot?
Soon we were out in the middle of nowhere – I couldn't see any other airplanes of buildings nearby – it was a big wide open space – just like McGuire Air Force Base, where we had gone for an air show a long time ago. I was little then and didn't know all about airplanes like I do now...
Joe said something into the microphone and suddenly the noise got really loud – this thing must have a lot of power – and we were rolling like in a car... then I could see the control tower was below us.. and the parking lot with all the airplanes was smaller... and everything was going down – just like in a real Commercial Airplane.
We flew around for a while and I took pictures of every building, every field, every road – and there were plenty of each in North-central New Jersey at that time. Joe was telling Al to do this then do that. I couldn't hear what they were saying but it was awfully loud -- and then – oh no --
My stomach started to feel weird. My face got hot. I wasn't feeling so good. But how would I ever be a pilot if I got sick!?
I didn't say anything.
Then everything got very light and I felt like I was falling!
The sky in the windshield was replaced with the ground – I don't like this!
I was really not feeling good – I tugged on Al's jacket -- “Al – I don't feel good...”
I heard Joe say “I got it!” and then next thing I knew we were rolling on the ground, we stopped, and the door opened. Joe helped me down off the wing.
Al said, “You want to watch us from the ground for a while?”
“OK...”
They took off and I walked around all the parked airplanes. I was still fascinated, but now I was very disappointed in myself. How would I ever become a pilot if I got sick in an airplane, my favorite thing of all?
We drove home and didn't say much because of all the power. When I got home I told my Mom all about the airplane ride and how I took pictures. I didn't tell her about getting sick.
(continued here)
I was eleven when my parents split up. It was the mid-70's, and divorce had not yet become a badge of enlightenment. Some of my friends disappeared after that – their parents unwilling to have their own tainted by D I V O R C E.
I spent summers in Ontario and Quebec with aunts and uncles while my mother worked as a waitress. After returning late August I learned that my mother was “dating.” I was old enough to have an idea what “dating” was, but I also knew I wasn't pleased with any of the suitors that pretended to be nice to me.
One night my mom was telling me about a “friend” she'd met and wanted me to meet. I said, “Why do I want to meet him?” She hadn't included me in the vetting process before...
“He's a Pie-lot...” she said, in her French Canadian accent that made the word “Pilot” carry two very distinct syllables.
She knew what effect that would have on me – instantly suspicion turned to curiosity.
“What kind of pilot – commercial pilot?” I asked. I knew Commercial Pilots were the cream of the crop – just a step below Astronauts.
“I don't know – you'll have to ask him when he comes over.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Will he give me a ride?”
“He has a hairplane – I'm sure he will give you a ride...” she replied (her French Canadian accent refused to leave the H off any word that began with A), with that smile I knew meant “I'll try this and see if it works...”
I picked though my collection of flying books – Jane's Aircraft Identification Guide, World Book AVIATION, and my pile of Flying magazines. I'd quiz this guy and see what sort of pilot he was – did he know a Constellation from a Tupolev? Probably not.
A week, then two went by. Still no pie-lot, still no hairplane ride.
I walked home from school, climbed up the stairs to the apartment, and a man was sitting in my living room. He had dark, sorta slicked back hair, and he was shorter than a man was supposed to be – Six foot, one inch, like my dad.
“Hello.” he said, New Jersey accent thick – I hated that accent (even though I probably had one myself) – it reminded me of the little Italian kids at the Catholic school that wanted to fight me every single day because I was “big.”
“Hi.” I replied, trying to be In Charge.
My mom walked in and broke up the tension. I had this guy in my sights and he was feeling the pressure.
She sat down, “Daniel, this is Hal.”
I offered my hand and we shook hands.
“Hal is a pie-lot.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You like airplanes?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“I'll have to take you up.”
(“Take me up?” Was this pilot lingo?)
“Umm, ok...”
My mom smiled, leaning a bit too close to “Hal.”
I didn't like him. He wasn't wearing a uniform, or a pilot hat. I expected the Captain of a Pan Am flight from London -- What I saw was a guy wearing jeans and cowboy boots and a big belt and a too tight shirt. Yeah, he looked like he had lots of muscles, but none of the pilots in Flying had lots of muscles. They were tall and thin and some wore glasses, were from Ohio and other nice places and all had neat, short hair, not slicked back poofy hair...
I went to my room and grabbed the Aircraft Identification Guide, returned and laid it on the coffee table. “What kind of plane do you fly?”
“Oh, I've flown a Jay- three, a Tee thirty six, but lately I fly a Cherokee...”
My mind flipped through the pages inJane's – a Tee thirty six? A Jay three? What were those???
“Are you a Commercial Pilot?” I asked, feeling superior.
“Nah.” he let it hang.
NOT a commercial pilot? Why kind of pilot was this guy? You either are or you aren't!
“I fly for fun.” he added.
What? FUN? Who flies for fun?!?
There was a long pause while I tried to get my twelve-year old mind around this new concept. I knew there were airplanes for fighting, some for carrying, some for spraying – but some used just for fun? It seemed incredible.
A few weeks went by and “Hal” didn't come. I would hint to my mom, “So when is he coming over?” which was my cover for “When do I get to go up?” (I could use pilot lingo, too).
“I don't know...”
Don't tell me you dropped a pilot? After all the other losers that traipsed through here?
It was June and it was time to head back to Ontario. I flew commercial from Newark to Toronto – I had a window seat but we were over clouds most of the time and so I didn't get to see much. Flying was no fun in clouds! I saved the Air Canada drink stirrer that came in the Ginger Ale.
My aunt and cousin Pierre were waiting for me and we drove to Burlington. I felt as though there should have been more after landing – some sort of parade and airlock like the astronauts -- hadn't I just been up in the air? Above the clouds? And yet now I was in their Volkswagen, driving in the rain, back on the ground where everything looked so gray and ordinary. We passed the massive base of what Pierre said would be the “CN Tower.”
It looked really big. Much too big for Toronto, which seemed like a pretend city compared to New York.
We spent the summer taking canoe and lifeguard lessons, floating a small wooden sailboat from the dock into Lake Ontario, pushing the boundaries of explored regions beyond the apartment building, and generally raising hell with the elevators.
Each night I went to bed re-reading one of the few Flying magazines I'd packed, or the Aircraft Identification Guide. I knew any good pilot would be able to identify every other airplane – and every one was in this palm-sized book – even the secret Russian ones.
One of the kids we played tennis with kept insisting that Russian (he called them “Soviets”) airplanes were much better than American airplanes. He said the Soviets were peaceful, and that the Americans were always pushing for war.
I told him if he kept it up I'd beat him up
He persisted, so I chased him up ten flights of stairs, him screaming the whole way, me driven ever upward by the desire to defend American honor.
When my Aunt said we were going to Harold's for dinner tonight, I looked at my cousin and nearly crumpled to the floor. If my aunt found out I was fighting she'd send me home – she was above all a French Canadian, and she knew how those Americans were...
We went up to dinner which Harold's dad made – a Russian meal, with awful Russian beet soup and other Russian inedibles – no wonder they wanted to dominate the world – they needed Pizza and Raviolis. Harold and I observed Detente across the wide dining room table, but I felt superior in my firepower. Never again would American Technology be sullied. I had vanquished the foe.
I missed my mom, and wrote from time to time, and called once a week for a very short time in which we exchanged the most banal of pleasantries. I never asked and she never offered – Are you still dating the pilot?
At the end of August we drove to Quebec City, where my mother would meet us. We camped along the way which was neat, because unlike Boy Scout camping we had tables and chairs and ate out in restaurants each night for dinner.
We arrived at my Grandmother's house in Ste Foy, just outside the walls of Quebec. Pierre and I spoke more French and less English, and played a lot of “Amazing catches,” where we would throw the baseball just out of reach, forcing the catcher to make incredible dives.
My mother drove up in our 1969 green Ford Galaxie fastback and I was overjoyed to see her. We hugged and she kissed me and told me she missed me. I looked in the car and she was alone. I couldn't stand it -- “Where is Al?'
“He couldn't take vacation, but you'll see him when we get home. He wants to take you on a hairplane ride...”
The trip back to New Jersey was interminable for many reasons – I was back with my mom who I'd missed all summer, but now I was leaving my family in Canada – who seemed to live better, and have more stuff, and fight less...
As expected the traffic became more congested, and the heat more steamy, and the overall atmosphere more tense as we left the blessed “Northway” and entered the NY Thruway. New Jersey was a nightmare of smoke and people and noise after the clear blue skies of Ontario and Quebec.
We arrived home and I ran all my things up the flight of stairs to our apartment. Al wasn't there, but a few more Flying magazines had arrived over the summer.
School started in a few days, and once again I was in the midst of little Italians and Bigger Poles who all wanted a shot at me. I missed Canada where fighting was a rare event, and where I could beat up most of them anyway, since they didn't have as much practice.
As the weather cooled Al came over more frequently Finally, he said we'd be going to the airport on Saturday to “go up.”
Several Ice Ages passed by on Friday night. Saturday morning I was ready – camera, Aircraft Identification Handbook (in case we spotted other airplanes in flight), and a light blue windbreaker jacket which looked something like what Real Pilots wore.
We drove out to Caldwell Airport in Al's big loud car – he told me it had “a lot of power.” I figured it had to being so loud. We couldn't talk much because the windows were rolled down letting in all the power.
We rolled into the parking lot and just beyond the chain link fence I saw – airplanes. Not one, not a couple such as I could spy from the gate at Newark, but dozens of airplanes, all sitting there looking like they were ready to leap into the sky. I didn't have to open my Aircraft Identification Guide – I knew most of these airplanes by heart – a Cessna, a Piper, and a few two engine ones that looked kinda like a Beech something.
A guy in a leather jacket and sunglasses and short hair walked over to us – he had to be a pilot.
“Hi Joe, this is Daniel – is it alright if he sits in back for this one?” said Al. He shook Joe's hand and acted like he was a long-lost brother.
“Sure.” said Joe, the Pilot.
We walked over to a Piper Cherokee. Joe and Al walked around the airplane and opened the engine and stuff and talked about spotting that frayed wire the last time. I wanted to get in and get going! But it took a while while they undid ropes and moved the ailerons – I knew what those were!
Soon I was sitting in the back, seat belt across my hips, camera in hand, listening as Joe talked into the hand-held microphone. Al was sitting in the Pilot's seat, but Joe was doing all the talking in the co-pilot seat. I though the co-pilot just helped the real pilot?
Soon we were out in the middle of nowhere – I couldn't see any other airplanes of buildings nearby – it was a big wide open space – just like McGuire Air Force Base, where we had gone for an air show a long time ago. I was little then and didn't know all about airplanes like I do now...
Joe said something into the microphone and suddenly the noise got really loud – this thing must have a lot of power – and we were rolling like in a car... then I could see the control tower was below us.. and the parking lot with all the airplanes was smaller... and everything was going down – just like in a real Commercial Airplane.
We flew around for a while and I took pictures of every building, every field, every road – and there were plenty of each in North-central New Jersey at that time. Joe was telling Al to do this then do that. I couldn't hear what they were saying but it was awfully loud -- and then – oh no --
My stomach started to feel weird. My face got hot. I wasn't feeling so good. But how would I ever be a pilot if I got sick!?
I didn't say anything.
Then everything got very light and I felt like I was falling!
The sky in the windshield was replaced with the ground – I don't like this!
I was really not feeling good – I tugged on Al's jacket -- “Al – I don't feel good...”
I heard Joe say “I got it!” and then next thing I knew we were rolling on the ground, we stopped, and the door opened. Joe helped me down off the wing.
Al said, “You want to watch us from the ground for a while?”
“OK...”
They took off and I walked around all the parked airplanes. I was still fascinated, but now I was very disappointed in myself. How would I ever become a pilot if I got sick in an airplane, my favorite thing of all?
We drove home and didn't say much because of all the power. When I got home I told my Mom all about the airplane ride and how I took pictures. I didn't tell her about getting sick.
(continued here)
Last edited:
