peeling, faded paint. “That’s a schooner,” I tell David. He remains silent, unimpressed with the vast extent of my nautical expertise, which he knows I got out of books while my underwear remained dry.
We are halfway around the anchorage on our second circuit when the jet-ski mogul comes flying across the water on one of his craft. He wisely stays well away from me, but he cuts the throttle and shouts, “Give her full throttle and get up and plane.”
Plane! Now there is a word I understand. What the hell! We can both swim and we’re wearing life jackets—we’ll bob like corks.
I cautiously squeeze the throttle to the stop. The jet ski accelerates and steadies out. The chop from the wake of the other ski now translates into an up and down pitching motion, not difficult to handle. Yeah!
We roar up and down the anchorage as I gain confidence. We blast through the wake of several passing boats and I even venture some S-turns. Around and around we go. Now I understand. This thing is a motorcycle on water and like a motorcycle, gains stability with speed. The only difference is that it has its own unique handling characteristics since it’s on water, not pavement.
After an age and a half at full gun I ask David how long we have been at it.
He consults his digital, waterproof watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
Holy … We rented this thing for an hour!
This is a hoot. It’s exhilarating and one must work every moment to keep the ski under control. It’s pure fun. It’s also boring going around and around this anchorage, so we come in after half an hour.
The mogul gives us a refund and returns the key to my rental car. I walk away grinning.
David is glum. I understand. It’s hell when you’re fourteen and want to get your hands on the controls and the world refuses. But his time will come.
That afternoon in the resort jacuzzi—we had rented a beach condo for two nights—I meet a banker from Warner Robins, Georgia, on vacation. His name is Ray Durham. After the usual polite conversation my mode of cross-country travel comes up.
“A Stearman,” he says, savoring the word. “I grew up on a farm in Georgia and this ag operator had two Stearmans that he flew off a road right near my house when he was working our area. He took down the road signs and pumped the chemicals into his tanks from a beat-up old truck. Ah, those gorgeous old planes. Do you have the two-twenty Continental in yours?”
“Three-hundred Lycoming.”
He nods. His son comes over and eases into the hot water. He is thirteen and his name is Corey. Ray suggests it’s about time to go get dressed for dinner. Corey doesn’t want to leave yet.
“If they get ready and we aren’t there, they’ll fuss at us,” Ray tells his son. Poor devil, I think. Women are the same everywhere.
They sit silently in the hot water, apparently contemplating the prospect of fussing women. I ask Ray if he has ever ridden in a Stearman. One thing leads to another and we make a date for 7 P.M. at the local airport.
Ray is my first passenger. David helps him strap in and adjusts the cloth helmet, the headphones, and the goggles. The sky is overcast and the wind calm. A while ago a rain shower went through, but it’s well past, out to sea. I fire up the Queen and taxi out. “This your first Stearman ride?”
“Yep.”
“First ride in an open cockpit?”
“Yep.”
“You’ll love it.”
We take off to the east and I take the Queen past the beach and out over the ocean. The air is absolutely still—our craft cleaves through it like something from a dream. Every twitch of the stick brings just the anticipated response. I pray for days like this.
I swing her south and turn her over to Ray. He gingerly begins making turns. He loses a couple hundred feet, dropping us to 500. He wanders aimlessly around savoring the experience, the throbbing engine, the sea and beach below. I have my elbows parked on the edges of the cockpit.
Finally I take her and make a
We are halfway around the anchorage on our second circuit when the jet-ski mogul comes flying across the water on one of his craft. He wisely stays well away from me, but he cuts the throttle and shouts, “Give her full throttle and get up and plane.”
Plane! Now there is a word I understand. What the hell! We can both swim and we’re wearing life jackets—we’ll bob like corks.
I cautiously squeeze the throttle to the stop. The jet ski accelerates and steadies out. The chop from the wake of the other ski now translates into an up and down pitching motion, not difficult to handle. Yeah!
We roar up and down the anchorage as I gain confidence. We blast through the wake of several passing boats and I even venture some S-turns. Around and around we go. Now I understand. This thing is a motorcycle on water and like a motorcycle, gains stability with speed. The only difference is that it has its own unique handling characteristics since it’s on water, not pavement.
After an age and a half at full gun I ask David how long we have been at it.
He consults his digital, waterproof watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
Holy … We rented this thing for an hour!
This is a hoot. It’s exhilarating and one must work every moment to keep the ski under control. It’s pure fun. It’s also boring going around and around this anchorage, so we come in after half an hour.
The mogul gives us a refund and returns the key to my rental car. I walk away grinning.
David is glum. I understand. It’s hell when you’re fourteen and want to get your hands on the controls and the world refuses. But his time will come.
That afternoon in the resort jacuzzi—we had rented a beach condo for two nights—I meet a banker from Warner Robins, Georgia, on vacation. His name is Ray Durham. After the usual polite conversation my mode of cross-country travel comes up.
“A Stearman,” he says, savoring the word. “I grew up on a farm in Georgia and this ag operator had two Stearmans that he flew off a road right near my house when he was working our area. He took down the road signs and pumped the chemicals into his tanks from a beat-up old truck. Ah, those gorgeous old planes. Do you have the two-twenty Continental in yours?”
“Three-hundred Lycoming.”
He nods. His son comes over and eases into the hot water. He is thirteen and his name is Corey. Ray suggests it’s about time to go get dressed for dinner. Corey doesn’t want to leave yet.
“If they get ready and we aren’t there, they’ll fuss at us,” Ray tells his son. Poor devil, I think. Women are the same everywhere.
They sit silently in the hot water, apparently contemplating the prospect of fussing women. I ask Ray if he has ever ridden in a Stearman. One thing leads to another and we make a date for 7 P.M. at the local airport.
Ray is my first passenger. David helps him strap in and adjusts the cloth helmet, the headphones, and the goggles. The sky is overcast and the wind calm. A while ago a rain shower went through, but it’s well past, out to sea. I fire up the Queen and taxi out. “This your first Stearman ride?”
“Yep.”
“First ride in an open cockpit?”
“Yep.”
“You’ll love it.”
We take off to the east and I take the Queen past the beach and out over the ocean. The air is absolutely still—our craft cleaves through it like something from a dream. Every twitch of the stick brings just the anticipated response. I pray for days like this.
I swing her south and turn her over to Ray. He gingerly begins making turns. He loses a couple hundred feet, dropping us to 500. He wanders aimlessly around savoring the experience, the throbbing engine, the sea and beach below. I have my elbows parked on the edges of the cockpit.
Finally I take her and make a
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