that there was a spare pair for Hebrone, climbed into the front cockpit, and buckled myself snugly into the seat. The four-hundred and fifty horsepower Pratt and Whitney radial engine coughed to life and settled into a deep steady rumble, a sound that has always been magic to my ears. As the engine warmed and all the gauges climbed into the green arcs, I went through the pre-takeoff checklist, lined up on the grass runway, and slowly advanced the throttle. In the cool, clear air of the pristine morning, the Stearman was airborne in less than five hundred feet.
I stayed low, leveling off at three thousand feet. The higher one goes, the colder it becomes, two degrees per thousand feet, to be exact. Looking down at the brown landscape, I was still overwhelmed by this southern country. The rolling hills, dotted with green pine forests, were as vast as a pale ocean, and the sky stretched forever, sometimes blue, sometimes slate. The many small lakes and ponds, like islands in this sea of brown and green swells, only seemed to emphasize its vastness.
The GPS navigation system showed a heading of two hundred degrees and one hundred and sixty-five nautical miles to the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, forever referred to by us old aviators as Moisant International, its original name. Abeam Hattiesburg, Mississippi, I could see Lake Pontchartrain, and passing Picayune, Mississippi, could make out the Superdome and the airport. Traffic was light, and I was cleared for a straight in landing on runway one-nine. After a long taxi of constant S-turning – one cannot see forward in an airplane with a tail wheel while on the ground – I parked at Atlantic Aviation and shut down the engine. It was ten-thirty a.m.
The lineman put chocks around both main wheels, and afforded me the same courtesies he would someone arriving in a thirty million dollar corporate jet. I asked him to top off the fuel tank with aviation gas, and informed him we would be departing as quickly as possible. The fuel truck was pulling up as I walked into the lobby of the FBO.
Hebrone was nowhere to be seen. I took off the coveralls, went to the bathroom, then paid for the fuel, and sat in a comfortable chair across from a blond woman with a small daughter. The child pulled one end of a Band-Aid loose, looked at the newly forming scab, blew a kiss upon it, and then reattached the end of the bandage. For some reason I'll never understand how that simple gesture by the little girl warmed my heart and made me want to forever fight for the protection of the family unit. It seemed as if that was what life was all about.
"Leicester, let's get airborne."
"Hello to you too, Opshinsky."
Out at the airplane, I handed Hebrone the extra pair of coveralls. "Would you like to fly her back?"
He smiled and climbed into the front cockpit. I removed the chocks and settled into the rear. We asked for, and received a clearance to runway one zero.
"November One Juliet Lima would you like an intersection takeoff?"
"You want to go from the intersection, Hebrone?"
"I do not. Tell him we will taxi to the end. Runway behind me, altitude above me, and fuel in the ground, all bad things. It's the code I live by."
"Thanks, Ground, but we'll taxi to the end."
"Roger. Contact tower on 119.35 when ready."
"Tower, One Juliet Lima is ready on one zero."
"One Juliet Lima, fly runway heading, climb and maintain two thousand, squawk 4421. You are cleared for takeoff."
"Roger, runway heading, up to two thousand, and 4421 on the squawk. Here we go."
Hebrone advanced the throttle. As soon as the main wheels left the runway, he leveled off and accelerated to one hundred miles per hour. Then he rolled the Stearman upside down and climbed out inverted, both of us hanging from our seatbelts.
"November One Juliet Lima, thanks for the show. Contact departure on 128.55. Good day."
We were cleared on course, and at three thousand feet Hebrone leveled off, pulled the power back, and
I stayed low, leveling off at three thousand feet. The higher one goes, the colder it becomes, two degrees per thousand feet, to be exact. Looking down at the brown landscape, I was still overwhelmed by this southern country. The rolling hills, dotted with green pine forests, were as vast as a pale ocean, and the sky stretched forever, sometimes blue, sometimes slate. The many small lakes and ponds, like islands in this sea of brown and green swells, only seemed to emphasize its vastness.
The GPS navigation system showed a heading of two hundred degrees and one hundred and sixty-five nautical miles to the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, forever referred to by us old aviators as Moisant International, its original name. Abeam Hattiesburg, Mississippi, I could see Lake Pontchartrain, and passing Picayune, Mississippi, could make out the Superdome and the airport. Traffic was light, and I was cleared for a straight in landing on runway one-nine. After a long taxi of constant S-turning – one cannot see forward in an airplane with a tail wheel while on the ground – I parked at Atlantic Aviation and shut down the engine. It was ten-thirty a.m.
The lineman put chocks around both main wheels, and afforded me the same courtesies he would someone arriving in a thirty million dollar corporate jet. I asked him to top off the fuel tank with aviation gas, and informed him we would be departing as quickly as possible. The fuel truck was pulling up as I walked into the lobby of the FBO.
Hebrone was nowhere to be seen. I took off the coveralls, went to the bathroom, then paid for the fuel, and sat in a comfortable chair across from a blond woman with a small daughter. The child pulled one end of a Band-Aid loose, looked at the newly forming scab, blew a kiss upon it, and then reattached the end of the bandage. For some reason I'll never understand how that simple gesture by the little girl warmed my heart and made me want to forever fight for the protection of the family unit. It seemed as if that was what life was all about.
"Leicester, let's get airborne."
"Hello to you too, Opshinsky."
Out at the airplane, I handed Hebrone the extra pair of coveralls. "Would you like to fly her back?"
He smiled and climbed into the front cockpit. I removed the chocks and settled into the rear. We asked for, and received a clearance to runway one zero.
"November One Juliet Lima would you like an intersection takeoff?"
"You want to go from the intersection, Hebrone?"
"I do not. Tell him we will taxi to the end. Runway behind me, altitude above me, and fuel in the ground, all bad things. It's the code I live by."
"Thanks, Ground, but we'll taxi to the end."
"Roger. Contact tower on 119.35 when ready."
"Tower, One Juliet Lima is ready on one zero."
"One Juliet Lima, fly runway heading, climb and maintain two thousand, squawk 4421. You are cleared for takeoff."
"Roger, runway heading, up to two thousand, and 4421 on the squawk. Here we go."
Hebrone advanced the throttle. As soon as the main wheels left the runway, he leveled off and accelerated to one hundred miles per hour. Then he rolled the Stearman upside down and climbed out inverted, both of us hanging from our seatbelts.
"November One Juliet Lima, thanks for the show. Contact departure on 128.55. Good day."
We were cleared on course, and at three thousand feet Hebrone leveled off, pulled the power back, and
Similar Books
