4 juliet reno
Ever since I remember, as a small child, I dreamt about flying an airplane. And driving super fast cars. And racing motor cycles. Parachute jumping. But it was always crystal clear, just the same, that all this is nothing more than romantic fantasy. After all, when would I ever have a chance to even come close to an airplane, or to a Ferrari in reality?
During my student years at Yale my views were modified, but only slightly. In 1963 Professor N. R. Hanson arrived at Yale from Princeton to teach history of philosophy and science. He landed at Tweed-New Haven airport in his F8F-2 Bearcat, a WW-II fighter plane. The Yale Daily news reported that he needed a second trip before he could settle in, had to go back to Princeton so he could ride his motorcycle to New Haven. This shook up my construct of reality. I had a difficult time coming to terms with the idea that a philosophy professor, at Yale yet, could also be a hot-dog flyer who had once been disciplined for looping the Golden Gate Bridge as a Marine aviator. I wrote it off to the cliché observation, “only in America”, the land of extremes, which did nothing to get me any closer to imagining myself in a cockpit. Then years later, now working for the University, I had a part-time student assistant, John, working for me doing data entry. He was a smart, friendly, young fellow. We often went to the Sterling Library courtyard for a cup of coffee together for breaks. He told me about the big excitement in his life at the time – he was about ready to take his check flight for a flying license. I couldn’t believe it. I had a million questions. |
How come? How so? Where did he ever get the idea? Where did he get the money? Where did he find someone to teach him? How difficult was it? And so on and on. I asked all this without giving him a chance to even start to respond. John just laughed, then said he understood that coming from Hungary this may seem strange to me, but this was America.
Yes, the land of opportunity. That included not only the chance to go to school, the biggest deal for me till then, but also to engage in whatever impulsive, odd-ball, crazy undertaking you might come up with. A few days later John glowigly reported that he had passed his check flight and could now legally take up passengers. He then offered that if I am game for paying for half the rental cost, he would take me for a little trip on the weekend. I could barely wait. We met at the airport on Saturday morning. John lead me to “his plane”, i.e., the plane he most frequently used for training and the one in which he took his check flight. It was a red, low wing, single engine Piper Cub. It seemed so small to me that I was wondering if it could actually contain the two of us. I was watching in awe as John went through the protocol of a pre-flight check, walking around the aircraft checking all the joints and fittings, fuel levels, engine oil, the fuselage for dents and cracks, landing gear for air pressure, and so on. Then we climbed in, fastened belts, and he continued the pre-flight inside. Turning switches, checking instruments one by one, handing me my head phone and mike, powering up radios and transponder, testing magnetos, and so on. I was impressed. He seemed so confident and competent with the hundreds of little details seeming so mysterious to me. |
He turned to me, saying we were ready. He then opened his side window and yelled out “CLEAR !!”, pulled levers, pushed buttons, and started up the prop. The little Piper Cub shook and the tiny cockpit was filled with the roar of the engine. I heard John in my headset saying “New Haven Ground, Piper 854 Juliet Reno, at November 34, ready to taxi”. Ground control replied and we started to slowly roll, turn, left and right, toward the end of the runway.
I was quiet, overwhelmed. All my childhood fantasies washed over me. I was in an airplane, and there was a full set of controls in front of me! Never mind that it was a little machine with only two seats – it was a real aircraft. This was going to be almost like flying it myself! John turned again and stopped the plane. We were in the run-up area, just short of the runway. He revved up the engine, checked carburetor heat and magnetos again, then all the control surfaces in turn. I was getting more and more excited. Satisfied that everything was functioning properly John held the transmit button and said, cool as a cucumber, “New Haven Tower, four Juliet Reno ready for take-off”. “Four Juliet Reno, cleared for take-off, runway two zero”, came the instant response. John leaned forward to look to the right to see if there were any aircraft on final and ready to land (and cut us off), then pulled forward on the runway and turned sharply left to line up with the mile-long strip of smooth concrete. Completing the turn he pushed forward on the throttle all the way, cutting carb heat at the same time. The roar was huge. Every tiny imperfection of the runway surface shook the plane as we were gathering speed. I looked out to the right trying to gage |
our speed. It must have been perhaps 45 – 50 miles per hour, but with all the noise and vibration it felt closer to the speed of sound. I kept telling myself to relax, this was only a friendly drive, no big deal, but at the same time I was ready to argue with myself. What do you mean friendly drive?? You are in an airplane! Like you have never been before! You have access to the same controls as the pilot! You could take over and fly yourself!
Before I knew it we were a few hundred feet above the airport and John was banking to the left and reduced power from maximum climb to cruising. He looked over and asked “Where would you like to go?” “Wherever. Let’s just look at New Haven and familiar ground from above.” “Sure thing”, he answered. We spent a wonderful half hour flying over the University, circling above familiar landmarks like the Library, the Chapel, Woolsey Hall, and so on, all of them looking very different from above. All the while I was trying to come to terms with my new experience. Yes, in this, my new home, the United States of America, it may actually be possible for me to learn to fly. I no longer have to dismiss it as an impossible dream. After fifteen or twenty minutes John said “Well, we should be getting back. Do you feel like taking it over for a bit?” I wasn’t sure I heard right. “You mean, you want me to fly it? I have never done it!” “Sure. Go for it. Nothing to it!”, and he leaned back, taking his hands off the yoke and saying “All yours. See the traffic at 2 o’clock? No rush, but turn out of its way to the right, OK?” |
Looking to the right I saw a tiny speck on the horizon. I turned the yoke gently to the right and we started banking. Banking more, and more, and more, till John said “Straighten out the yoke. This does not work like a car. Once you achieve the bank you want, you straighten out, and the aircraft maintains the bank until you stop it by counter controlling the yoke.”
“Oh, OK”, I said trying to do it. The little dot changed into the distant outline of another plane, but thankfully we were no longer on collision course. John said “You are losing altitude. We should maintain 3,500 feet.” I feverishly scanned the instruments till I found the altimeter. 2,900 feet. So I pulled back on the yoke a little to point us upward. John said “Easy with the yoke. You can get us into a stall. When you point up, we slow down, and if you continue that way, the airplane stops flying. Add power.” Power? I don’t want to speed up. Why power? So he did it, slid the throttle forward for me. We started a slow climb till 3,500 and then he eased it back to cruising RPM. Then John said “Well, I had better take it back and get ready for landing.” The few minutes I was pilot in command was enough to convince me that I had a lot to learn. But what a trip it would be to do it!! I was glowing with pleasure and anticipation all the way home. I had come to the realization that I could, perhaps, some day, some vague, distant, uncertain, indefinite day, actually sign up at a flight school and turn myself into my childhood dream of a private pilot. What a dream. A few years later, on a sunny afternoon at Stanford, I was |
riding home on my bicycle from the Med Center. Rolling along Galvez street toward the Quad I noticed something strange ahead. There was something blocking the road. There were a lot of people crowding around, so I couldn’t really tell what it was. There was something long and flat sticking out among the tree branches lining the road. I got quite near before I realized that it was a small Cessna plane, tucked in under a ree, with a lot of people crowding around to look at it closely.
What in heaven’s name is going on here? What’s an airplane doing on the street? And how did it get here? There was a student leaning against the cowling, holding a clipboard, answering questions from the crowd around him. I joined the crowd and found that others had the same questions as I did. The plane belonged to the Stanford Flying Club. (By George, there WAS such a thing !) And they landed it early this morning on the football field and two people rolled it, carefully, all the way to this location. The Club was looking to increase membership and they thought this was good publicity. And they do operate a ground school and have a group of flight instructors who can take you though the process of getting a private license. When I finally got near the fellow I had just a couple more questions about the cost of lessons and I signed up. When I got home, I burst into the house with a huge grin on my face and said to my wife, “You will never guess what I just did!” “Did you sign up for flying lessons?”, she asked matter of factly. How she knew remains one of the many mysteries I could never figure out about my wife… |