Flight Journal: a little airport story-part 1
Posted: Thu May 03, 2007 11:35 pmNot a flight story, just an airport story...
Seeing the Connie at 4N1 had piqued my interest, so I drove up there to have a look at it. Too broke to fly, anyway.
I pulled up to a parking space almost directly under the big plane's wing. Its nose looked like a caricature of a seagull's face- big black nose and a low "brow" with small windows. It now seemed smaller than I'd expected, but once I was standing near one of the gear legs, the size became apparent. A large airplane, no doubt about it.
The old Lockheed was definitely no longer airworthy- it was grafted onto the terminal building -that is, the restaurant, on the second floor, was connected to the starboard entry door by a sort of bridge. a set of wooden stairs led right up to the forward cabin door on the left side, just aft of the flight deck. the door was open, and from the dim interior I could hear a radio, tuned to the local hard-rock station. Mounting the last steps i could see a counter, behind which sat a-looking young man who was not too bored to nod politely when I entered. Most airport denizens, I'd already found, will at least nod politely at a stranger.
The flight deck was walled off- too bad. But the cabin was there to see, although it had been turned into a pilot shop!
I was a bit disappointed that this old queen had been gutted, but it was a nifty idea for a pilot shop, and it beat the scrapyard for sure. Great pilot shop, too- just about every gizmo and gewgaw and chart imaginable. The cabins' round windows provided views of the still-majestic wings and the fall foliage beyond the edge of the field.
I couldn't buy anything, but I did pick out a lapboard I thought I'd like to buy.
Back down the stairs, and I was under her great gray wings again. the tires must have been almost new when she was flown in here and parked, but the de-ice boots were tattered, flapping in the southwest breeze.Wasps were buzzing in and out of exposed aluminum bee-condos where elevator and ailerons drooped. the fabric-covered control surfaces were pocked with holes.
a bittersweet relic; a cheery, well-stocked pilot shop. both in one . Weird, but wonderful.
Next to the Connie sat an old Baron. Looked like it could have been the very first Baron. It was not affixed though, just parked- I guessed it would probably fly. I decided to sit awhile and wait to see if anything happened, although it was very quiet at the moment.
A few tables with shade umbrellas were clustered near the Connie; I sat and enjoyed the tremendous view of New Jersey sky: a flotilla of huge cumuli- friendly ones it seemed; not bent on ganging up on some hapless pilot- just rolling past. Splendid marchers in the sky's endless parade. As one of them moved to obscure the bright early afternoon sun, a dazzling shower of sunbeams crashed down onto the hills to the south, igniting flare-ups of bright fall colors. Off to the northwest, the refracted sunlight bathed the distant clouds in delicate shades of crimson.
A few buzzards circled at either end of the airport. the windsock drooped, occasionally stirring a little. It wasn't really silent there... I could hear hushed car-sounds, a few crows, and some heavy machinery off in the distance. But the air made no sounds, despite the visual drama.
I decided to get a beverage. I strolled into the FBO office below the restaurant, saw nobody at the counter, took a bottle of water from the fridge ("Coke and Pepsi: 75cents all others $1", said the handwritten sign), and left a buck on the counter.
I turned to see a pilot (he walked like he'd been sitting in a plane for a few hours) enter. Each of us assumed the other worked there...
"Who do I see about some fuel?" he asked.
"I dunno... must be somebody here, somewhere..."
He thanked me and went off to look for somebody, somewhere.
That's another pilot trait: we're not crestfallen because the first person we turn to for aid cannot help us. no expectations- just a series of little problems to solve. Flying has been teaching me that life itself can be like that- all of it. Easy to forget that, but it's true. I'm learning to just take things one step and one problem at a time, mustering my resources as best I can.
As I sat some more, the man I'd just met reappeared, this time with someone to assist him with refueling his Skyhawk, which was parked right next to the old red Texaco fuel truck. I decided to stroll over towards the T-hangars and other parked airplanes.
Nearest one was an Ercoupe, rather tarted-up with new white paint. I'd never seen one up-close before, and i was charmed right away. Ercoupes are sort of silly-looking and stately at the same time, like gliding pelicans. It's an unusual design in that it was meant to be stall and spin-proof: the elevator travel is limited and the rudders are linked to the ailerons, so turns are always coordinated. No rudder pedals, although many Ercoupes have been converted for conventional rudder control.
It is a slow and safe airplane, but not entirely idiot-proof: several have been flown into trees or the ground by pilots who were foolish enough to think the plane has magic powers that exempt it from the Laws of Flight.
Ercoupes seem to chuckle over that as they sit quietly, with their quaint twin tailfins and stubby, rounded wings. "Go ahead", they say, "disrespect me, and you'll see that I am a real airplane..."
Next: part 2
Seeing the Connie at 4N1 had piqued my interest, so I drove up there to have a look at it. Too broke to fly, anyway.
I pulled up to a parking space almost directly under the big plane's wing. Its nose looked like a caricature of a seagull's face- big black nose and a low "brow" with small windows. It now seemed smaller than I'd expected, but once I was standing near one of the gear legs, the size became apparent. A large airplane, no doubt about it.
The old Lockheed was definitely no longer airworthy- it was grafted onto the terminal building -that is, the restaurant, on the second floor, was connected to the starboard entry door by a sort of bridge. a set of wooden stairs led right up to the forward cabin door on the left side, just aft of the flight deck. the door was open, and from the dim interior I could hear a radio, tuned to the local hard-rock station. Mounting the last steps i could see a counter, behind which sat a-looking young man who was not too bored to nod politely when I entered. Most airport denizens, I'd already found, will at least nod politely at a stranger.
The flight deck was walled off- too bad. But the cabin was there to see, although it had been turned into a pilot shop!
I was a bit disappointed that this old queen had been gutted, but it was a nifty idea for a pilot shop, and it beat the scrapyard for sure. Great pilot shop, too- just about every gizmo and gewgaw and chart imaginable. The cabins' round windows provided views of the still-majestic wings and the fall foliage beyond the edge of the field.
I couldn't buy anything, but I did pick out a lapboard I thought I'd like to buy.
Back down the stairs, and I was under her great gray wings again. the tires must have been almost new when she was flown in here and parked, but the de-ice boots were tattered, flapping in the southwest breeze.Wasps were buzzing in and out of exposed aluminum bee-condos where elevator and ailerons drooped. the fabric-covered control surfaces were pocked with holes.
a bittersweet relic; a cheery, well-stocked pilot shop. both in one . Weird, but wonderful.
Next to the Connie sat an old Baron. Looked like it could have been the very first Baron. It was not affixed though, just parked- I guessed it would probably fly. I decided to sit awhile and wait to see if anything happened, although it was very quiet at the moment.
A few tables with shade umbrellas were clustered near the Connie; I sat and enjoyed the tremendous view of New Jersey sky: a flotilla of huge cumuli- friendly ones it seemed; not bent on ganging up on some hapless pilot- just rolling past. Splendid marchers in the sky's endless parade. As one of them moved to obscure the bright early afternoon sun, a dazzling shower of sunbeams crashed down onto the hills to the south, igniting flare-ups of bright fall colors. Off to the northwest, the refracted sunlight bathed the distant clouds in delicate shades of crimson.
A few buzzards circled at either end of the airport. the windsock drooped, occasionally stirring a little. It wasn't really silent there... I could hear hushed car-sounds, a few crows, and some heavy machinery off in the distance. But the air made no sounds, despite the visual drama.
I decided to get a beverage. I strolled into the FBO office below the restaurant, saw nobody at the counter, took a bottle of water from the fridge ("Coke and Pepsi: 75cents all others $1", said the handwritten sign), and left a buck on the counter.
I turned to see a pilot (he walked like he'd been sitting in a plane for a few hours) enter. Each of us assumed the other worked there...
"Who do I see about some fuel?" he asked.
"I dunno... must be somebody here, somewhere..."
He thanked me and went off to look for somebody, somewhere.
That's another pilot trait: we're not crestfallen because the first person we turn to for aid cannot help us. no expectations- just a series of little problems to solve. Flying has been teaching me that life itself can be like that- all of it. Easy to forget that, but it's true. I'm learning to just take things one step and one problem at a time, mustering my resources as best I can.
As I sat some more, the man I'd just met reappeared, this time with someone to assist him with refueling his Skyhawk, which was parked right next to the old red Texaco fuel truck. I decided to stroll over towards the T-hangars and other parked airplanes.
Nearest one was an Ercoupe, rather tarted-up with new white paint. I'd never seen one up-close before, and i was charmed right away. Ercoupes are sort of silly-looking and stately at the same time, like gliding pelicans. It's an unusual design in that it was meant to be stall and spin-proof: the elevator travel is limited and the rudders are linked to the ailerons, so turns are always coordinated. No rudder pedals, although many Ercoupes have been converted for conventional rudder control.
It is a slow and safe airplane, but not entirely idiot-proof: several have been flown into trees or the ground by pilots who were foolish enough to think the plane has magic powers that exempt it from the Laws of Flight.
Ercoupes seem to chuckle over that as they sit quietly, with their quaint twin tailfins and stubby, rounded wings. "Go ahead", they say, "disrespect me, and you'll see that I am a real airplane..."
Next: part 2