was infused with new confidence and fresh inspiration, I realized that Captain Brown had indeed returned to bondage. And his shackles were far worse than mere chains. He was bound by attitudes of hatred, prejudice, and closed-mindedness. Then I knew why Captain Brown so passionately sought the freedom of flight. The jet doesn't care about the race of the man who merges with it to become one creature. The wind, the sun, the billowing clouds, and the vast blue skyscapes are color-blind guardiansthey cast away the shackles of all who fly into their courts with heavy hearts, seeking sweet release.
I knew then that, although I had the fuel and spark built in me, Captain Brown engaged my starter and brought up the rpms. And I owed him for much more than just the gift of self-confidence. I was forever indebted to him for opening my eyes as well. I doubt he ever knew it, but he had unlocked some shackles of mine. From that point onward I constantly searched my thoughts and attitudes for telltale signs of subtle prejudice and prejudgment. And in doing so, I discovered the joy of relating to others as God intended. We are all his children. We are all siblings. Together we seek, and together we are given. Or forgiven.
A few weeks later I was assigned another instructor and Captain Brown was gone as quickly as he had come. But the fire in me continued.
Nine.
Bernoulli Baptism
This is a rare treat. The need for men and equipment to support the Alabama Air Guards deployment of their Phantoms to the Persian Gulf has brought me home. But it's only a quick stop.
The marshaler stands in front of us and holds one of his orange paddles down while waving the other fore and aft over his head. He is commanding me to turn the Starlifter very tightly to bring our nose around to the west. Off to the left I notice several small planes tied down in a grassy area and take special care not to use too much power in the turn. Our jet blast could easily send them rolling like aluminum tumbleweeds.
I complete the turn very slowly, a bit too slowly for the marshaler. He now vigorously waves the paddles overhead, motioning me to taxi farther forward. I gently nudge the throttles about a knob width forward and hear the four big Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines dutifully spool up in a muffled whine. It's uncanny how you can tell from just listening that there's more than one engine back there. They seem to harmonize, as if in song. One of the little pleasures in flying this great creature is taxiing her. I marvel in the awesome feeling of more raw power literally at my fingertips than most people could ever imagine.
The marshaler stands his ground as our radome nose approaches to within a few feet of him. Then he crosses his paddles, indicating that he is finally satisfied with our position and we are to stop. Looking down on him through the windscreen, I'm reminded of that little cartoon mouse, the one who presents the finger of contempt in a final act of defiance as a fierce eagle is about to consume him. I set the parking brake and flip the four ridiculously small switches on the overhead panel that choke the big engines into silence.
The crew entrance door is opened down below, and the shrill of the engines as they spool down mixes with the metallic clinks of seat belts and shoulder harnesses being unfastened. I take the flight-planning kit and descend first the flight deck ladder, then the crew door ladder to the tarmac, and stretch in Birmingham's cool breeze. The diesel throb of an external power cart bursts into life, as a number of people swarm about the jet, preparing to service it. The loadmasters are already busy far to tailward, where I hear the high-pitched scream of the hydraulic pumps waver slightly as they labor to power open the enormous clamshell cargo doors. The copilot remains on the flight deck, programming the navigation computer for the transoceanic journey ahead, while I start for the operations building.
The small planes in the grass naturally catch my eye as I pass. Suddenly, I stop, transfixed, mouth agape, eyes bulging with wonder, like a man spotting a long-lost, almost forgotten lover. Sitting there in the grass is a Cessna 150 bearing the seal of the Alabama Wing, Civil Air Patrol, and the number N7195F. I'm stunned motionless. I want to grab someone and point to it, to proclaim loudly that that's the plane I first soloed. But no one's nearby.
How many years has it been? Twenty? Twenty-five? I was a junior in high school when I first flew alone. No, not at all alone. I was with 95 Foxtrot. She belonged to a flight school down in Tuscaloosa then. And she's still alive. And here. Talk about a chance meeting. Unbelievable. I haven't thought of her in years.
I walk over and gently touch her, like a boy cautiously but delightedly caressing his new dog. Her skin is rough and weathered. She needs a paint job; the interior is well worn. She has doubtless given birth to hundreds, maybe thousands, of fliers since I was with her last.
That summer day of my youth, with four hours and fifteen minutes of flying time in my log book, 95 Fox and I flew together, just us. And on that day I glimpsed God's chart table and saw the course of my life plotted on it.
Some people dazzle the air show crowds; others make megabucks hauling hundreds of trusting souls; a few have the red stars of MiG kills painted below their canopy rails. But it makes no difference who they are or how glorious the job. They owe it all to a clattering crate of a puddle jumper sometime in their past. Somewhere there was a start. Something, someonea friend or relative, a book or a modelplanted the seed. A flight instructor cultivated it. But an airplane provided the baptism, in a river of sky.
The first brick in the formation of any great flying career was laid by beings such as Aeronica Champs, Cessna 150s, or Piper Cherokees. But all too often, amid the excitement and challenge of the big iron, the roots are forgotten. 'Slow and simple' is eclipsed by the excitement of an F-15 or a Boeing 757.
How often have I heard them? The disdainful comments. The condescending questions from the 'it's not worth it' crowd:
'Why do you do that? Don't you know that little plane can ruin your career? What if you screw up and bust a Federal Air Regulation? Why, the FAA would pull your license in a second.'
Then there's the 'tired of it all' bunch:
'Are you kidding me? When I get out of this cockpit I don't even want to see another airplane, big or little, until I have to come back here.'
Finally, from the most nauseating group, the space cadets:
'If I can't yank, bank, and roll, fly fast and feel the awesome power of that afterburner, man, I'd rather not fly at all.'
Then so be it.
But there's a propeller over there in the grass for me.
I bought my first plane, a thirty-year-old 1947 Cessna 140 for $2,900, while assigned to a fighter squadron flying state-of-the-art A-7D Corsair II jet fighters. The '140 flew at 100 mph up to a maximum altitude of 6,000 or 7,000 feet. The A-7 flew 600 mph up to 40,000 feet. The '140 was not stressed for aerobatics; it couldn't do much of anything exciting except land in remote places. The tough, combat-engineered Corsair could loop, roll, drop bombs, fire missiles, shoot cannon, and withstand up to seven Gs. Most people wouldn't consider the two as the same species of creatures, nor would they think it justifiable even to compare them.
Some of my buddies in the squadron couldn't understand the attraction. Why would I waste the time and money? A few of them did get interested when they realized that the little craft could expediently get them down to Rocky Point, Mexico, for a fishing trip. But I was unenthusiastic about lending it to them for that purpose. To be fair, some of them thought the plane was a novel idea, but no one ever asked to go flying in it. And when I offered, there was always grass to be mowed or a tennis date to be kept.
Yet heroes and comrades we were, ready to sacrifice it all tomorrow. We were the passionate envy of almost every eye that looked up at our neat four-ship formations thundering across Tucson. Here I was, a member of that elite club with the right stuff and the right hardware, living amid the exclusive, closed society of fighter pilot brethren. And yet my best friend was a civilian with a simple private pilot's license. But friendship is something that ought to transcend boundaries of status and ego.
He certainly had a name any fighter pilot would envy: Vroom. Dave Vroom. He was employed as a mining engineer but had an aeronautical engineering degree. He had first soloed at an early age, but less than perfect
