Oysterfest 2015

AT POND BRANCH AIRFIELD

Photo by Eddie Price

Way back when, in the days before email and text messaging, there was the good old U. S. Mail.  Nowadays folks call it snail mail. . .

Two weeks ago there was a surprise delivery at Casa La Cottom.  An invitation from Brother Price to attend the March meeting of the Tree Top Flyers at Pond Branch Airfield. The menu promised South Carolina oysters and Beaufort stew. . .

If you can't fly, drive. . .  My bride and I were on the road by 10:45 Sunday morning.

Why drive when you can fly. . .  Three (out of four) early bird arrivals.

Here comes number five. . .  A left turn on to taxiway Alpha from Runway 11.

Number seven. . .  They made Alpha too.

Taxiway Alpha lineup. . .  Two Champs, a Baby Ace, a Rans S-7, and three Cessnas:  A 172, a 170, and Brother Price's 1950 140A.  Sorry, no pictures of the Cessna 182 and Piper Apache that were parked on the south side of Runway 11.

Oysters. . .  From Beaufort, South Carolina.

In the steamer. . .  Tree Top Flyer, Bo Fender, was manning the kettle.

Ready for consumption. . .  All up weight:  80 pounds.  They were quite tasty!

Beaufort Stew:  Red potatoes, corn on the cob, smoked sausage, South Carolina shrimp, and secret spices.  Tree Top Flyer, Randy Berry, was in charge of the stew.  It was perfect!

Tree Top Flyers. . .  Chowing down!

Outdoor dining. . .  The Pond Branch Airfield restaurant is a classy establishment.

My bride, Nancy Cottom.

They even have a courtesy car. . .

Eddie Price & Libby Berry

. . . and a desert menu!  I'm not sure who made the banana pudding, but it was fantastic!

Indiana Jones To The Rescue!

Thursday morning Brother Baker was the first to inquire: "You OK? News is saying a MD-80 went off the runway at LGA. . ."  That text message got my attention!  "Huh?  Not me. Got home last night."  Before I had a chance to turn on the TV, another message from Joe:  "It's on FOX and CNN.  And of course, Mary Schiavo has to chime in. . ."  I hit the remote; sure enough, there she was, jabbering away. . .  Then another message:  "Is Mark (Brother Hogan) home too?"   I replied:  "He's at his crash pad."

I followed the story for most of the afternoon---disconcerting, I know.  But when it's your company, and the airplane, that you fly---well; let's just say my threat level was elevated. Once I learned there were only minor bumps and bruises I probably should have turned the TV off, but I didn't.  CNN had the money shot:  A smart phone video of the snowy evacuation---folks were sliding off the back side of the right wing.  It was all quite orderly, all things considered.  But it does raise a few questions.  First: Who stops to take pictures when he (or she) is evacuating an airplane?  And second: Where do the TV news folks find their "aviation experts?"  Here's a thought to ponder:  Maybe it's the same person.
  
As soon as the news got out that Harrison Ford put his PT-22 down on a golf course in Santa Monica, California Thursday afternoon, the LaGuardia slip and slide story disappeared.  Bigger name on the other line. . .  And I'm OK with that (for obvious reasons.)  But I am sorry that Indiana Jones bumped his head.  That was a nice looking Ryan!

Internet Photo

Philadelphia From Seat 36A

Who needs a change in latitude?

There's a reason the number one guy on the MD-88 in New York bids West Palm Beach, Florida layovers in February.  He's sick and tired of all the snow!

I was in Miami for 46 minutes last week---a painfully short period of time.  After deicing for twenty-five minutes at LaGuardia, and then bucking one hundred knot headwinds for three and a half hours there was absolutely zero chance I was letting the first officer do the walk around---even if it was only 65 degrees outside.  (A cold front had just pushed through.)  I would have preferred eighty degrees, but at this point in the season, I'll take what I can get, which, by the way, was sixty degrees warmer than it was in New York.  "Junior; I'll get the walk around, you program the FMS."

During the walk around a couple of things caught my eye.   First; the folks on the ramp were all bundled up.  Heavy winter jackets seem out of place in Miami.  Second; and not nearly as funny, the #4 main landing gear tire looked low.  I stared at both; pondering our fate.  What if there are no MD-90 tires in south Florida. . .  And we get to stay here in Miami. . .  And all the layover hotels are full. . .  And they send us out to that cool old hotel on the beach. . .  The bubble burst when the mechanic said:  "Just a loose valve stem, Captain.  We'll have it pumped back up in no time."

Spirit of St. Louis

Back in December 2011 I was in Washington, DC on the 108th anniversary of the Wright Brothers first powered flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.  To honor the occasion I decided to visit the National Air and Space Museum, and spend a little quality time with the 1903 Flyer.  I have probably visited the museum fifteen times over the years, and have never been disappointed.  Within it's walls are the artifacts of adventures that fueled my dreams when I was young.  On a more practical note, my good friend John Mullis says he likes the museum because it has airplanes and instruments that he can understand and recognize!  The museum layout has changed over the years, as has some of the content, but the major players have always been there---the 1903 Flyer, the Bell X-1, and my favorite, the Spirit of St. Louis.

I was there to see the Wright Flyer, but (as is usually the case) most of my time was spent with the Spirit of St. Louis.  The best vantage point for viewing the Ryan NYP is from the second floor balcony, in the southwest corner of the Milestones of Flight gallery.  It is as close as one can get.  For me it is hallowed ground. . .  What must it have been like; to sit in that wicker chair for thirty-three and a half hours?  Would I have had the skill and the stamina? At this point in the game, four hours is about as long as I can withstand---and I have a comfortable chair.  And an autopilot!  You can read about Lindbergh's flight from New York to Paris all you want (the best account is his Pulitzer prize-winning The Spirit of St. Louis, published in 1953) and you can view all the movies, but the magnitude of his accomplishment doesn't hit home---not until you stand next to the airplane.  Every pilot should make the pilgrimage.

Speaking of pilgrimages. . .

The EG, and his son, Michael, were in Washington, DC just last week---representing Petaluma (California) Boy Scout Troop 9, at a FEMA ceremony (at the White House) honoring Troop 9's participation in the National Strategy supporting Youth Preparedness in America.  After the ceremony they had an opportunity to visit the National Air and Space Museum.  On Thursday I received the following message:

"Here's something you don't see every day."

Photo by Duncan Flett

Timing is everything!  The Milestones of Flight gallery is undergoing restoration.  Recently, the Spirit was lowered for inspection.  Michael and Duncan were on hand to watch as technicians removed the cowlings.  Duncan is right; you don't see that every day. . .

  

Fun Facts:

The Spirit of St. Louis has a fuel capacity of 425 US gallons.  The oil tank holds 25 gallons.  The Wright J-5C Whirlwind engine is rated at 220 hp.  The official flight time from Roosevelt Field, Long Island, New York, to Le Bourget Aerodrome, Paris, France, was 33 hours, 30 minutes, 29.8 seconds.  Total flying time when the Spirit of St. Louis was retired to the Smithsonian Institution:  489 hours, 28 minutes.

The Barograph from the Spirit of St. Louis on display at the NASM.

That other airplane. . .

The 1903 Flyer, December 17, 2011.

A little something from my box of treasures. . .

Landfall, Dingle Bay, Valentia Island, May 21, 1927, by artist John T. McCoy.

"bygone, rugged times. . ."

Brother Hogan said to keep my eyes peeled; a surprise was on the way. . .  It arrived in Monday's mail---a First Edition copy of Jenny Was No Lady, The Story of the JN-4D, by Jack R. Lincke, published in 1970.  Yeah, Brother Hogan finds cool stuff!  My bride calls him the King of the eBay Treasure Hunter's Club; I am inclined to agree.

The book is a joy to read!  So far, after only forty pages (out of 288) I have laughed out loud more than a dozen times!  Here's a teaser my airline compadres are sure to find amusing:

"In the bygone, rugged times, barnstorming Jennymen often slept under the wings of their ships.  Today, the gentlemen pilots of the airlines sleep in posh hotels.  It is coffee, cakes, and a 38-24-36 stewardess on the flight deck.  Such is the mischief of time and progress, those twin iconoclasts who do not keep their dirty fingers out of our business."

And because I know my audience:

Iconoclast: n noun

1.  One who attacks and seeks to overthrow traditional or popular ideas or institutions.

2.  One who destroys sacred religious images.

Either definition will work. . .

Thank you Brother Hogan!

Making Sense Of Commuting

In the old days when a pilot was hired at an airline he (and the few shes out there) moved to their assigned crew base, and that was about it. This was before airline deregulation. With deregulation, and the bloodbath of "free market" competition, everything changed. After a few job losses, many pilots (myself included) decided it was easier to commute to work than it was to uproot their families and move to a new domicile, especially if (when) the new company was a fly-by-night operation.  There were plenty of those in the 90's. The results of my unscientific study concluded that most start up airlines last about three years.  Thank goodness those days are over!

One of the hazards of living out of base is the occasional cancellation of a flight that you had planned to commute on.  It doesn't happen very often, but it does happen.  Murphy's Law states:  Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.  One of my ex Eastern Airlines buddies likes to add:  "And at the most inopportune time!"  The results of my unscientific study tend to support the law.  Big D doesn't care where I choose live, but it does care that I show up for work on time.  When you live five hundred miles from where you work, it's a good idea to always have a backup plan!

Last weeks backup plan was to head up to the Big Apple a day early because the weather guessers were forecasting crappy weather for most of the East Coast Saturday night and Sunday morning.  The forecast was spot on.  It was snowing when we touched down at LaGuardia Saturday afternoon---GIANT FLAKES!  By the time I reached my subway stop in Forest Hills, it had changed to a windy, rainy mix.  I was soaked by the time I reached the crash pad---only three blocks!  Commuting in a day early was the right call.  LaGuardia was at minimums through noon on Sunday.  I'm sure there were delays---and if I've learned anything in twenty-nine years of commuting it's this:  A stress free night in the crash pad beats sweating an Expect Departure Clearance Time five hundred miles from base on the day of your sign in!

"It ain't over till it's over."  Yogi Berra  

For the commuting pilot, when the trip is finished; it's still not finished.  There's still the flight home to consider.  Sunday's trip finished late Wednesday evening, too late to get home.  It had been a long day, eight hours and forty minutes of flying, so I was happy to go to the crash pad and hit the hay.  Before turning in I checked the flight schedule to make sure my flight home in the morning had plenty of seats, and was scheduled to depart on time.  Everything appeared normal.  I closed my eyes thinking all was right in the world.

"Rats"  Charlie Brown

Six hours later I'm staring at the departure screen, FLIGHT CANCELLED!  (I'm pretty sure nobody heard my comment.)  Backup plan?  Yup.  Brother Baker's crowd had an A321 departing for Charlotte in thirty minutes, which as it turned out, had plenty of open seats. The gate agent handed me a boarding card, seat 13A.  My lucky number!  After saying hello to the guys up front, I set out to find my seat.  When I got to my row, I found a middle aged couple standing in the aisle, talking to a guy sitting in seat 13B.  Beside him, in seat 13A (my seat) sat a shopping bag full of Italian bread.  The lady thought the guy with the bag was sitting in her seat.  He said he was not, then added:  "But there's plenty of seats, I can move."  But he didn't.  Row 12 was empty.  I thought maybe he missed his row, so I asked what seat he was assigned.  He said:  "13B, but there's plenty of seats, I can move."  But I could tell he wasn't interested in moving.  The lady was clearly frustrated.  Her boarding card said 13B; her husband's said 13C.  She wanted her seat.   A flight attendant eventually came to the rescue.  She directed the couple to an empty row further aft.  Through it all Mr. Italian Bread Guy just smiled and stared straight ahead.  It was all kind of weird.  By now the boarding door had closed.  Not wanting to be "That Guy," I slid into row 12 and sat by the window, seat 12A.  My new lucky number!  It didn't take long to figure things out.  Standing in the aisle you couldn't smell it, but row 13 reeked---like an old Cheech & Chong movie!  13B was stoned!  I smiled as I looked out the window.  That explains the big bag of bread. . .

The view from Seat 12A.