Air scare
A couple decades after the initial invention and thrill of flying came the thrill of regulating it through the FAA. Which is too bad, because if it were legal, we could have civil aviation as a garage hobby in America, as it is in places like the UK, shown below. Instead, we have to go through the process of getting a pilot’s license for most aircraft that don’t require such for hobby flying elsewhere. *sigh*
But, as our protagonists today might say, enough whingeing and moaning! If ultra- and microlight airplanes were easily accessible here like in other countries, we’d probably soon get into the business of annoying each other and making obnoxious political statements over each other’s homes just for the joy of being a nuisance. Imagine the swarms of microlight planes operated by enraged activists, circling over the properties of controversial politicians, harassing their intended targets with high-pitched small-engine buzz and casually dropped bags of excrement…never mind.
Extraneous griping aside, in today’s video we join Faith, a young lady riding along with microlight pilot Nick. Faith was thrilled and terrified through most of the trip—and it shows. It’s a real joy to watch (as is the British country landscape). Her reactions are hilarious, but also put you in mind of the thrill and awe of life itself, especially as it is experienced by a young person. And it thus makes for suitable light entertainment for this, the last weekend of February.
Cool video. My one experience with non-commercial aviation came years ago after I did a favor for a fellow tradesman that I worked with by machining up an adaptor for a camera lens for him that wasn't available to buy. It took a bit of work, and he wanted to repay me somehow. Told him a cup of coffee would be sufficient, as was pretty much the custom among us trades guys when we did favors for each other. He insisted on *more*, which soon came in the form of a ride in his late '40s vintage Piper J3 Cub, complete with cloth covered wings, hand-prop start and 2 seats, one behind the other. Rather hard, uncomfortable seats I might add.
I met him one afternoon at a farm just a couple of miles from where I lived at the time. He knew the owner, said the guy had an airstrip on the property and he could fly in there and save me a long drive to the small private airfield where he kept his 'toy'. Though I'd been by the place many times, I'd never seen more of the property than a bit of a barn roof due to its elevation relative to the road and a high embankment in front. Turned out the 'airstrip' was a long, rather narrow and rolling piece of pasture between two cornfields. Guess it was a bit more hi-tech than I realized when first arriving, since I spotted a windsock made out of an old feed bag strapped to a pole while waiting for my flight's arrival.
Flying with Murph in that small plane was quite an experience, the highlight of which was banking into a low circle above the trailer park where I then lived and me yelling down and waving through the bank-side open window at my wife, who had declined his invitation to come along and go for a ride on the premise that the yard really needed mowing that day, and if I wasn't going to do it, *somebody had to*...which she was engaged in as she stopped and looked up at the two maniacs in the bright yellow little plane circling not all that far above her head.
The other quite memorable moment came when Murph was ready to leave, after having taken both my young daughters for a spin after me, since they had no compunctions about unmown grass. He fished around behind the rear seat, produced a small gas can and asked if I'd mind running down to the Sunoco station on the corner about a half mile away to fetch him a couple of gallons of gas, as he might need a little extra to get back home after an hour or so worth of winging us all around our neck of the woods.
"I don't think they sell av-gas there, Murph", I said. Stupid me.
"Runs on regular", he replied as he handed me the can.
When I came back with the can, he unscrewed the tank cap located in the center of the cowling just outside the windshield and handed it to me as he busied himself pouring the gas into the tank. Through the cap a brass rod a few inches long protruded, a float on one end and a daub of red paint on the other. As I eyeballed it, Murph informed me that when the red was about a quarter of an inch from the cap, it was time to start seriously looking for a place to land. When he replaced the cap, it appeared he had about 1 1/2 inches worth of gas in the tank, which must have been sufficient for his return flight, since he showed up all in one piece at work the next day.
Upon returning home with a couple of very happy young daughters, I was informed by my wife that she had denied all knowledge to the neighbors of who that was flyin' around above the park and waving and yellin' something not quite intelligible down at the ground. If I remember correctly (and I'm sure that I do), that guy was yelling "HEY!!! THIS IS A HELL OF A LOT MORE FUN THAN MOWING THAT DAMN GRASS!!"
That was a fun video, and a young girl who looks older than 13.