| Biographical Non-Fiction posted April 24, 2015 |
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A story in two parts.
~PAPA ECHO~ part one
by write hand blue
≈ Papa Echo ≈
PART ONE
All British registered aircraft have five registration letters for identity, example:- G – BCPE. So the call sign for this aircraft using the phonetic alphabet is PAPA ECHO.
***
My name is Melvyn L***. Many years ago I did something for a bet. I was actually old enough to know better.
***
It was a Sunday in May 1979, the strong morning sun burnt into my face. Time to try out my new aviator sunglasses my wife Margaret had bought me. She had paid a lot for them, but, wouldn't admit it. After all these years she is still a kind hearted soul. Just one reason why I love her.
I glowed with excitement. "Confidence is high and looking good, as they say at NASA."
Her reply was no surprise, "Are you 'really' going to do it?"
"You know me, if I promise—."
"That's what I was afraid of. "Promise me, you won't take any chances!" Her voice sounded a little strained.
"Strictly by the book that's me!"
This elicited a slight smile. She knew she would get no more from me.
A feeling of well being washed through me on this almost calm, beautiful morning. We flew steadily on our way at one thousand feet.
***
Earlier that morning, Margaret and I arrived at the Jersey Aero Club to complete the formalities, and pre-flight checks for the Cessna 150 light aircraft we were about to hire.
"This is where all the time is wasted by filling in forms," Margaret complained as she wrote them in triplicate. I had to agree.
As we strapped ourselves in, I could smell newly cut grass and the cleaner used to polish the plexiglass cockpit windows. With all checks completed, I pressed the red starter button and with a giant cough the 150hp engine burst into life. A slight whiff of un-burnt fuel drifted into the cockpit. The crackle of the exhaust destroyed the peace of this early Sunday morning.
According to my log book it was 7:30 am, when we took off from Jersey and headed for France.
***
Our flight took just 35 minutes and we landed at Dinard airport. A short ride in a taxi took us to a karting circuit. There we were entered in the senior race. Margaret came in fifth despite a collision, while I span out early on and came in mid-field. Soon we were flying back to Jersey where we had a 12am deadline.
Although Margaret had a pilot's licence, she had bruised her shoulder in that high speed shunt during the race. So I was in the left hand seat, after the thrashing of almost two hours of racing I felt pleasantly relaxed, as you do after an extended period of exercise. It was time to call up Jersey tower on the RT.
"Jersey Tower—Papa Echo returning, request three low circuits over the Minquiers."
After a short delay, the RT crackled into life.
"Papa Echo, request granted, three circuits not below 500 (feet). Report at Noirmont prior to landing runway two seven zero."
"Affirmative, Papa Echo."
I had time to reflect; with the legal minimum of diversion fuel, we were flying light in weight. I throttled the engine back to 1,900 RPM this reduced our airspeed to ninety MPH.
In clear sight the Minquiers at 1,000 feet lay about two miles ahead. At low tide a huge expanse of tidal sand lay exposed ahead of us. My first deliberate 'Short Field Landing' on a sand bank. I breathed fast and the perspiration on my forehead, was not caused only by the heat.
This had to go right—the consequences of any mishap didn't bear thinking about.
The white yacht clearly visible lay anchored beside a massive sand bar. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I lined up the Cessna. I eased the throttle slowly back to a fast tick-over . Flipped the small yellow 'carburettor heat' lever ON.—Couldn't have the engine cut out at this height—I selected 40 degrees of flaps—the maximum. A quick adjustment of the trim wheel stabilised our attitude and our rate of descent was fast.
"Keep your eyes peeled for orange smoke."
"I am," said Margaret.
***
About two weeks before, Henry Ballister came up to me in the Aero Club bar.
"I bet you can't eat a hamburger on the Minquiers and drink a yard of ale in here; all on the same day."
Henry was a retired, successful businessman and a fellow member of our little group at the Jersey Aero Club Bar. He eyed me mischievously as I pondered the challenge.
"What is the catch then?" I finally asked.
"You have to fly to the Minquiers."
"Do you mean land a Cessna there?"
"A hundred pounds cash says you can't."
I knew I could easily land on a sand bar; but the take-off had to be carefully executed. So I did a quick calculation. I reckoned that the money would cover the cost for a morning trip to France. However an unauthorised landing was against the C.A.A. and club rules. At this time we were all trying to get as many hours into our log book as we could.
"You're on!" I said and shook hands.
I did notice a couple in our group shake their heads.
***
"I can see orange smoke." Margaret sounded calm as she pointed to the only yacht in the area.
This signalled the right place, wind direction, and okay to land. I trusted Henry's judgment, had we not seen the flare I would have aborted the landing. We were down to seven hundred feet.
I had always enjoyed the light direct controls of the Cessna 150 and found it capable of much more than it was licensed for. More of that at a later date.
My actions were automatic, and like all pilots, I had practiced this manoeuvre many times. A full 40 degrees of flaps demanded your complete concentration and pilot skills. A firm instinctive hand control, with an eye on the airspeed was essential. It could easy be stalled in this configuration.
Meanwhile Margaret sat and clicked away on her Olympus OM 10 camera next to me.
"I just took one of Henry by his yacht; I hope these photos turn out alright," she said.
Below one hundred feet, the active thermal activity caused by the heating of the sand caused the Cessna to buck about. Several quite powerful control inputs and a blip of the throttle was required, as I fought to keep the wings level and on course. We passed the yacht on my right hand side at a height of about twenty feet.
I flared out and a fairly solid arrival on the hard sand announced my successful 'Short Field Landing.' I braked heavily to slow us down and glanced across at Margaret. She would have spoken out, had I made a mistake or been a little heavy handed. She had said nothing—I was relieved.
***
The remainder of this story can be read in part two.
≈ Papa Echo ≈
PART ONE
All British registered aircraft have five registration letters for identity, example:- G – BCPE. So the call sign for this aircraft using the phonetic alphabet is PAPA ECHO.
***
My name is Melvyn L***. Many years ago I did something for a bet. I was actually old enough to know better.
***
It was a Sunday in May 1979, the strong morning sun burnt into my face. Time to try out my new aviator sunglasses my wife Margaret had bought me. She had paid a lot for them, but, wouldn't admit it. After all these years she is still a kind hearted soul. Just one reason why I love her.
I glowed with excitement. "Confidence is high and looking good, as they say at NASA."
Her reply was no surprise, "Are you 'really' going to do it?"
"You know me, if I promise—."
"That's what I was afraid of. "Promise me, you won't take any chances!" Her voice sounded a little strained.
"Strictly by the book that's me!"
This elicited a slight smile. She knew she would get no more from me.
A feeling of well being washed through me on this almost calm, beautiful morning. We flew steadily on our way at one thousand feet.
***
Earlier that morning, Margaret and I arrived at the Jersey Aero Club to complete the formalities, and pre-flight checks for the Cessna 150 light aircraft we were about to hire.
"This is where all the time is wasted by filling in forms," Margaret complained as she wrote them in triplicate. I had to agree.
As we strapped ourselves in, I could smell newly cut grass and the cleaner used to polish the plexiglass cockpit windows. With all checks completed, I pressed the red starter button and with a giant cough the 150hp engine burst into life. A slight whiff of un-burnt fuel drifted into the cockpit. The crackle of the exhaust destroyed the peace of this early Sunday morning.
According to my log book it was 7:30 am, when we took off from Jersey and headed for France.
***
Our flight took just 35 minutes and we landed at Dinard airport. A short ride in a taxi took us to a karting circuit. There we were entered in the senior race. Margaret came in fifth despite a collision, while I span out early on and came in mid-field. Soon we were flying back to Jersey where we had a 12am deadline.
Although Margaret had a pilot's licence, she had bruised her shoulder in that high speed shunt during the race. So I was in the left hand seat, after the thrashing of almost two hours of racing I felt pleasantly relaxed, as you do after an extended period of exercise. It was time to call up Jersey tower on the RT.
"Jersey Tower—Papa Echo returning, request three low circuits over the Minquiers."
After a short delay, the RT crackled into life.
"Papa Echo, request granted, three circuits not below 500 (feet). Report at Noirmont prior to landing runway two seven zero."
"Affirmative, Papa Echo."
I had time to reflect; with the legal minimum of diversion fuel, we were flying light in weight. I throttled the engine back to 1,900 RPM this reduced our airspeed to ninety MPH.
In clear sight the Minquiers at 1,000 feet lay about two miles ahead. At low tide a huge expanse of tidal sand lay exposed ahead of us. My first deliberate 'Short Field Landing' on a sand bank. I breathed fast and the perspiration on my forehead, was not caused only by the heat.
This had to go right—the consequences of any mishap didn't bear thinking about.
The white yacht clearly visible lay anchored beside a massive sand bar. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I lined up the Cessna. I eased the throttle slowly back to a fast tick-over . Flipped the small yellow 'carburettor heat' lever ON.—Couldn't have the engine cut out at this height—I selected 40 degrees of flaps—the maximum. A quick adjustment of the trim wheel stabilised our attitude and our rate of descent was fast.
"Keep your eyes peeled for orange smoke."
"I am," said Margaret.
***
About two weeks before, Henry Ballister came up to me in the Aero Club bar.
"I bet you can't eat a hamburger on the Minquiers and drink a yard of ale in here; all on the same day."
Henry was a retired, successful businessman and a fellow member of our little group at the Jersey Aero Club Bar. He eyed me mischievously as I pondered the challenge.
"What is the catch then?" I finally asked.
"You have to fly to the Minquiers."
"Do you mean land a Cessna there?"
"A hundred pounds cash says you can't."
I knew I could easily land on a sand bar; but the take-off had to be carefully executed. So I did a quick calculation. I reckoned that the money would cover the cost for a morning trip to France. However an unauthorised landing was against the C.A.A. and club rules. At this time we were all trying to get as many hours into our log book as we could.
"You're on!" I said and shook hands.
I did notice a couple in our group shake their heads.
***
"I can see orange smoke." Margaret sounded calm as she pointed to the only yacht in the area.
This signalled the right place, wind direction, and okay to land. I trusted Henry's judgment, had we not seen the flare I would have aborted the landing. We were down to seven hundred feet.
I had always enjoyed the light direct controls of the Cessna 150 and found it capable of much more than it was licensed for. More of that at a later date.
My actions were automatic, and like all pilots, I had practiced this manoeuvre many times. A full 40 degrees of flaps demanded your complete concentration and pilot skills. A firm instinctive hand control, with an eye on the airspeed was essential. It could easy be stalled in this configuration.
Meanwhile Margaret sat and clicked away on her Olympus OM 10 camera next to me.
"I just took one of Henry by his yacht; I hope these photos turn out alright," she said.
Below one hundred feet, the active thermal activity caused by the heating of the sand caused the Cessna to buck about. Several quite powerful control inputs and a blip of the throttle was required, as I fought to keep the wings level and on course. We passed the yacht on my right hand side at a height of about twenty feet.
I flared out and a fairly solid arrival on the hard sand announced my successful 'Short Field Landing.' I braked heavily to slow us down and glanced across at Margaret. She would have spoken out, had I made a mistake or been a little heavy handed. She had said nothing—I was relieved.
***
The remainder of this story can be read in part two.
 Recognized |
|
Minquiers...(pronounced in English:- Min-keys) is a huge tidal area of sand banks and rocky outcrops. These lie about ten miles south of Jersey, Channel Islands. The map reference is 48.95N 2.133W
I wish to express my thanks to you for reading this first part of my story based on fact. It is too long for Fanstory so I have part two, the final part on display. All reviews are welcome.
Please note:- Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
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and 2 member cents. I wish to express my thanks to you for reading this first part of my story based on fact. It is too long for Fanstory so I have part two, the final part on display. All reviews are welcome.
Please note:- Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
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