| Biographical Non-Fiction posted April 24, 2015 |
  |
A story in two parts.
~PAPA ECHO~ part two
by write hand blue
≈ Papa Echo≈
PART TWO
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 said nothing—I was relieved.
***
I breathed a sigh of relief as we came to a rapid stop, my glasses had slipped down my nose. I thought it was the de-acceleration force; then I noticed the persperation that dripped from my nose onto my shirt. Margaret smiled as she dabbed my forehead with a tissue. After I turned the Cessna round; I taxied back about two hundred yards downwind to a position near to where the yacht was moored and slowed down. (Taxiing a Cessna on sand is a bit like steering a cross between a cart and a boat with your feet).
I turned again, back into wind and parked. While the engine idled at 600 RPM it 'shook,' rattled and wheezed, like some asthmatic pensioner after their first smoke of the day. You could almost count the revs of the visible propeller that swished around just a few feet in front of us. I completed my cockpit checks and selected 15 degrees of flap in readiness for take-off.
I looked over my right shoulder at a luxurious looking yacht of about forty feet in length.
"How the other half live. Just look at that yacht." Margaret half shouted in my ear.
I could see a wisp of smoke that indicated a working barbeque. Five people were waving to us from the beach, next to the moored yacht. Henry and a couple of them ran over, while Margaret swung the passenger door wide open, to a rush of seaweed tainted air.
Henry smiled, shook our hands and said in a raised hearty voice, louder than the idling engine.
"Here get these down you!"
He thrust a small cardboard box into Margaret's hands, this contained two bulging hamburgers and two cans of coke. I waved my hand.
"Just the burgers thank you. You can take the cokes and the box back, I don't want the extra weight."
I did this to make sure we took off successfully. I've often wondered if it would have made any difference, but I would do the same again in the circumstances.
It was easy to understand why this area attracted boat owners. It looked so tranquil and as pretty as any picture with the aquamarine sea and light blue sky before me. This was greatly at odds with the loud uneven tickover of the engine and the shaking of my seat. Meanwhile I continued with the serious business of demolishing that burger.
Old Henry looked at me in a professional way, as if it were one of his war time briefings. "Your aircraft checks out OK externally. The sand is nice and hard for a good four hundred yards or more. There are no rocks worth worrying about. Just keep straight into the Westerly headwind of six MPH. I'll see you tonight."
I nodded with my mouth still full and gave a thumbs up. His briefing was re-assuring.
A series of shouted "Good lucks!" came from the other two. With a huge grin Henry gave me the thumbs up, pecked Margaret on the cheek. The aircraft rocked as he pushed the door shut, before he ran back out of the way and towards his yacht.
As it sat on the sand the aircraft was in danger of having the tyres sink and to slowly become bogged down. Anxious to get back in the air and to keep my side of the bet, I quickly finished the lovely, smoked and slow cooked gourmet hamburger. Margaret gave me 'that' look as I wiped my hands on my jeans to remove the grease.
My heart rate was well up as I took hold of the controls—A Great Day To Be Flying—I felt so lucky, like one in a million.
I chewed the last morsel and gradually applied full power. A well warmed engine roared and tried to pull us forward. All gauges read normal as I released the parking brake and we lumbered forward. The drag of the sand acted like a brake. Acute awareness of the illegal act I was performing added to my already sharpened senses.
Slowly! Oh so slowly! We gained speed, 20MPH—30MPH—I found it surprising how bumpy this ride was becoming. Thrown about, I had to constantly kick the rudder from left to right to keep us straight—an age later 40MPH—eventually—50MPH. The bumping and shaking became intermittent as we started to un-stick. At 55 MPH I pulled back on the elevator with firm pressure, after a final bump and sway we laboured into the air at barely above stalling speed. I had to be careful not to touch the ailerons, at the same time be fast and delicate with the rudder. Well aware that ground effect was helping us, I kept the Cessna at about one yard above the sand until we quickly reached a safe 85 MPH.
After the sucessful short field take off. Delicate but decisive handling was required throughout for this very laboured ascent, until at a safe altitude (300 feet), this enabled the flaps to be raised. About two minutes later the RT burst into life.
Jersey Tower..."Papa Echo state your altitude."
"Climbing through six hundred, back to one thousand feet."
I told no lies.
Jersey Tower... "We lost you on radar for a while, Papa Echo."
"That's strange."
Jersey Tower..."Yes, must be that blind spot again. Continue to down wind for runway two seven zero."
"Roger, continue to down wind for two seven zero."
I hung up the handset and turned to Margaret.
"Looks like we got away with that one," I said.
"You did alright, but I don't want you to dive bomb any yachts or drop toilet rolls on them," she looked at me.
"I don't have any with me, but I could still—"
"Don't you dare."
I never found out how she knew I did that.
***
Did I manage to drink that yard of ale; all three and a quarter pints? Well almost—I admit, I did spill a fair amount of it over myself. To this day no-one to my knowledge has managed to drink this yard of ale without spilling some, (it's part of the fun).
"I told you, you would need to wear an old shirt," said Margaret as she surveyed my drenched state.
"And as for you Henry, you old sod. Kindly leave my husband out of your dares, if you don't mind," she added.
Henry feigned a hurt, uncomprehending look and took it in good humour. They had known each other for years.
He handed me five twenty pound notes, "How about taking me with you next time?"
"Not on your life, I'll only do that once!" I knew he was serious.
I couldn't say anything else because Margaret was nearby, perhaps she could hear us.
Later that same evening.
Henry was a little worse for wear when he said to me, "That was a good job you did today Mel, I would trust you to fly me anywhere."
"Yeh! Ok Henry, you've had a few whiskies. I'll call you a taxi."
After I had poured him into his taxi and watched the taxi pull out of the carpark. I did wonder what a retired Squadron Leader and ex-world war two Hurricane pilot saw in my flying. I shrugged my shoulders and thought no more of it.
***
Somehow the word got out and a couple of days later John Fadden the Chief Flying Instructor came over to me.
"Melvyn, I found some sand in the wheel fairings on Papa Echo after your trip to France."
The stare was from a wily old fox; I was not fazed in the slightest. I knew that we had washed the aircraft down thoroughly after the flight. So I smiled and said.
"Yes, I noticed that too."
He gave me a long look but said no more about it.
I found out much later, that a French fishing boat had reported a light aircraft that appeared to go into the sea several miles away from my position. Erroneous sightings such as these are far from rare, and this was regarded as such. Henry Ballister had friends in the right places and I'm sure as one of the directors of flying he used some influence behind the scenes...
~END~
≈ Papa Echo≈
PART TWO
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 said nothing—I was relieved.
***
I breathed a sigh of relief as we came to a rapid stop, my glasses had slipped down my nose. I thought it was the de-acceleration force; then I noticed the persperation that dripped from my nose onto my shirt. Margaret smiled as she dabbed my forehead with a tissue. After I turned the Cessna round; I taxied back about two hundred yards downwind to a position near to where the yacht was moored and slowed down. (Taxiing a Cessna on sand is a bit like steering a cross between a cart and a boat with your feet).
I turned again, back into wind and parked. While the engine idled at 600 RPM it 'shook,' rattled and wheezed, like some asthmatic pensioner after their first smoke of the day. You could almost count the revs of the visible propeller that swished around just a few feet in front of us. I completed my cockpit checks and selected 15 degrees of flap in readiness for take-off.
I looked over my right shoulder at a luxurious looking yacht of about forty feet in length.
"How the other half live. Just look at that yacht." Margaret half shouted in my ear.
I could see a wisp of smoke that indicated a working barbeque. Five people were waving to us from the beach, next to the moored yacht. Henry and a couple of them ran over, while Margaret swung the passenger door wide open, to a rush of seaweed tainted air.
Henry smiled, shook our hands and said in a raised hearty voice, louder than the idling engine.
"Here get these down you!"
He thrust a small cardboard box into Margaret's hands, this contained two bulging hamburgers and two cans of coke. I waved my hand.
"Just the burgers thank you. You can take the cokes and the box back, I don't want the extra weight."
I did this to make sure we took off successfully. I've often wondered if it would have made any difference, but I would do the same again in the circumstances.
It was easy to understand why this area attracted boat owners. It looked so tranquil and as pretty as any picture with the aquamarine sea and light blue sky before me. This was greatly at odds with the loud uneven tickover of the engine and the shaking of my seat. Meanwhile I continued with the serious business of demolishing that burger.
Old Henry looked at me in a professional way, as if it were one of his war time briefings. "Your aircraft checks out OK externally. The sand is nice and hard for a good four hundred yards or more. There are no rocks worth worrying about. Just keep straight into the Westerly headwind of six MPH. I'll see you tonight."
I nodded with my mouth still full and gave a thumbs up. His briefing was re-assuring.
A series of shouted "Good lucks!" came from the other two. With a huge grin Henry gave me the thumbs up, pecked Margaret on the cheek. The aircraft rocked as he pushed the door shut, before he ran back out of the way and towards his yacht.
As it sat on the sand the aircraft was in danger of having the tyres sink and to slowly become bogged down. Anxious to get back in the air and to keep my side of the bet, I quickly finished the lovely, smoked and slow cooked gourmet hamburger. Margaret gave me 'that' look as I wiped my hands on my jeans to remove the grease.
My heart rate was well up as I took hold of the controls—A Great Day To Be Flying—I felt so lucky, like one in a million.
I chewed the last morsel and gradually applied full power. A well warmed engine roared and tried to pull us forward. All gauges read normal as I released the parking brake and we lumbered forward. The drag of the sand acted like a brake. Acute awareness of the illegal act I was performing added to my already sharpened senses.
Slowly! Oh so slowly! We gained speed, 20MPH—30MPH—I found it surprising how bumpy this ride was becoming. Thrown about, I had to constantly kick the rudder from left to right to keep us straight—an age later 40MPH—eventually—50MPH. The bumping and shaking became intermittent as we started to un-stick. At 55 MPH I pulled back on the elevator with firm pressure, after a final bump and sway we laboured into the air at barely above stalling speed. I had to be careful not to touch the ailerons, at the same time be fast and delicate with the rudder. Well aware that ground effect was helping us, I kept the Cessna at about one yard above the sand until we quickly reached a safe 85 MPH.
After the sucessful short field take off. Delicate but decisive handling was required throughout for this very laboured ascent, until at a safe altitude (300 feet), this enabled the flaps to be raised. About two minutes later the RT burst into life.
Jersey Tower..."Papa Echo state your altitude."
"Climbing through six hundred, back to one thousand feet."
I told no lies.
Jersey Tower... "We lost you on radar for a while, Papa Echo."
"That's strange."
Jersey Tower..."Yes, must be that blind spot again. Continue to down wind for runway two seven zero."
"Roger, continue to down wind for two seven zero."
I hung up the handset and turned to Margaret.
"Looks like we got away with that one," I said.
"You did alright, but I don't want you to dive bomb any yachts or drop toilet rolls on them," she looked at me.
"I don't have any with me, but I could still—"
"Don't you dare."
I never found out how she knew I did that.
***
Did I manage to drink that yard of ale; all three and a quarter pints? Well almost—I admit, I did spill a fair amount of it over myself. To this day no-one to my knowledge has managed to drink this yard of ale without spilling some, (it's part of the fun).
"I told you, you would need to wear an old shirt," said Margaret as she surveyed my drenched state.
"And as for you Henry, you old sod. Kindly leave my husband out of your dares, if you don't mind," she added.
Henry feigned a hurt, uncomprehending look and took it in good humour. They had known each other for years.
He handed me five twenty pound notes, "How about taking me with you next time?"
"Not on your life, I'll only do that once!" I knew he was serious.
I couldn't say anything else because Margaret was nearby, perhaps she could hear us.
Later that same evening.
Henry was a little worse for wear when he said to me, "That was a good job you did today Mel, I would trust you to fly me anywhere."
"Yeh! Ok Henry, you've had a few whiskies. I'll call you a taxi."
After I had poured him into his taxi and watched the taxi pull out of the carpark. I did wonder what a retired Squadron Leader and ex-world war two Hurricane pilot saw in my flying. I shrugged my shoulders and thought no more of it.
***
Somehow the word got out and a couple of days later John Fadden the Chief Flying Instructor came over to me.
"Melvyn, I found some sand in the wheel fairings on Papa Echo after your trip to France."
The stare was from a wily old fox; I was not fazed in the slightest. I knew that we had washed the aircraft down thoroughly after the flight. So I smiled and said.
"Yes, I noticed that too."
He gave me a long look but said no more about it.
I found out much later, that a French fishing boat had reported a light aircraft that appeared to go into the sea several miles away from my position. Erroneous sightings such as these are far from rare, and this was regarded as such. Henry Ballister had friends in the right places and I'm sure as one of the directors of flying he used some influence behind the scenes...
~END~
 Recognized |
|
Because of the threat of terrorism and anti-drug running laws; the penalties are now heavy for this type of rule infringement.
Jersey has long since acquired a modern radar system, this makes it very difficult to do anything without being seen.
The Cessna 150, full call-sign Golf Bravo Charlie Papa Echo was sold off many years ago. Present whereabouts unknown.
Please note:- All names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Finally, I wish to express my thanks to you for reading my story.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Jersey has long since acquired a modern radar system, this makes it very difficult to do anything without being seen.
The Cessna 150, full call-sign Golf Bravo Charlie Papa Echo was sold off many years ago. Present whereabouts unknown.
Please note:- All names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Finally, I wish to express my thanks to you for reading my story.
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