That's really nice. Reminds me a bit of my first flight in a small
plane with my parents, the pilot was a charter pilot, my mom had to get
someplace quickly due to some family issue. He let me fly the plane
quite a bit, even though I could barely see out the windscreen. It was
a Cherokee 140. Turned out when I got my check ride about 8 years later
in a 140, he was the check pilot! I told him he had completed the
circle, and he was really pleased with that. He was a really nice guy.
This guy had a stutter so bad he could barely communicate but when he
got in the airplane he spoke like a radio announcer, not a trace. It
was the strangest thing.
--R
On 7/14/14 3:22 PM, WILTON via Mercedes wrote:
The following article was written by my daughter a month or so ago for
my 80th birthday. As one might expect, she's probably a bit biased.
Wilton
CLEAR!
By Vivian Strickland Berry
When I was 14 or 15 years old, my dad flew "puddle jumpers"
(Cessna, 150's, 172's, 182's and 177RG's ) two or three times a week
with a flying club in Sault Ste. Marie (The Soo), Michigan, on the
northern border with Ontario, Canada. He was stationed at Kincheloe
AFB about 20 miles south of "The Soo", where he flew B-52's, and I
attended high school. Dad was away from home a lot then, living in
the alert facility on base about every other week and was often on
long flights. This was in the early to mid 70's, so this was
preparation training and part of the cold war readiness, keeping
B-52's constantly ready for possible nuclear war with the Soviet
Union. At the time I really had no clue, just knew he was flying a lot.
What a difference flying in the giant B-52 and the Cessnas must
have been. Some of my fondest memories with Dad are of our flights in
those tiny planes, over the snow-covered and icy landscape of the
Michigan Upper Peninsula. The Soo is located at the convergence of
Lake Superior and Lake Huron, and the land is very forested, dotted
with small farms and even smaller towns, so it is a very beautiful
landscape.
I didn't even have a drivers license, but dad encouraged me to
take flying lessons, if I wanted to. Sorry I didn't take him up on
it! I still learned a lot from those flights and remember clearly
(but not as clearly as he does) how we checked the plane before
take-off. He carefully looked over the fuselage and wings for cracks
or any weak points, checked the flaps and control surfaces, the
propeller, the oil and gas levels, and I am sure a whole list of other
items before we would step up on the small step to climb in the small
door of the cockpit about the size of a 2-seat sports car.
After looking through the pre-flight check list, which was a
literal checklist kept in the plane, Dad would open the latch on the
side window and yell crisply and loudly, "CLEAR!", close the window
and turn the key to start the engine.
OK, I said I was 14-15 years old. I thought that was the dorkiest
thing ever! We had just driven 20 miles, seen probably a dozen cars
on the way, parked our bright green Dodge van in an empty parking lot,
and climbed into one of about three private planes at the airport.
Who is he yelling at? No one heard him, so I was alright with it, but
if he did that at a more populated airport, I would have been
horrified. Yes, I know now that it's protocol, and a very important
part of starting procedure, but who was he yelling at, the geese?
Anyway.... :)
We would taxi to the end of the runway, go over another check
list, and then take off. The first time we did this together, I was
thrilled. When he would get to air speed (surprisingly, not very fast)
he slowly pulled back on the control column, and we were up.
Awesome! Immediately you could see the shoreline of Lake Superior and
the locks below, right beside the bridge to Canada. We would bank
around to head south across the landscape, many times snowy white with
a crisp, bright blue cloudless sky. We would check out the
neighborhood spots, friends' houses, Pickford dry goods store where
we bought clothes, my high school, Stuckey's at the interstate exit,
Mackinac Island in the distance - all the hot spots.
Once in a while, I got to take the controls in the co-pilot seat
and bank the plane in a slow wide turn to the left or the right,
keeping my eye on the horizon and that little airplane, you know, on
that little dial thingy on the dash. My first driving lessons were
actually in the air! Dad had nerves of steel, I am sure he was always
in control, but it really was exciting.
An hour or so in the air was a typical flight for us, then back to
the airport for a perfectly smooth landing, at least that is how I
remember them, another few checklists, and back to being the typical
teen.
Thanks, Dad, for taking me on those adventures, for embarrassing
me, and for telling your stories. I hope I told this with a little
accuracy, but if not, only you will know.
I love you, Happy Birthday,
Vivi
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