• A Day In The Life

Don't loose any sleep over it, you'll deal with it fine when it happens.

That's what we'd been told. But we'd still laid awake talking about just what we'd do if one of our six flightseeing airplanes went down. We made every effort to minimize the risks with our focus on pilot selection, training, maintenance, and operation standards. Still, entropy, like Murphy's, is a relentless law.

Early in our career as barnstormers, friends back East had it happen. One of their plane's went down after an engine failure and someone died. We contemplated getting out of the business right then. But we knew that attitude, taken to the extreme, would mean we'd spend our lives under a bed, quaking in fear of unknown--and unlikely--events.


Later, when we decided we needed a longer season than Philadelphia's, we considered a business for sale on Maui. A promotional video showed picturesque but unforgiving twelve foot high sugar cane, volcanoes and lava. We kept looking. The wide beaches in San Diego attracted us from the beginning. Safety isn't an accident.

One night, out for dinner, we had a dry run. Cell phone rang, and when Kate answered she turned white. She regained some color as she said, "But, wait, we just locked our planes in the hangar." An air traffic controller was calling to say one of our planes had landed on a hillside near the cliffs of Pt. Loma. Turned out it was a Stearman with a big "RIDES" sign on the side. The owners had assured us they bought it just for fun. Turned out they were shooting promotional pictures for a ride business. Turned out they ran out of gas, for crying out loud. We got hit by a ricochet when the news reported: "A vintage biplane operating out of Palomar Airport crashed (sic) today on Pt. Loma while sightseeing."

So, on a rare Saturday off, about 1:30, when the phone rang in the office at home and a voice said, "This is CRQ tower. One of your biplanes went down over by the power plant," we dealt with it, just as we'd been told we would. I grabbed a jacket and cell phone and headed up the coast. Enroute I called Kate, on the way home from the gym, told her I didn't know anything except we had a plane down. She squeaked, "oh no," regained her composure and said she'd change clothes and call the airport. I had time to wonder where, and how, and what, and if, sorting through options and outcomes.

Cell phone rang again. Call from the airport said the plane was in the water. Plot sickens, options narrow, start to get the shakes from an overdose of adrenalin. Immediately, the phone rang again saying the plane was on the beach, everyone was fine, not a scratch. Pull off at a beach access spot and try to see it. Orange wings a mile or so away. Nobody here even aware of it. Back in the car.

North through Carlsbad almost to Oceanside, and after several wrong turns and double-backs find several fire trucks and rescue vehicles parked by some condos on the bluff next to beach access steps. Firemen look bored, see the "Biplane, Air Combat & Warbird Adventures" sign on the car and give me a thumbs up. I flash them a smile--maybe a grimace--and run down the steps to the beach.


A few people are milling around, some taking pictures. Guy says, "was this a publicity stunt?" Yeah right. See pilot Vic standing with a couple of people and I say "Hey, great job." Two men with him say, "Sure was, smoothest landing I've ever experienced." They say they'd asked Vic as they were headed north how the thing glides and could they land on the beach. Flying back south they learned. One says his Dad was an FAA inspector. Other says something about coming back again for a re-fly.

Three stories from three different observers on board the aircraft, but they all agree the #2 jug wiggled very briefly and then shot up over the wing and arced down behind them into the ocean. Engine continued to produce a little power. Vic, in his best airline captain voice, announced over the intercom that they probably should land on the beach instead of going back to the airport if that was okay. He checked the beach for surfers and sun bathers, and greased 'er on. Shut down, climbed out, and looked her over. Said he ran out of business cards and could have used a carton of brochures. Ho-hum.


Exceptionally low tide had left a hard beach smoother than many runways. But the tide would come back in and it was going to be exceptionally high. Mechanic/pilot Skip arrives and we discuss how we're going to get the bird out of here, what we'll need to do to take it apart, etc. Four of us pushed it south a couple hundred yards, and then decided we'd better scout ahead to determine if the ramp where we were headed would work.

Walked and walked and walked down the beach. No ramp. Walked and walked and walked back up the beach. These boots were NOT made for walkin'. Three o'clock.


Decide to reconnoiter north but by car. Drove along the oceanfront condos, got trapped by multiple "No Left Turns" and one way streets and ended up a long way from anywhere. Discovered a gate and driveway that seemed to lead down to a sand road out to the beach. No response in the call box at the curb. Left a probably incomprehensible message.

Back to the plane and see Channel 8 cameraman interviewing some animated surfer gesticulating wildly. Obviously the plane plummeted from the sky, practically knocking him off his surfboard while narrowly missing school children, a nearby orphanage, and the nunnery. Vic's standing back looking bored. Says they interviewed him too. It went fine. 11 o'clock news carries it, and he was right. We hear later that the piece was on in Chicago and Columbus, Ohio. Musta been a slow news day. Surfer dude's story ended up on the cutting room floor.

Kate arrives, breathless. Passengers get a handshake and pilot gets a hug. After giving her bird a careful once over and close look into the crankcase she says she's going to take the passengers back to the airport and their car. On the way back, "I was probably babbling," she says afterwards. She gives them each a logo jacket, offers them a re-fly, any ride they want, and they decide the warbird would be fun. They're so tickled about the whole thing they came back down to the beach to see how things are going. They decided to avoid the limelight and never let on to the camera crew they were the passengers. Petrol Pat, student rocket scientist, ex-gas passer for the FBO, and current hangar rat/plane loader exclaims, "This isn't a job, it's an adventure." Atta boy, smell the roses.

Skip and Susanne drive up the beach in their 4-wheel drive SUV. He reached through a gate, took one bolt out of the actuating arm of the multi-thousand dollar security barricade, and drove in. We turn the plane around, tie a rope to the tail and trundle up the beach.


Over the waterline above the high tide mark, and then up a creek bed to a paved blacktop driveway with a huge looping turnaround. And best of all, no curbs. Couldn't have been easier. Turns out we're at the house with the gate with the driveway with the call box with the unintelligible message. And it turns out that the absent man who lives in the house with the gate with the driveway with the call box with the unintelligible message is a pilot we know from the airport. (He made a fortune from a reflective dog collar--an idea that came to him, he freely admits, sleeping off a drunken stupor on a beach in Baja.)

How we gonna get this thing outta here? Replace the engine and fly it out? Is it legal? Is it smart? Tow it up to the airport in the wee hours? Can we get it outta here with the wings on? Can we get the wings off and back to the airport without tearing them up? What will we use to move the airplane? Put the tail in a pickup and drag it? Will it fit on a car trailer? Is a flat bed too expensive? Does it matter? Larry calls Chief of Police, a pilot, (nice to have those kinds of friends) and explains the options. Chief sez don't ask me anything to which I have might have to answer no. Safest option seems to be truck it back to the airport, sans wings.

But how do you take the wings off a biplane with no overhead rafters, hoists or cranes? A host of helpful friends, numerous vehicles, collective thinking, care, and muscle is how. Just like the old days. Skip, and the gathered multitude, plunge into the "loosen everything up" first step, while schemes are hatched for actually removing everything without damage. The sun sets. Plan A is prop up lower wings, remove uppers. But how to reach them with lower wings in the way? Plan B is prop uppers, remove lowers, back pickup under uppers, lift them down. Parts are removed, labeled and neatly laid out for transport to the airport. Oh-oh, forgot to call for a truck. No sweat, be there in 90 minutes.

More pilots and friends arrive. Beginning to look like a hell of beach party. Matt and Candy arrive with gear and beer. Fun to have a Marine fighter pilot helping take the wings off the ancient relative of his supersonic steed. Full moon rises. Funny how the important things in life turn out to be simple: good friends, a paved driveway, a full moon, hot coffee. Numerous heroes pop in and out of the scene. Nelson from Shimoda Aircaft offers to carry wings back to the airport in his pickup. (His dog Chance--as in Nothing By--pees on the tires for good measure). Donnya, like her eager doggies Rudder and Tailwheel, runs here and there reaching tools, pulling nuts and bolts. Bronco and Biggles arrive after their dogfight flights and add competent advice and muscle. Eric and Mickey pull (and push) their weight. Even a groupie tow truck driver hangs around and offers his substantial girth and strong back.

Plan B works fine. Scary, propping the wings with a tall step-ladder and couch cushions, knowing the expense of carelessness or bad planning. But the wings (and helpers) remain unscathed. Plane sits forlorn in the moonlight, missing a cylinder, dripping dew, looking ungainly with only a center section hinting at airfoil and flight.

And so we waited. Seems the flatbed tractor trailer had been called out to retrieve an RV that rolled over on I-15. Their off pavement landing had been much more consequential, apparently. The process of turning it back over, loading it, driving back, and unloading it was slower than estimated. Repeated calls always produce "he'll be there within a half hour." We stand around in the growing chill, growing bored, growing hungry. Enjoying the full moon, thanking our lucky stars. Two wings, flying wires, fairings, and ladders are pickup-trucked back to the airport. Matt and Candy are back with pizza. Amazing how a slice of pizza can cheer you up.

Finally, a huge diesel tractor pulling an ingenious tilting trailer with sliding wheels arrives. Drivers swings around bouncing through the creek and weeds, backs up, stops, pulls the trailer wheels toward the tractor, neatly dropping the back end on the ground. We rig a bridle to the landing gear. They winch the aircraft onto the trailer, and level the bed. We lift on the two remaining wings and gently nestle them in cushions and blankets and strap them down behind the fuselage. Driver comments the truck will easily go 80 fully loaded. I comment the plane will fly at 40. Helper sez don't worry, he's been driving this big Class A rig for two months. Oh, goody.

Parade back to the hangar is uneventful, drawing little attention. Odd feeling of skulking back from a crime. Airport is quiet. Cold blue taxiway lights are offset by warm hangar lights and golden moon. The beacon winks, bored, in the background—seen all this kind of thing before. Wings are carefully stacked in the back of the hangar, fuselage looking paraplegic next to her sister ship. Cub nestled in the corner looks on, bemused at the fuss. Lower the hangar door, turn out the lights. 10:15.

Another day in the life of a barnstormer.

First posted March, 2007

• Curtis Condor History Lesson

This 20 minute flic is a time machine that will take you back to another era, 1933. American airline's Curtis Condor biplane airliners, good-looking stewardesses, newfangled telephones, cigars and cigarettes aloft, steam trains, Packard limos, even 'darkies loading cotton." Things were different back then when the U.S. population was only 1/3 of what it is today.

• The Westbound Mail

A drizzling rain was falling
A nearby clock tolled eight
They watched the sky with an eager eye
The westbound mail was late.

The rain beat down on the hangar roof
The station chief stood by
The thrumming tone of a motor's drone
Resounded from the murky sky.



















The beacon sent it's welcome beam
To the rider of the night
He brought her down on the soggy ground
And up to the glaring lights.

They swap the mail and shout "Okay!"
Then she roars and lifts her tail
She's up again in the snow and rain
On, with the westbound mail.

The dim, blurred lights of a city
Loom in the murk below
Their work is gone, but the mail flies on,
And on through the blinding snow.

Rain is freezing on her wings
She seems to feel the weight
It'll soon be dawn, she staggers on
Hoping she won't be late.

Crystals stick on the windshield
Forming a silver veil
Icy struts and a man with guts
And sacks of westbound mail.

Over the peak of a mountain
Clear of the treacherous rim
Way up there in the cold night air
Just God, the mail and him.

His thoughts turn back to a summer night
And a girl, not long ago
She shook her head and firmly said
"As long as your flying, it's no!"

He tried to quit this flying job
And stick to a ground bound trail
But the wish came back for the canvas sack
And the feel of the westbound mail

The wind kept whispering secrets
About his life's travail
So back he went to the big blue tent
Flying the westbound mail.

The sleet and snow were far behind
Before the night was gone
Out of the rain the gray dawn came
And found him flying on.

He tilted her stick and banked her in
She responded to the gun
Then muted her wrath o'r the cinder path
At the end of a perfect run.

Three points touched and she taxied in
Up to the hangar rail
He stretched 'n grinned as they checked him in
"ON TIME," with the westbound mail.

--Anoynymous

• Cary

Biplanes, they'll tell you, are about oily round engines, about crosswinds, about ground-loops if you don't watch out.

They'll tell you that biplanes are about rumbling up the beach, just above the waves, and smelling the salt in the air. And it's true, you can.



They'll tell you biplanes are about dewdrops on foggy mornings that roll off the top wing to drip and drum softly on the lower wing. And they're right about that too.

The clatter of a radial shutting down, the smell of hot oil and crushed grass, of leather and sweat as you unbuckle, they'll tell you, is what biplanes are about. And, yes, they're right about all that.

What they don't tell you is that biplanes are about people too.

More than the exhilaration of a sky-high perspective, more than inverted thrills, more than a forward slip down final so you can see around the engine, people are what biplanes are all about.

The flight instructor that courageously moved into the front cockpit where there were no brakes so you could stomp on them in the back, screeching and swerving all over the first paved runway you landed on, is one of the people.

The sweet young thing that kissed you right on the lips out of sheer joy after her first biplane ride is one of them.

Your wife, when she pulls off her leather helmet and goggles, shakes out her hair in the propwash, and winks at you after a flight, is one of the people.

The bright-eyed youngster that hung around all day at a Fly-in up north and then got that look on his face when you finally asked if he'd like a ride is another one of the people that biplanes are all about.

And if you're fortunate, you'll discover all that confidence, affection, excitement, and wonder rolled into one very special person.

He was someone who could invest himself in artfully restoring a beautiful WW2 Stearman, who could lovingly wipe those dew drops off the crimson wings, and who could also, without a trace of wistfulness, talk about swapping it for a spamcan 'cause the kids are growing up. Wanted something his new pilot wife could enjoy too, he said.

How special he was is measured by the fact that we first met him after flying a 60-year-old biplane 900 miles to Sun 'n Fun, one of the premier aviation events in the world, and the highlight of the trip wasn't the flight down dodging snow and rain. It wasn't the show. It was the time we spent with him there and the time flying home together.

How special he was is measured by how important it is to us that he watched those old Army Air Corps primary training movies we sent later, and like we did he thought it was sad when a stunt pilot wrecked a Stearman like his just for the sake of demonstration.

How special he was is measured by how important it is that he had a half-finished letter to us in his typewriter and that somehow, in a weird way, that's better than if he'd finished it.

Cary Myers, MD 1953-1989