I took a long, steady drag off the cigarette. I don’t smoke, nor am I advocating for it here. Not in the least. But this day was an exception. The smoke grated on my throat and I suppressed a cough. Then came the soft lullaby, which is why I lit up in the first place.
Several aviators in my life have all offered this sentiment toward the habit: “I quit smoking years ago, but every once in awhile after a particularly challenging landing, I instinctively reach into my front pocket for a cigarette.”
For the second time that afternoon, my world slowed down. I became hyper-aware of my circumstances. For the second time, I felt an otherworldly sense of peace. I looked up. A ragged, sun-bleached windsock snapped in the wind.
A gust of wind angrily smacked the windsock and it swung several degrees. A second gust of wind pivoted the windsock on its pole past its previous position. Back and forth it snapped, like a wacky air dancer advertising a used car lot.
Well, that explains it.
It dawned on me — that is exactly why we got dropped. The windsock gave it away. Given our direction of travel, the wind alternated between a quartering headwind and a quartering tailwind. At a crucial moment in landing, when the airplane is most vulnerable, when we needed a headwind the most, we got a sudden tailwind. The wings simply stopped flying, and the airplane dropped. An airplane only flies when there is sufficient volume of air moving over its wings. In flight, you can actually throttle the engine back and slow the aircraft to the point where the wings stall, and the aircraft falters and drops. Pilots practice this maneuver so that when it happens in real life we instinctively know how to react, because believe me — it can happen in a flash.
Paul and I had been flying since sunup. We were just a little over halfway through the day’s journey. Our destination — Corpus Christi Naval Air Station. The purpose of the trip was to attend the Wings Over South Texas Airshow. A friend of mine was an organizer for the event, and I was offered the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fly a World War II-era airplane to be used as a static display to the event.
So, let me get this straight — I was being asked to fly an 80-year-old aircraft down a length of the Mississippi River Valley to the Gulf of Mexico, and then along the gulf coast to darn near Mexico to land at an active US military base as a civilian?
I could not say yes quickly, or strongly, enough.
This was April of 2019, before COVID forever altered the social fabric of society, and before ADSB aircraft requirements for certain airspace forever altered the fabric of general aviation.
At that time, I was in the process of acquiring a 1942 Fairchild PT-19 aircraft — a genuine World War II veteran. During World War II, the Fairchild PT-19 was designed and used extensively for primary flight training. Stable, solid, and easy to fly, the PT-19 was designed to pluck teenagers out of farm fields, factory floors, and streets from across the US to teach them the basics of flight. Some of these kids had never even laid eyes on an airplane, and the PT-19 was their first introduction to powered flight.
Featuring two seats and an open cockpit, the PT-19 is a dream to fly. It does not go fast, cruising at a leisurely 105 miles per hour, but the 360-degree unobstructed view from the open cockpit is otherworldly spectacular. Everything considered, the Fairchild PT-19 would be a perfect addition to the Wings Over South Texas lineup. All I had to do, was fly it to Southern Texas.
Of course, there was a tremendous amount of risk associated with this cross-country adventure, least of all weather and mechanical challenges, but the sheer accomplishment of the journey would be well worth the manageable risk. And, what a privilege to see the world from the vantage point of the open cockpit!
I sucked on the nicotine, enjoying the lullaby. For the second time in as many minutes, my world slowed down. Paul and I watched the dance of the windsock, entranced by the violent nature of the shifting wind. “You know” Paul said, “You saved the airplane.”
His comment caught me off-guard. “What do you mean? I should’ve never tried to land. I nearly wrecked the airplane.”
“No way, I felt it when we stalled. But you had already added power. We would’ve wrecked if you hadn’t added power when you did.”
I took one final drag and rubbed the cigarette on the pavement. It left a dirty streak, like charcoal. We flicked the butts into a nearby trashcan and fueled up the PT-19. The windsock stood guard, snapping back and forth.
With nothing left to accomplish I turned to Paul, “You ready to press on?” We were just over halfway to Corpus Christi, and already well into the afternoon.
I climbed onto the wing of the PT-19 and settled into the pilots seat, because that’s what you do when a horse throws you off.
You get right back on.
— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.
