The straight-line distance from Galveston to Corpus Christi Naval Air Station, Texas, is only about 165 miles. In the Fairchild PT-19, this translates to about an hour and 45 minutes of flight time. This was it — Galveston to Corpus Christi along the Gulf coast — the stretch I had been most looking forward to.
At Galveston, I veered slightly right to follow the shoreline and climbed to 2,500 feet. I had been promised that this stretch would represent the busiest airspace of the journey, with military training and sightseeing flights occurring constantly throughout the late afternoon. Sure enough, as Paul and I flew past Galveston, I saw an antique biplane hugging the coast far below.
What a view! I allowed myself the luxury to sit back, stretch my body, and soak in the once-in-a-lifetime experience. The left wing pointed out over the water to an infinite horizon. A late-afternoon haze obscured the boundary between water and air and painted a surreal image of an endless void. The sheer amount of unobstructed space was put into perspective by ocean-going freighters appearing as small specks along the horizon.
The right wing stretched over lazy, low-lying scrubland. I was amazed at how much undeveloped land exists along the Gulf Coast. Here and there, wrecked and weathered coastal structures spoke of the severity of the environment, and I was grateful to be able to catch the Gulf coast on such a peaceful day.
And thus we flew — threading the needle between an endless void of blue, and an infinite horizon of green. I kept the thin slice of sandy shoreline directly beneath the PT-19 as the Texas coast crept along like a slow-moving conveyor belt. During World War II, this stretch was a hive of activity for air training. Once the war ended, many airfields were simply abandoned. I watched a ghost of an airport slide underneath the PT-19, recognizable only by a faint outline of long-abandoned runways and turnarounds, and now home to a herd of grazing beef cattle.
I had planned to stop one last time for fuel along the coast, and Palacio Municipal Airport was the perfect halfway point between Galveston and Corpus Christi. Established in 1942 and boasting three runways configured in a triangular pattern, Palacio is a quintessential US Army Air Corps training facility that was able to survive the fate of abandonment.
I throttled back the PT-19, descended to pattern altitude, and executed a textbook smooth landing into the wind. As Paul and I taxied toward the fuel pumps, we passed round bales of hay stacked neatly alongside the blast pads. I imagined heavy bombers tied down for maintenance instead of the hay bales. Ironically, the PT-19 was stationed in Texas during World War II and I savored this very real connective experience with the past.
Palacio was a quick fuel stop — the sun was dropping into the haze, and Corpus Christi was still an hour away. We took off, climbed back up to 2,500 feet, and continued our push along the coast. Over Matagorda Bay, I looked down to see a contemporary US Navy Beechcraft T-6 Texan II glide effortlessly beneath the PT-19, circle lazily over the water, and shoot back toward Corpus Christi. The difference in performance in our two crafts was staggering. It was like comparing a rocket ship to a rock. We were separated by about a thousand feet, but for a brief moment our paths crossed and I remembered the advice from my Navy contact: “Stay at or above 2,500 feet. You’ll be safely above the student pilots who are so overwhelmed they won’t even know you’re there.”
And then, the great expanse of Corpus Christi Bay spread into view. This was it — the home stretch! I dialed in the automated terminal information broadcast and radioed Corpus Christi International Airport:
“Corpus, Fairchild one-niner-golf-papa over Ingleside at two thousand five hundred feet with current information, looking for a transition to Naval Air Station Corpus Christi.”
With that, air traffic controllers guided the PT-19 around the Bay to set us up for a direct approach. I could see the Naval Base, and relished this opportunity — a chance to land at an active military airfield as a civilian.
With the airfield in sight, I switched frequencies to talk directly to the military, “Good afternoon Fairchild, we’ve been expecting you,” remains one of the friendliest receptions I have ever received. I set up my approach, throttled back, and descended. The end of the runway was at waters edge, and through peripheral vision I watched the water skim past, getting closer and closer. Just as it seemed we would splash down in the Bay, a line of breaker rocks, and then the runway threshold shot past. Seconds later, rubber chirped as both main wheels made contact after 713 nautical miles, three fuel stops, and one very close call in Louisiana.
That evening as I updated my flight logbook I allowed myself to immortalize a tiny flourish of emotion: “Landing at CCNAS was the best feeling in the world!”
— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.
