Landing at Corpus Christi Naval Air Station (CCNAS) as a civilian was the best feeling in the world. The Fairchild PT-19 had faithfully carried Paul and me more than 700 miles from Southeast Missouri to darn near Mexico. The 77-year-old aircraft had not missed a beat.
We had taken off that morning from Cape Girardeau, Missouri, with the Mississippi River in sight. An unusually wet spring had caused the Mississippi to swell over its banks, flooding the surrounding farmland. As Paul and I continued, flying southwest into Arkansas, we were treated to a birds-eye view of contour patterns in the farm fields that appeared as quilt-work from the sky — colorful cropland neatly arranged around land contours, crop varieties, and invisible property lines.
We dipped down to 1,000 feet to minimize the headwind and skimmed rural Arkansas communities. We flew over neatly arranged lagoons of fish farms just as the morning sun was reflecting across the water. The lagoons gave way to logging country, with rows of trees in various stages of growth swiped across the rough terrain — like the course texture of a paintbrush. Here and there, swollen rivers cut lazy, serpentine patterns through it all.
As Paul and I transversed Arkansas into Louisiana, we saw chicken farms in neatly shaved properties situated discreetly amongst the trees. Off on the horizon to the west, a massive brushfire sent a haze of smoke across the sky. The wind caused it to disperse like a paint smear, and the smoke reached up to, but never actually blended with, the low-hanging rain clouds.
The rugged, rough logging territory gave way to soft, blue-green, low-lying marshland. It was a clear indication that we were approaching the Gulf of Mexico. Above the constant aroma of hot engine oil and exhaust fumes, the dank bouquet that defines a marine ecosystem permeated the open-air cockpit.
And then, we were treated to a scenic flight along the Gulf Coast from Galveston to Corpus Christi — the left wing stretched out over the water, the right wing over green coastal scrubland. All day long the PT-19 had carried us, faithfully and without complaint as Paul and I bore witness to the beauty and privilege of an unobstructed aerial view from the open cockpit.
I greased the landing at CCNAS and slowed to a taxi just as a US Navy crew car appeared at the end of the runway to guide us to the Airshow tie-downs. We had arrived not a moment too soon; dusk was fast approaching, and an evening coastal fog was beginning to settle. Across the airfield we taxied, finally positioning ourselves into a designated spot amongst aircraft static displays, food vendor trailers, and entertainment tents along the seawall. I ran up the Ranger engine one last time, checked the mags as I always do when the engine is hot, and shut down. Safe and sound — we had made it!
A US Navy airman in a tan flight suit approached the PT-19 as Paul and I secured the aircraft. Although he and I had never officially met, the Lieutenant was instrumental in helping me navigate the official requests, paperwork, and logistical bureaucracy of getting to partake in the airshow at all. We had emailed back and forth for months, and finally stood face to face. We laughed — all of the planning, paperwork, and requests had led to a successful flight and safe arrival. I had carefully stowed a care package from Wisconsin in the baggage compartment of the PT-19, and presented a collection of fine cheeses and New Glarus beer to my new friend, only half joking as I remarked, “Wisconsin cheese and beer is the most effective diplomacy of all.”
For two days, the PT-19 offered a glimpse into the past as a static display aircraft for the Wings Over South Texas Airshow in April, 2019. Paul and I answered questions, soaked up stories shared to us by descendants of WWII airmen who “learned to fly” in a PT-19 exactly like ours, and even served as a backdrop for news stories on the event.
My favorite experience at air shows will always be letting kids sit in the pilot’s seat. It starts innocently enough — a parent shyly asks if their kid can sit in the airplane, and I am happy to oblige. After a quick walk-through the kid climbs up, grinning ear to ear as they envision the joy of flight. I let them move the controls, and describe the importance and function of each gauge. Inevitably, other kids take notice and want to experience the same.
At one point I turned around to see a long line of parents with kids snaking around the tail of the PT-19, each patiently waiting their turn to sit in the pilots seat. This is the magic of aviation — the sheer privilege of being able to look down on it all, but also — the privilege and joy of being able to share it.
— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.
