4. Flight

Scott was out at the airstrip at dawn. He was working his way through preflight on the Skylane. He sold vintage aircraft parts, and traveled all over the county doing it. His love was his Piper Cub, which was hangared here on this little patch of level grass in the midst of the Blue Ridge. He only flew that bird in the summers, when the air was thinner and he could pull back on throttle and stick and feel her wallow and shudder on the cusp of a spin. It was an airplane; it should be able to spin. He never allowed it to get that far. Who knew if her weary old airframe could take it? Other flyboys he knew had aerobatic machines. He’d been up in the Extra and felt the thrill of the Lycomming’s horses and the snap in the seat of the pants, the float on the upside of the hammerhead. He loved it, but he didn’t own that kind of a bird. His seat of the pants was much more sedate. His ride at the moment was the Honda Civic of aviation: the Cessna Skylane. It was a sedate and solid aircraft with full avionics and instrumentation. That meant that though there might be moment of terror, there were hours of boredom. He was anticipating a trip of a week’s duration. He bent about his task with disciplined care. One’s life depended on little things when the earth was left behind. As with all things in aviation, the systems one followed were logical. Right was right, left was left. The checklist was followed in order. He was checking the fuel level and quality when he was interrupted by a shout.
“Scott!”
He let his irritation pass. It was the voice of his partner, Bruce. He mentally made a tick next to his place on the checklist. He turned around.
“Yo, Mr. Sibley. What up?”
“Sorry to pause your preflight, but I got another order in and wanted to tack it to your docket. “
“What is it? What’s the weight?”
“It’s light. Head gaskets, Aeronca.”
“OK. Who’s got an Aeronca?”
“It’s Graham in Hilliard, Ohio. He’s selling his C-85 and wants it ship shape.”
“Okey dokey. I’ll work him in. It won’t take me more than an extra day.”
“Great. Hey, sorry about the last minute…”
“Yeah too many more minutes and I’d have been wild blue yonder.”
“ You think Lana’s ok with the added time out?”
Now Scott fixed his partner a hard look, which Bruce Sibley recognized as a warning sign. There were places with Scott one went at one’s own risk. Bruce had just learned that his wife was one of them.
“She’ll manage. She does what I tell her. She rolls with the punches.”
Scott took the paperwork on the new order and turned abruptly back to the tasks at hand. He finished all of that up and then went for the cart of parts to load. Bruce stood by and helped him load up. At last, as the sun began to shine in earnest, Scott climbed into the plane and closed the door. Bruce pulled out the chocks and waved all clear. Scott watched him head back to the shed. He fastened himself in and put on his headset. Ah. The never-ending romance of flight. He tried the ailerons, the rudder, and the elevator one more time. An airplane such as the Cessna, like an automobile, has a key. The key keeps the yoke from turning. The Piper is stick and rudder. The Cessna has all of that on a yoke. He unlocked the machine and put the key in the ignition. He pulled the mixture lever out to full rich. He turned on the battery. The avionics had to wait for power up. He turned the key in the ignition and the prop became an invisible arc after a moment of shuddering. It was chilly, so he let her warm up while he now turned on the instruments and the radio. There was nobody out here to talk to. No tower, no clearance, nothing but the sock showing a slight crosswind. He glanced at it; the old habit. He already felt himself calculating how much yaw and bank he had to pull to climb out true. Pushing the throttle lever forward, he felt her stir. He steered her out to the end of the strip with his feet. It’s fancy footwork to taxi an airplane. The throttle is in your left hand. Your left hand stays on it during climb outs and landings. Now he toed the brakes and revved her up. She sounded good as always. He let go of the break and off she went bouncing down the grass. At 60 knots, she clattered less and became light. He pulled back on the yoke and she lifted off promptly. He was airborne and climbing out. He never tired of that sensation. In the air, he was the absolute master of his domain. He’d had Lana up her before, too, of course. You know Lana, he thought. She’d try anything twice. She’s been bra-less and down on him while the autopilot flew them into the morning. So many mornings! Airborne and free! Scott often thought of this freedom the many years down the road in his imprisonment.