For the devotees of aviation, sometimes you can just be downright lucky. Occasionally a magical blend of the history, pleasure and pure joy of flight can combine to create one of those memorable moments aloft. For me, such an event took place very recently.
As I departed my home airfield, my hopes for the day ahead weren’t terribly high despite the clear skies above. As I lifted my little aeroplane into buffeting 40 knot winds, I considered the effect that the blustery breeze would have upon the treasured vintage aircraft that I was scheduled to fly. Despite its proud bearing, the 1943 Stearman is still a tailwheel biplane and these conditions would surely make every moment a challenge. And yet, as I commenced descent towards my coastal destination the rocking and rolling of the turbulence dissipated and I went from being thrown on the harness to smoothly slipping down towards the circuit pattern.
The airfield sat in a basin, shadowed from the confronting westerly winds. Bordered on one side by rolling green pastures it was mirrored by the coastline on the other. As I touched down, there was no doubt that this was one of those perfect days to commit aviation and as I turned off the taxiway and came to a halt, the scarlet Stearman stood before me. Tall and proud, the beautiful biplane sported finely crafted ‘nose art’ of a scantily clad lass and the words “Lilly Warra” painted nearby as a tribute to the Illawarra district that the aeroplane now called home. But beauty was far more than skin deep for this veteran of a war from long ago.
Just as her scheme was a striking red, so was her heritage, for this old girl had once been a faithful trainer to the famed ‘Red Tails’; the Tuskegee Airmen. Many miles had passed beneath her wings in the past seven decades and I only wished those wings could speak. Even so, as I slipped into the cockpit and strapped into the harness, I felt a sense of awe as if I had stepped through the fragile fabric of time. With my canvas helmet strapped beneath my chin and my goggles pulled firmly down over my eyes, I scanned the comfortable cocoon around me. The strong metal frame was not hidden by any lining, but encased me like a secure maze of piping and cables, while a bare minimum of dials and levers were there to guide her through the sky.
Ahead lay the shining cylinders of the radial engine, void of a cowling and open to the cooling breeze. The hand crafted wooden propeller responded to the call of the starter and kicked over before the engine fully caught the shower of sparks and burst into life. A puff of smoke and its accompanying smells wafted back past the cockpit as the engine gained increasing harmony as one by one the cylinders rose to the occasion in a throbbing harmony.
If the introduction was an honour then the moment of flight was magical. The throttle was only open for a matter of seconds and the tail rose to offer a view of the runway ahead. As I eased the stick back towards me with a touch of rudder to assist, my magic carpet eased into the air and I turned towards the coast. All of my senses were alive as the breeze passed through the bracing wires, while the slipstream glanced my cheeks with a faint scent of combustion. I felt safely at one with this stable steed, whose harmonies made the flying machine seem more liking a living creature than a mere aeroplane.
Outside the cockpit the world slid by, illuminated by the brilliant sunshine of early Spring that drew out the richness of every single colour. The deep blue of the water as it licked the yellow sand and the stark whiteness of the lighthouse against the backdrop of the jade headland. People were out and about with picnic baskets and blankets and all of them seemed to pause and cast their eyes upward to sight the crimson craft crossing their sky. The world seemed like a perfect place at that moment. With a touch of rudder followed by a squeeze of the stick, the horizon wheeled around in front of me and a trio of pelicans soared pass with an equal amount of grace.
A series of loops and ‘lazy eights’ made the world dance graciously from a variety of viewpoints. The aerobatics of a Stearman are decidedly ‘gentlemanly’ for a lady of the skies. No heaving or hauling, just a sweeping pattern that gently carries those on board through all three dimensions of flight. For over an hour I was gifted to the best that man, machine and the Maker could offer and I breathed it all in as deeply as I could. These were moments to cherish.
These moments eventually drew to a close and as the painted numbers on the runway’s threshold loomed ahead I felt both excitement and sadness; I wanted this flight to last forever. But the real world and fuel tanks don’t allow such a thing, so I settled for smoothly closing the throttle and returning “Lilly” back to the earth. I cycled the rudder pedals to keep straight and it seemed that like me, the Stearman wasn’t done yet. Finally, the tail settled, the view ahead disappeared and we taxied in and shut the engine down.
As the propeller swung to a halt with the magnetos switches off, I paused for a moment. I just sat there. I reflected upon the sheer sense of pleasure, while still feeling as relaxed as I could ever imagine. Again I breathed the moment in and it tasted sweet. I thought how privileged I was that in a world of pressing schedules and commitments I could step back to 1943; a very different time. And then, from the best seat in the house I was able to dawdle about the sky with no particular place to go and no particular time to be there.
These are moments to cherish. This is the purest essence of flight the sheer enjoyment of life, or should I say, “Joie de vivre”.
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