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Restoring My Faith in Flight
By
Kathryn Budde-Jones
I
was the typical flight student back in 1981. I took lessons on a weekly
basis in Key west, Florida until I accumulated about 7 hours. At this
time my instructor cut me loose to solo. I remember the day well, for I
scared myself senseless and never wanted to go back to flying. Nothing
specific or horrific happened, just the fear that I had no real
understanding of what I was doing and why I was doing it while in the
plane or even on the ground pre-flighting it. From that moment on I put
my flying out of my mind. However, my husband continued with his flying
interests. I, like so many other spouses, turned into a knowledgeable
passenger. I had a basic understanding of checklists but did not know
the thrill, and what I assumed to be the terror, of what it was like to
keep the plane in the air. I was an informed by-stander and a closet
"wanna-be".
In 1987, while
diving for the Spanish shipwreck the Atocha with Mel Fisher off of Key
West, we found a TBM Avenger that sank in 1945. No, it was not part of
the "lost squadron", but it did instill in me an interest in WWII
airplanes. This interest led me to Kissimmee, Florida and Tom Reilly's
Flying Tiger Restoration Museum in 1997. While on vacation, my husband
and I stumbled upon Tom Reilly's museum on the Kissimmee Airport. There
we saw them make crumpled pieces of aluminum into flying pieces of
history. We saw B-25s, SNJs, Stearmans and Wacos take to the air as
they did over five decades ago and it was magic. To stand next to an R
2600 radial engine while it lights off, to feel the snorting and
bucking of the massive engines reminded me of the movie Jurassic Park
when the dinosaurs rumbled across the plains again after being reborn
to this millenium. It brought tears to my eyes and I was hooked.
My new found
interest in warbirds led me to attend the first class of the hands-on
Warbird Restoration school in May of 1997. The school is set right in
the middle of the restoration facility. The blackboard hung on the wing
section of a T-6. Every aspect of how to restore a vintage plane back
to flying condition was thoroughly covered and demonstrated in the
class. Through hands on examples we could see for ourselves how
hydraulic systems, electrical systems, and power plants work in harmony
with the delicate but strong aluminum and fabric structure of these
flying heroes. The many projects that were under way in the facility
gave living examples of how safety wiring should be done, cannon plugs
installed, cables fitted, and hydraulic fittings assembled. Through
five days and fifty hours of detailed explanations and demonstrations I
had a much better idea of what made planes stay in the air, the mystery
was gone and with it the fear.
When I returned to
Key West I started taking flight instruction again. This time with an
instructor who took the time to explain the "whys" not just the "whats"
and "whens". Thomas Hayashi at Island City Flying service had not only
a new student to teach but a middle-aged woman who did not have a good
first experience with learning to fly. I asked him after our first
introductory lesson if he thought he could teach me how to fly. His
response was an incredulous, "I could teach a monkey to fly." My mind
immediately wandered to the cold war days when monkeys were introduced
to the space program to save humans from our scientific ignorance of
space flight. Maybe Thomas was right.
My instruction
proceeded slowly, with every lesson starting with a half-hour
pre-flight briefing discussing what we were about to do. Our flying
time would last an hour followed by at least a half hour de-briefing of
what we just did and what I should study for my next lesson. I made
every attempt to fly at least three times a week to keep ahead of the
intelligence evaporation that would occur between each lesson. We
started out with a good pre-flight, a whole hour spent walking around
and looking in the plane for things that should not be there. I never
knew exactly what my husband was looking for when he peeked, poked and
prodded the plane as he circled it on the ramp. I often thought it was
just a ritual with no real purpose other than to make you look like you
knew what you were doing. Now I knew to look for safety wire and lock
nuts, cable tension and hydraulic fluid, obstructed pitot tubes and
intact ports. It all had a purpose and I now knew what it was for. I
even taught him a thing or two about why the mags are checked the way
they are and how to properly prime an engine. After lesson two I felt
that me and all the other chimps had a chance.
We started out
right away with take-offs and landings. Years of running boats had
prepared me well for this part of flying. Try docking a fifty-foot rear
cockpit sailboat in a small slip and you have a leg up on landing a
plane. I found something that I could do better than the average
aviation monkey.
I considered
Thomas an excellent teacher. My background is in Special Education and
I recognized some of my old teaching techniques used on me. I wasn't
insulted, only grateful that he would take the time to explain a
concept several different ways. How elementary these concepts were
really came home to me the day I observed Thomas giving a group of
grade school children a tour of the airport. When Thomas started to
explain how planes flew I recognized the lesson he had just given me a
week before. I did not feel as smart as the flying chimps at that
moment.
It took me 20
hours to solo. We practiced everything before he would even consider
letting me solo. Of course, the obligatory emergency procedures, VOR
navigation, radio procedures, unusual attitudes, IFR and night flying,
endless "touch and gos" until I wondered if I was ever going to go
alone. Every calm day when I would go for my lesson I wondered if today
would be the day. When it wasn't I would be both disappointed and
relieved. This time I wasn't frightened but thrilled at the idea that I
could fly alone. As I applied the power for my first spin around the
patch, I pictured myself doing it right. I did not picture all the
things I could possibly do wrong, but executing each procedure and
technique perfectly. This mental imaging would serve me well in my next
big flying leap.
We moved up to
Kissimmee before I finished my private license and continued my
instruction in central Florida. Kissimmee Municipal Airport lies smack
in the middle of two Class B airspaces and a handful of class Cs. I was
used to flying over an island and lots of open ocean. I practiced turns
around a point over a lighthouse seven miles off shore of Key West.
Now, I had land and busy airspace everywhere and everything looked
alike. My first lesson at an FBO on the field was a disaster, not only
had I forgotten everything I had learned in thirty hours of lessons but
now spelling airplane would be a stretch. I left that lesson
discouraged but got back on the horse that threw me the next day with a
new instructor from England. Colin flew for the RAF and his cavalier
love of flying showed through even in a clapped out C-152. I often had
to arm wrestle him for the control of the plane because he just loved
to fly. He was as unorthodox as Thomas was traditional. But he gave me
a love of flying that transcended my need to follow every number and
rule exactly. Rules, checklists and planning ahead are the triumvirate
of flying but common sense and thinking outside the box are vital as
well. Five months to the day after I started I earned my private pilot
license. And then the real adventure began.
Working at Tom
Reilly's Warbird Restoration Museum and not wanting to fly warbirds is
like rolling in poison ivy and not expecting to itch. My husband Syd
and I took instruction in Cubs and Stearmans to prepare us for tail
draggers. Syd had already accumulated 400 hours by this time and was
one of the co-pilots for Tom Reilly's B-25 Mitchell that flew out of
the museum. I, on the other hand had 60 hours and wanted to fly with
the big boys. Tail dragger experience was a must. Actually any
experience was a must.
In July of 1998,
my husband and I bought a T6-G. We had been looking for a while and
found a clean restored Texan. It had a few minor problems, which we
found out is the definition of an oxymoron and was probably why the
previous owner got rid of the plane after only flying it for 50 hours.
There are only a handful of places in the world that can rebuild and
maintain warbirds. Tom Reilly's facility has restored over two dozen
Warbirds to flying condition including countless big bombers like B-24,
B-17 and B-25s. Where we are in Kissimmee is like the Fountain of Youth
for warbirds. If Ponce de Leon had been a vintage plane he would have
been looking for Tom Reilly's restoration museum. What we did not know,
we could rely on Tom Reilly and his crew of experts to help us with.
The plane flew from Louisiana to central Florida on July 1st and did
not fly again for almost 2 months repairing all the things that were
missed on the last annual or by the general aviation mechanics where it
was based. The squawk list is long but a few goodies included
automotive brake calipers installed instead of aviation quality,
hydraulic power valve put together wrong, safety wired backwards, out
of date hoses, leaks from every known orifice and some unknown ones,
the list goes on. I personally wanted to fly it into a cliff, but did
not know how to fly it to a cliff or anywhere else for that matter. I
didn't even know how to start it.
However, all this
time spent getting to know our first born child helped me when it was
finally time to take lessons in it. Thom Richard and his partner Graham
Meise operate Warbird Adventures adjacent to the Warbird Museum. They
give introductory flights and instruction in SNJs/T-6s. Thom had agreed
to check out both Syd and I in our T-6. The insurance company had
insured Thom as our instructor and Syd would be able to solo after a
minimum of 20 hours of instruction. I, on the other hand, was a bit of
a problem. There are not too many potential T-6 students out there with
only 70 total flying hours. The insurance company was none too happy to
cover me but reluctantly agreed that I could fly my own plane if Thom
or Syd (after he was checked out) were with me. They probably assumed
that after a couple of white-knuckle flights that I would give up the
crazy idea of flying the T-6 by myself. They weren't all wrong!
I warned Thom that
I was not going to be easy. I was sure that would be enough of a
warning but I underestimated my own ability to forget everything I ever
knew about flying. Our first lesson was strapping on the parachute and
three-point harness. It took me two more lessons to finally figure this
part out of the preflight checklist!! Then the starting procedures,
which is always punctuated with the threat of fire. I am sure that this
threat existed in a 152 but I don't remember it looming so greatly over
me at all times. I had commented when we first started, that I was a
blank slate for him to write on and that might make the difficult task
ahead easier. Little did I know that most of what Thom "wrote" at the
beginning would fade away immediately. I barely remember the first 10
hours of instruction because I was so overwhelmed with the size and
complexity of the "beast". Everything from the locking tail wheel to
the constant speed prop was beyond my comprehension. Every aspect of
this huge hulk of a machine was not only new but also foreign to me and
the only interpreter I had was Thom Richard and on certain days he
seemed to be speaking in tongues.
Over the many
months and hours we spent together flying in the T-6, I would often ask
Thom to explain technical material after we were on the ground because
I could not think and fly at the same time. Not a very confidence
building statement. Each time I got in the front cockpit I found a
gauge or an instrument I had never seen before. The only comforting
thought I had was at least I knew what it did when I finally noticed
it. I am sure that my endless questions made Thom both worry and wonder
but he never let on. We would just try it again, and again and again.
From the onset,
the actual touchdowns were never a problem for me. No one seemed to
understand this, much less Thom. I attributed it to the savant
syndrome. Much like Dustin Hoffman's character in the movie "Rain Man",
instead of an autistic savant I was a landing savant. My ability to
land far exceeded my ability in the plane. Everyone else who flew T-6s
would comment on that landing a huge tail dragger like that was the
great equalizer that was not my problem. I could even land it perfectly
from the back seat! However, I had great difficulty staying ahead of
the plane especially in the pattern. Everything happened so quickly.
Full throttle on takeoff, push the tail off, up on one wheel, rotate at
80 mph, gear up, pull back to 30 manifold pressure" and 2000 rpm. All
of this before the end of a 3000 foot runway! Then maintain airspeed
110mph, change throttle and prop another couple of times before the
gear comes down again. Once you drop the flaps and make that Navy
approach to the field you realize the plane has the flying
characteristics of a piano. Round out, flair at 100 mph and touch down
while doing a tap dance on the rudder pedals that Fred Astaire would
have been envious of. Clean the plane up and go for it again. Poor
Thom, he often heard upon a low approach or shaky touch down a fast
staccato rendering of his name "Thom, Thom, Thom, Thom" like a snare
drum warming up to a fast roll. He paid little attention and always
made me do the things again that scared me the most. I felt it was a
good lesson if I did not say his name more than a Catholic would say
"Hail Mary" while reciting the rosary. He should be nominated for
Sainthood.
For the first
thirty hours I could not imagine that I could ever fly the plane with
Syd in the back much less alone. I felt on most days bruised from being
hit with the dumb stick. I tried to fly as often as possible but with
repairs and maintenance to the plane as well as weather and work
obligations, my previous schedule of three times a week was not
possible. Sometimes it was difficult to fly three times a month. I
found that with my lack of experience I had no residual intelligence to
fall back on. It was all surface charge like on a quickly charged
battery and left me as soon as I was away from the source. I often made
one step forward and two back. Some days it seemed I now couldn't even
remember how to spell T-6.
Syd and I enjoyed
sharing our flying experiences after our lessons with Thom. In many
ways it was a great reinforcement for both of us. We would compare
notes on what went well and what obviously didn't. Syd had considerably
more time under his belt than I did and staying ahead of the plane in
the pattern was not a problem for him. To paraphrase Chuck Yeager in
the book "The Right Stuff", there was a demon that lived at 800 feet
for me in the pattern.
At the forty-hour
mark I was going to other airports with Thom's partner Graham. The
experience was good for at least two reasons. One, it is always good to
experience other airports and patterns during training to get as many
dumb attacks out of the way as possible with an instructor still in the
back seat. Two, having another opinion and teaching style is always
good. Graham and Thom are as opposite in style as two can be. For
example; Thom demands perfection, Graham believes you can learn a lot
from mistakes. According to Graham's theory then, I should have my
doctorate by now. When turning from base to final in our normal deep
sweeping T-6 turn, Thom will always be heard in my mind saying over and
over again, "don't over shoot the runway, don't over shoot the runway,
don't over shoot the runway…… you over shot the
runway!" Graham would say in a similar situation; "It's good to know
how to save a bad approach."
I learned so much
from both of them and seemed to make great strides in the last ten
hours of my instruction. I also had some of my most colossal brain
farts, a true passing of intelligence into thin air, during this time.
While in the pattern with Thom performing emergency procedures, I was
asked to perform an emergency landing. I thought I had covered
everything; best glide speed, trim, prop & mixture, flaps at
just the right time (for a change, Thom has got to be happy with this).
But Thom kept saying "go over your check list, what's that noise?"
"What noise, I can't think over the landing gear warning horn #@*@#@#*"
Just at that point the tower reminded me my gear was still up. I
learned a very valuable lesson that day, one that I did not have to pay
dearly for, this time. It was not just to stick to a checklist but that
a low time pilot does not possess peripheral intelligence or experience
to draw upon without thinking; that I must develop a routine that
cannot be diverted by distraction; that my checklists should be second
nature and not to let second nature turn into complacency. I had grown
fond of this plane and sensed that it felt a motherly instinct towards
me. I also believed that she would forgive me once for breaking the
rules but if I didn't learn from my mistake she would come down on me
hard and smite me.
As I grew closer
to the 50 hour mark I found myself thinking less often, I should know
more than this by now. I actually believed I might be able to solo this
plane by myself with a measly 120 hours total time. My training was not
the usual drudgery many students find in the pattern but an actual
flight back into history at this magical field in central Florida. On
any given day I might find myself in the sky with P-51 Mustangs landing
in formation, or watching a B-17 come in for a landing, or flying
formation with two or three other T-6s. Or the best of all, flying in
the pattern when my husband and Tom Reilly were taking off in the B-25
Mitchell. This was a magic time I wanted to savor. You only solo once
and I wanted to enjoy the foreplay up to the "Big Moment".
As D-Day
approached I called my insurance company to find out what they required
for my solo endorsement. I am sure they never thought I would get to
this point. I was told that they would like it if would continue with
my instruction for another 5 months. They were reneging on their verbal
commitment to me. They obviously did not know that anyone who would
take on learning to fly a T-6 with my lack of experience does not quit
easily. If they were going to deny me coverage they were going to have
a fight on their hands. After many phone calls, letters from my flight
instructor, a detailed summary on how I spent the last 50 hours of
instruction, i.e., 20 hours of pattern work, 200 touch and goes, ( I
have the worn out pair of tires to prove it) and verbal posturing on
both sides-I won.
The conflict over
the insurance actually helped my resolve to solo. I was not all that
sure that I could or wanted to. But after someone said I couldn't,
there was nothing else I wanted to do more. I spent the few days
between winning the verbal battle and receiving written confirmation of
coverage preparing myself mentally. Through the years I have
participated in various activities that demanded that you visualize
yourself performing the task successfully; singing in front of a big
audience, martial arts, even finding treasure on the bottom of the
ocean. All activities that are performed more successfully with a
positive mental image.
So every night I
would picture myself soloing. Thom would leave the plane and I would
taxi to the end of runway 15. I would perform my checklist before take
off; trim set, prop & mixture forward, fuel on, gear locked. I
would call the tower; "North American one, zero, four Delta Charlie
ready to go runway one, five." The tower would clear me and I would
apply full power to the 600-horse power 1340 radial engine. I would
check my gauges making sure all were in the green before I would push
the stick forward to get the tail wheel off the ground. At just the
right moment, just as countless other pilots had in the past 56 years
with this very plane, I would bring the nose up and this two-ton lummox
would become graceful in the sky. This nanny to the aces of WWII was
giving me the chance to see what I was made of as she had done for so
many before me. In my mind, I would complete the pattern effortlessly
remembering all those little things, like the landing gear. I would
glide into final, touching down and rolling to a stop in front of the
Warbird museum where my husband, family, friends and co-workers would
cheer. The reality was what I pictured and then some. The day came, the
photos were taken, the champagne flowed and everyone shared with me the
feeling of accomplishment I felt. I was more comfortable than I ever
imagined I could be flying a plane. Eighteen years after my first scary
attempt at flying I learned to fly the "Pilot Maker", as the WW II
aviators called her. She was so named because she taught many, through
the decades, that flying a warbird was not mastering a machine but
building a relationship based on respect for the plane's flying ability
and heritage. I feel like a newlywed now, anxious to build on this new
and fragile relationship.
Written by:
Kathryn Budde-Jones
E-mail: <captkt@juno.com>
If you want to talk T-6, why don't you drop a line her way? She'll be
happy to swap stories...
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