It's a brisk, early November morning at Rockcliffe. A thick blanket of fog is lying close to the ground, blotting out the sunshine and sheltering the old field from the clear skies I drove under to get here.
Overhead and unseen, we can hear the clattering roar of a 1940s Waco open cockpit biplane circling the field. He's waiting for the fog to burn away so that he can begin his day of hopping tours of the capital and the Gatineaus - where the last remnants of fall's spectacular mosaic of colours still cling on grimly.
The wind sock hangs limply from its bracket over the fuel pumps. I briefly contemplate the Waco pilot's sense of faith.
"So, you're looking for a Miniplane?" asked Ed Soye, an old friend from my air cadet and Cadet Instructor Cadre days.
"Yep," another kick and the rock skitters across the ramp. The apron is old and, in parts, chipping away and coming up.
"Well, why didn't you say so?"
I look up, raising an eyebrow. The bracket creaks and the windsock stirs. A breath of wind drifts across the field from the south-west. Soon, the breeze will start pulling at the fog and it will begin to unravel, then tear away in small, ragged tendrils followed soon after by large swaths. Not long after, the Waco will thread its way down through the mist and lower itself soundlessly onto Rockcliffe's single runway.
By that time, Ed and I are inside the clubhouse, talking excitedly in hushed tones - as if plotting a coup.
Outside, the winds slowly swing out of the west, promising change and opportunity.
Four months after my chance discussion with Ed, I am slowly wedging myself into the tight confines of a Smith Miniplane's cockpit. It is largely white with red trim, a red cowling and a black pinstripe along each side. The airplane has been carefully placed in the corner of a heated hangar at the Brampton Airport in Caledon, Ontario - just north west of Toronto. The top of the top wing is dusty and the paint has worn off in a few places around the tail but the little biplane is in great shape - at least visually.
Al Girdvainis, her builder and only owner, stands next to me. His left foot is on the wing walk, his left hand draped casually over the top wing. As he speaks, he drums his fingers casually on the taught ceconite fabric.
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| The three original Miniplanes together in California. The prototype N90P is on the left, N65P is in the middle and the 2nd Smith, N99D at right. (Photo courtesy: Al Girdvainis) |
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| An EAA Fly-In with 7 biplanes, of which 5 are Smiths - including the 3 originals at centre. (Photo Courtesy: Al Girdvainis) |
As he tells me about his airplane, I can't help but shake the notion that I hear my dad talking too.
When Al decided upon building an airplane, he had his heart set on a Midget Mustang - until he was warned about how dangerous that particular homebuilt could be. Then, he saw the Smith Miniplane and caught the biplane bug in the worst possible way. The desire was only reinforced after he came across George Jones' Smith Miniplane C-FYSG and, in his own words, "my jaw dropped." There was just something about it and with several Miniplanes flying locally, and a wealth of knowledge and experience nearby, it seems the obvious choice. He was just a kid, still in high school, when he ordered the plans from Frank Smith's wife Dorothy.
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| Al building the lower left wing in his parent's basement. (Photo courtesy: Al Girdvainis) |
He spent years building the wings in his parent's basement. Since his dad didn't own a metal bandsaw, he cut the metal fittings for the wings and fuselage using a hacksaw and a file. George Jones introduced Al to a DeHavilland welder who welded up the Smith's fuselage. It resided in the garage. Since he's a taller guy, he elected to stretch his Miniplane by 6 inches in the fuselage. He added another 6 inches of wingspan either side of centreline, he told me jokingly, to improve glide performance. This Smith had a 115 horsepower Lycoming O-235-C1 hung on the front end - plenty of power for the small bipe.
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| C-GDSA's fuselage in Al's driveway. (Photo Courtesy: Al Girdvainis) |
"I've landed this thing without even touching the rudder pedals," he says, eyes hidden by dark glasses. "And I've landed it by dancing a polka, double-time."
"I'm not trying to scare you," he tells me. "I just want you to know what you might be getting yourself into."
I visit with Al for about an hour. This is his first airplane, since eclipsed by an immaculate RV-7A and an unfinished Nieuport 28, but it's clear it holds a special place in his heart. He strikes me as a kind man, generous with both his time and experience. I tell him, honestly, that I won't be a position to make an offer for at least another year. As I climb out of his biplane, I ask that he give me a call if anyone comes around asking about it. He agrees.
Fourteen months later, newly married and having saved, borrowed and stolen enough money to make this dream a reality, I'm back at Al's hangar in Brampton waiting for my friend and aviation mechanic Pat Giunta to arrive to give 1978 Smith Miniplane C-GDSA a complete pre-buy inspection.
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| C-GDSA with panels removed so that we can take a good look inside. (Author's Collection) |
Al and I have spent most of the day going through the airplane. He's taken the cowling, side and belly panels, turtledeck and the many inspection plates off of the airplane. Coffees in hand, we talk Miniplanes as we go through his, piece by piece. I've never been a technically-inclined person. Until I became a homeowner, I shied away from anything involving tools. As a pilot, this is an education. I'd always considered myself to be merely a "driver" in that, while I had a good understanding of the aircraft I flew and its systems, I left the wrenching to those who knew what they were doing. Although the Smith is a homebuilt and therefore qualifies as owner-maintained, I'd already decided to seek the help of an aviation maintenance engineer. If there's anything I can do, it will be done under their guidance. Still, I value the opportunity to learn the inner workings of the airplane I hope to buy and fly.
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| Al with his airplane. (Photo Courtesy: Al Girdvainis) |
Al works slowly and meticulously. The talk inevitably turns to the more than 30 years and nearly 600 hours he's spent flying this airplane. An easy but shy smile crosses his face as he tells me about two trips to Oshkosh, Wisconsin - the Mecca of experimental and homebuilt aviation and a pair of voyages out east. He laughs nervously as he recounts crossing the Northumberland Strait from New Brunswick to Prince Edward Island by flying along the nearly 13 kilometre Confederation Bridge.
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| DSA being used as a campground and clothesline at Stanley, Nova Scotia. (Photo Courtesy: Al Girdvainis) |
"There was a solid overcast layer at four thousand feet," he says, chuckling. "I flew the whole way with my tail in the clouds."
It took guts to chug along less than a mile above the Atlantic Ocean in a tiny, single-engined biplane with the gliding characteristics of a polished rock. It's clear to me that Al enjoyed every moment.
On another trip, Al and a friend flew their airplanes from Brampton to Rockcliffe by following a set of power lines carving through 200 miles of wilderness. The only break, a fuel stop at Tomvale airport. He tells that story through the same wistful smile.
I ask him if he ever wheel landed the Miniplane. He pauses uncertainly and shrugs. I assure him that nearly every Smith driver I've spoken to urged me to always do three point landings and that I have no intention of wheeling the Smith.
"Once," he said. "By accident. A friend and I were flying formation into Oshawa and I was on the wing."
Formation flying only works if two basic rules are met. First, the leader leads. They determine altitude, heading, airspeed and they navigate. Second, the wingmen keep their eyes on the leader and adjust their flying to hold their position on the wing. The whole arrangement is based on absolute trust. The leader trusts his wingmen not to collide with him. The wingmen trust their leader to not fly them into the side of a mountain. It's a simple exchange where the currency is life and death.
So, with that in mind, it's easy to see how Al flew the entire trip without knowing precisely where he was or how fast he was flying.
"At one point, I saw my friend touch down and a split second later, I felt a little bump," he continues. "I said to myself, 'I must be down' and when I took a second to glance at the airspeed, I saw that we were doing 100 miles per hour."
In the interest of context, the Smith cruises at 100 miles per hour. That's 160 kilometres per hour - twice what you're likely to do on a city parkway. Don't try it. That's fast.
" 'Holy shit', I said to myself," Al says. "Holy shit..."
Pat arrives and starts looking the airplane over, sticking his head inside the fuselage, peering into the wings with a flashlight. He too works slowly and, at first, doesn't say much. I've been waiting for this day for months and, I'll admit, with a great deal of trepidation. The pre-buy inspection will give me a good idea of the airplane's current condition and what, if any, potential problems await me in the near future. There are certain items, namely corrosion in either the engine or airframe and rot in the wings, that are immediate show stoppers. I've told myself that I will walk away from the airplane if Pat finds anything that may indicate a looming problem. It would break my heart but I'd do it just the same.
I watch Pat closely as the inspection progresses. At first his gaze is hard and focused, betraying little information and absolutely no emotion. He is a man consumed by the task, only occasionally taking a step back to snap a picture. After what seems like an eternity, only as he begins inspecting the inner workings of the left wing, he appears to relax a little bit.
"Good," he murmurs, hunched under the upper wing, craning his neck and he tries to maneuver the beam from a flashlight into the darkest corners of structure. "Very nice."
"This is nice work, man," he says to Al. Al nods modestly, barely dipping his head in acknowledgement.
"Okay, that'll do it," Pat says, stepping back and wiping his hands on his trousers. "Let's push her out and fire her up."
Al pulls the RV-7A out of the hangar and we follow with the Smith. We maneuver the little bipe, innards exposed, onto a patch of grass and Al hops in. As he goes through his pre-start checks, Pat and I stand in the shade of the hangar, arms crossed, watching. I can hear my heart thumping in my head. The airplane hasn't been flown in more than 2 years - nor has the engine been run.
"This will tell us alot," Pat whispers, inclining his head ever so slightly in my direction.
The prop swings, cracking over once, twice, three times, before the Lycoming bursts to life and settles into a nice, even purr. Al, silver hair blowing in the wind, grins widely - but not at us. He's peering around the Stearman-inspired windshield letting the propeller blast play across his face. While he's firmly anchored on the ground, he's lost in the youthful exuberance of flight - reliving snapshots of the 570-some hours over the last 3 decades.
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| Pat and Al running up the Smith's engine at Brampton in June 2014. (Author's Collection) |
"Awesome!" Pat exclaims over the sound of the engine, slaps me on the back and walks out to join Al. He slides up next to Al and peers over the side of the canopy at the instruments. Both men point, nod and smile. My anxiety begins to melt away. It's starting to look like this might happen after all.
A little more than an hour later, after checking the engine post run-up, Pat and I are poring over the airplane's logs as we wait for lunch in the airport restaurant. Pat nods approvingly as he thumbs through the pages of DSA's weathered logbooks.
"Looks like you're buying this airplane," he says, just as our burgers arrive.
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