Vultures

On a warm day in July, the airport was inexplicably besieged by more than a hundred seagulls.  More or less equally divided, they held post over each threshold of Rockcliffe's single runway - circling lazily in the calm air over the field.  Every so often, a rampie would drive out into the infield with a flare gun to try and disperse them. 
The more dramatic method of animal control involved arriving or departing aircraft.  The gulls would scatter in every possible direction with such reckless abandon that one plainly wondered how an unfortunate encounter between airplane and avian was averted.  In each case, the seagulls would quietly and casually reform in such a manner to suggest the interruption had never occurred.




A seagull off the coast of Vancouver Island in the summer of 2010. (Author's collection)

In the 70s and 80s, Richard Bach's Jonathan Livingston Seagull was not only required reading for pilots but enjoyed enormous popularity outside of aviation circles.  The novella, essentially a homily for self-improvement and barely 10 thousand words in length, tells the story of a young seagull who, unfulfilled with the life of squabbling over food scraps, embarks on learning everything about flying.  For his efforts, he is labelled a non-conformist and is cast out of his flock.  Over the many years that follow, he becomes increasingly skilled at flight, reaches another plane of existence, learns to travel great distances in little time and eventually returns to teach other outcasts.

 

Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach.

The book's success far eclipsed that of Bach's previous works Stranger to the Ground, Biplane and Nothing by Chance.  It also sparked a turn from hayfields, leather goggles, wings and wires to aviation as background to new age thinking, time travel, multiple dimensions and barnstorming messiahs.  To this day, I opine that Bach's first three literary offerings are far superior stories.  However, I suppose the new age stuff sells better.  That said, at the time I was born, the book would have been just as present in a pilot's flight bag as their logbook and the pilot operating handbook of the particular aircraft they flew.

It also served as the inspiration for my given name.
I'll admit that seagulls do not have a sterling reputation.  They're readily referred to as "rats with wings" and "shithawks."  They're annoying, dirty and barely one step up the evolutionary ladder from pigeons.  When I was 9, I watched one, in flight, snatch a slice of pizza from my sister's hands. 
All that said, it's not difficult to see what Bach saw in a seagull in flight. Truly, pulling off that pizza extrication maneuver was no small feat. If you pause and watch them long enough to get past their reputation, they really are beautiful, graceful fliers - perhaps more than any other bird.  

A seagull playing off the bows of the British Columbia Ferry MV Spirit of Vancouver Island, summer 2010. (Author's collection)

Yes, the Canada Goose is certainly majestic and their large formations, as well as the teamwork they depend on, are breathtaking to behold.  However, they're nature's long-haul airliner.  They lift off, fly great distances in straight lines, land again and repeat. 
What about the Heron?  A fine bird, to be sure...and her sheer size and wingspan are awesome to behold - particularly when taking off from a stream or creek.  And yet, she appears awkward and incongruous - equally out of place in the sky as she is on land.
The Hawk or Eagle then - any bird of prey?  Yes, the beauty of their free-wheeling flight and the pointedness of their decisive descents make for impressive visuals and inspiring national symbols.  And yet, the simmering violence behind their movements somewhat besmirches whatever beauty they exude.
The seagull, perhaps, has the greatest obstacle to surmount.  On the earth, or near to it, they pick fights over mouldy bread and rancid meat passed over by racoons and rats.  They revel in garbage.  And yet, away from that environment, they fly with an ease that is equal parts effortless and beautiful.  The sight is enough to forget that her preferred haunt is a municipal dump. 

A pair of seagulls holding post on the masts of fishing trawlers in Steveston, British Columbia, summer 2010. (Author's collection)

I've always liked my name and while the book is perhaps a little too new age for my taste, I've always enjoyed telling the story.
When I arrived at the airport that day and prepared the Smith for flight, I caught myself watching the gulls circle, wheel, dive and zoom climb over the field.  Part of me wondered why they were hanging about at all - loitering like vultures over carrion.  It would prove to be an unfortunate omen.
The day's plan called for circuits - a short flight of 5 or 6 touch and goes to keep my skills sharp and the airplane happy.  The overhead patrol of seagulls would be a factor to consider - along with the usual training traffic. 
The circuits progressed as normal.  My first wasn't great.  The second was better and the third would prove to be my best.  By the time I'd gone around the patch four times, I was getting tired and resolved to make the fifth circuit my last for the day.
Everything was normal.  It was a calm day and so the approach was smooth and right on target in terms of airspeed, attitude and glide slope.  We crossed the perimeter fence and I pushed my head all the way back to take advantage of my peripheral vision as we began the flare.  With the little biplane gliding along atop that invisible blanket of thick air nearest the ground, I slowly brought the power off and held her off as long as I could.
She sank onto the pavement and her wheels met with a chirp - all three at once as we had planned.  My feet worked automatically to keep her running straight as the airport's landscape slowly solidified from a blur to the green of the infield, rows of multicolored planes and the clubhouse and hangar beyond.
Slowing through 45, I bring the stick all the way back to ground the tail.
A rattle passes through the airframe.  I feel it in my right wrist and in my seat.  Tailwheel shimmy - a trembling likely caused, in this case, by too much weight on the tailwheel.  It's an easy fix.  All I need to do is release a bit of the back pressure.
In the time it takes for me to process the shimmy - barely a second - it has ceased. 
A second, shorter bout of shimmy.  As I'm about to move my right hand forward to relieve the pressure on the tailwheel, everything goes sideways and all at once.
Where there was once blue sky, is now the grey siding and black windows of the museum building bordering the south side of the runway. 
I can hear the wheels screaming.  And I do mean screaming - a bloodcurdling cry of rubber laboring against asphalt.
I've already moved the stick left, into whatever is happening.  Likewise, my right boot is on the brake - desperately trying to horse the biplane into line. 
I am going to ground loop. I am sure of it.
The airplane responds immediately - although it seems like a lifetime before she lurches right again.  I relax the right brake and, at once, she heels sharply left once more.  More screaming, more pressure on the right brake.  Once again, drunkenly, she staggers into line.
We taxi off.  My mind is racing.  My mouth tastes like copper.  Fear?  Yes, obviously, but it's more than that.  I tear off a glove and bring my hand to my mouth.  It comes away red with blood.  In the excitement, I've bitten my tongue. 
I can hear my heart smashing away.  My eyes are throbbing.
Brake failure?  No, I surmise.  Otherwise, we would have gone through the fence or overturned the moment we hit the opposite brake.
Rudder cable break?  Astronomically terrifying but even less likely, I reason.  The right rudder is spongy, slow to react, and I need brake and a little power to turn...but the airplane does respond to inputs.
The tailwheel steering springs!  God damn it, of course.  The shimmy must have either broken the right hand spring or knocked it off the steering arm or rudder hook-up - jamming the rudder to the left and giving us little authority to neutralize it.

The offending spring, reattached.  (Author's collection)

Our only saving grace was 25 cents worth of safety wire.  At some point in the Smith's past, Al had lockwired the rudder hook up to the steering arm on the tailwheel as an added safety measure should one of the springs break or be kicked loose.  This would keep the rudder from deflecting fully left as well as allowing some measure of control.
We taxied to the pumps and shut down.  I spent a few minutes staring at the panel and listening to the engine ticking over behind the ringing in my ears.  I tried to go over the incident in my mind but could only dredge up snapshots even though it had happened mere minutes before.  I know I took corrective action otherwise we'd have gone through the fence...but I couldn't quite remember what I'd done.
I must have been as white as a ghost because another instructor pilot walked up and asked if I was okay.  I asked if he could see my tailwheel steering springs.  He ducked out of view and came back holding one in his hand. 
"It was hanging off the steering arm," he said, handing it to me. 
The grease on the spring mingled with the blood in my hand as I turned it over thoughtfully.
"Thanks," I replied...only I wasn't speaking to my colleague.
Overhead, the seagulls continued their aerial ballet - undisturbed by the would-be carnage below.

Lone Wolf

During the flying season, the Smith is one of three flying biplanes on the field.  I say flying because the Canada Aviation and Space Museum has a whole mess of biplanes under its roof.  DSA's companions are a pair of WACO UPF-7s, identical but for one letter in their registration marks, that endlessly hop tourist rides from May until October.  In the winter, the Smith is Rockcliffe's only permanent resident with twin wings. 
As such, and likely also due to her dwarfish appearance, she attracts a fair amount of attention.  Certain curious parties yell inquiries through the perimeter fence.  Some slam on brakes and shout questions through open car windows.  Others wander over to have a look and a chat.  Still others accept my offer to climb in.
"It looks like a lot of fun to fly."
"Sure is," I answer.
"How does it do with aerobatics?"
"I don't know," is my reply.  "I don't fly acro in it.  Steep turns, lazy 8s, chandelles - that's about it."
"So, what do you do?"
"Whatever I feel like," is my honest reply, usually accompanied with a shrug.  "Sometimes I just point the nose in a certain direction and see where that takes me.  Other times, I just bomb around, go see my buddy's cottage, or follow a river...you know..."
Some do, some don't.  The ones who don't get it are given a different answer.
"I hunt Cessnas."
"Really?"
"Yeah," I say earnestly, nodding.  "150s, 152s, the later 172 models.  The older ones with the flat 6 are a little hard to catch but with a good deflection shot, I might get lucky."
"Huh..."
"Yeah, and I got a chopper out by Wendover a few days back," I pop a stick of gum into my mouth and grin. "Bag two more and I'm an ace."
You can almost see the gears working away.  Is he serious? Does he really hunt Cessnas?
My grin widens.  He'll be looking over his shoulder next time.




Hunting Cessnas.  (Author's Collection)

The storylines of my flying the Smith, in some ways, run in parallel to the lone wolf patrols of Bishop and Ball nearly a century ago.  Clearly, I am blessed to fly in peace-time, at much lower altitudes, in fair weather and without the added worry of flak, enemy fighters, balloons and the fairly constant spectre of engine or catastrophic structural failure.  Still, my craft's charming inefficiency, the way the wind sings in the wires, the whisper of the slipstream caressing the fabric flanks and how the air pools and swirls in the open cockpit remain largely as they were in the days of my heroic forebears. 
Truth be told, my greatest aerial foes are the wayward gull and the increasingly populous and menacing drone.
My first "kill" wasn't a Cessna, in fact, but a Piper Cherokee 140 - white with blue trim - over Gatineau just south of the Chelsea dam.  I had just left Rockcliffe's circuit, turned to the northwest to pick up the Gatineau River and was about to begin a climb when something moved just on the border of my vision.  I checked the climb, turned my head to the right and picked him out almost instantly.  He was just below the horizon, a moving piece against the static puzzle of the city beneath.  It took me a moment to see that he was climbing and moving towards me.  I slowed down slightly and turned right so that my path would take me behind him while still maintaining visual contact.
He literally flew into my sights, plodding along from right to left, right across my nose at a few hundred yards.  I pressed the trigger on the stick and opened a radio channel with my thumb.
"Bang," I said.
The Cherokee didn't even flinch.  He continued west, likely on the way to Carp, trailing imaginary smoke.
The next victory was a 172 based at Rockcliffe in nearly the same fashion and in exactly the same spot as my inaugural Cherokee.  He was returning from a flight to Toronto Island as I was running the Camp Fortune gap back into Rockcliffe.  I caught him in the pre-dusk sky as I finished my climb to 1700'.  He was way up there, over my left shoulder and descending.  I watched him get lower and grow larger until we were in lose formation.  I gave the Smith a little right aileron and left rudder, coaxing her into a gentle sideslip, and put the 172 on my nose.  She hung there, a black silhouette against the golden sky of a dying day...and then I gave her a three second burst.
Out of the slip, then.  I keyed the mic, announced my presence and suggested he might wish to enter the pattern at Rockcliffe ahead of me.
The Cessna put her nose down and accelerated away, the last rays of sunlight dancing in her smoky wake.
Occasionally, would-be prey reveal their location quite willingly - particularly in the practice area straddling the Ottawa River north of the capital.  Each time a new airplane enters the practice area, it announces itself in the same manner as a debutante is introduced at the ball before demanding to know how many suitors are in the hall and from where they hail.  The result is a nauseating litany of replies punctuated with periodic squealing as two attempt to relay their position, mission, favourite color and food at once.  This repeats itself each time a new player is introduced or every 5 minutes, whichever comes first.
In the practice area, airplanes and their crews seize gargantuan, three-dimensional swaths of land with the zeal of a gold rush prospector.  Whenever an aircraft betrays even the possibility of threatening the borders of their aerial fiefdom, the resultant call is laced with enough paranoia that one begins to wonder if the radio truly plays a greater role in avoiding the mid-air collision than, say, the human eye.
On one such flying day, I was returning home to Rockcliffe by following a south-east track about a half mile south of Breckenridge - a hamlet on the Quebec shore of the Ottawa River.  I had been making the requisite radio calls, dutifully adding my voice to the chorus.
So, you can imagine my surprise when I hear:
"Biplane over Breckonridge, come in!"
"This is Smith Miniplane Delta-Sierra-Alpha," is my cheery reply.
"Yeah, this is Cessna 172 Fox-Uniform-Charlie-Kilo," says a voice dripping with contempt. "You should really make position reports because I'm up here at thirty nine hundred feet doing spins."
You can almost hear each of the four gold bars on his shoulder in his venomous rebuke.
I consider my response. 
It really should be something along the lines of should you actually get that pregnant sow to spin and if you have the great misfortune to still be spinning when you arrive at my meagre altitude of 800 feet above ground level then, my dear sir, you've greater concerns than a mid-air collision with me.
I look up.  There he is - barely a grain of sand in a sea of blue.  My thumb is poised over the push-to-talk.  I take a deep breath of fresh air and open my mouth to speak.
Up front, the Smith's Lycoming purrs steadily.  Something in the sound of the engine and slipstream makes me take pity on the poor soul nearly 3000 feet above, sweating as he saws back and forth on the control yoke, wincing as he listens to the engine surging as he forces his reluctant craft into violent earthward gyrations. 
Down here, life is good.
"My apologies," I want him to hear the smile in my voice.  "I'll make more position reports next time!"
I punch the flip flop on the radio and switch frequencies for Rockcliffe before the Cessna Captain is able to reply.
If only all such unpleasant things could be stopped with the simple push of a button.