Transmissions

It's late on a Tuesday evening in May - likely around 8:00pm as I recall scribbling down "1954" as our time up.  We're gliding east along the south shore of the Ottawa River - our usual route with the sun at our back.  The Gatineau Airport is off the left wing, on the opposite shore, and entertaining only a pair of training flights practicing take-offs and landings.

Getting ready to depart Rockcliffe on a May evening.  (Author's Collection)

"Gatineau Radio, good evening.  Smith Miniplane Golf Delta Sierra Alpha with you, one-two-two decimal three - no transponder."
"Delta Sierra Whisky, Gatineau Radio.  Good evening."
It's likely a slip of the tongue as DSW was one of the old Aviation 550 172s based at Gatineau years ago.
"It's Delta Sierra Alpha.  Local flight - eastbound, south shore Ottawa river, one point seven."
"Roger," comes the reply.  "Report clear of the zone to the east."
It's a smooth evening - nary a ripple in the sea aloft - but hazy.  The horizon is undefined, bloated by humidity and tinged a smoky golden color by the low-slung sun.  Orleans crawls backwards underneath our wings.

Rockcliffe on May 24, 2016 - flight number 100 in the Smith. (Author's Collection)

This is my hundredth flight in the Smith.  It feels like that first heart-thumping flight and near disastrous landing at Brampton happened a lifetime ago when, in fact, it's been two years less two weeks.  Time is a funny thing.
I feel safe up here - despite the inherent dangers of flying.  In this cockpit, perhaps more than most, life is beautifully simple.  It's measured in miles per hour, feet per second, gallons per hour... The mechanics of flying are so ridiculously easy that one wonders why more won't take it up.   Then again, perhaps it is a blessing after all.  Having spent time aloft, one grows jealously protective and, while happy to admit guests to this inner sanctum, would prefer fewer permanent residents.              
For me, the sky has always been an escape.  I don't mean that in the sense that I'm running away from anything but rather, life is easier to manage when one has even but a momentary respite.
My father's death hit me harder than anything else I'd faced in my life - before or since.  I don't mean to say that my marriage or the birth of our son was of less impact but I was able to live it emotionally. That wasn't the case with Dad's passing.  Everything that followed happened so quickly and with such cold severity that I could do nothing but flip a switch and function purely on autopilot.   I grieved later and in my own way.  This blog and what I hope it becomes is an extension of that grief.
If someone asks, I'll honestly tell them that I don't like visiting my father's grave.  If pressed as to why, I'll confess that I don't think it holds anything of him, anything of worth at least. It's why I feel closer to him in the air, than I do on the ground.  It's why I insisted on having his Smith engraved on the crypt's plaque.  It's the reason for the airplane I'm sitting in, two thousand feet above the earth.

The engraving of Foxtrot-Alpha-Mike on my dad's plaque.  (Photo Courtesy: Author's Collection)

My dad worked long hours and often arrived home exhausted.  Naps were common after dinner.  As a little boy, I remember watching his chest rise and fall and, for some reason, worrying about what I would do if this breath was his last.  In the same vein, I would kneel on the couch that backed onto the large front window of my childhood home and wait for his car to pull into the driveway.  Sometimes, I would walk out to the end of the driveway and wait for headlights to appear at each end of the street then hurry back inside, hoping those two beams of light would illuminate the house rather than continue past.
I can't explain it and I don't think I've mentioned this to anyone...but I always felt as though my dad was living on borrowed time.
In a way, we all are.  It's an ugly proposition.
"Delta Sierra Alpha, Gatineau Radio," the voice of the flight service specialist crackles in my ears.  It's a welcome interruption.
"You're cleared en route.  Have a good flight."
So we are.  I glance over the canopy lip and see the ferries at Cumberland.
"So long," I reply.
I guide the little ship into a slight right turn to the south-east towards JP's farm.  A few orbits fail to solicit a response so we head further south into our favoured patch of farmer's fields.  Here, I throw the airplane around a bit, just for the fun of it.  After about ten minutes, we turn west again for home.
The sun is beginning to set.  The Ottawa River is a mirror - placid and flat and reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors filtered by the haze choking the horizon.  The suns rays bounce off the surface of the river and, like a skipping stone, set off a series of sparks - dots and dashes.
My dad did his national military service as an army Marconista - a wireless operator for a tank battalion - and he'd taught me some Morse code.  When I was perhaps 7 or 8 years old, he wrote the entire alphabet and numbers on a piece of lined paper and we went over a few letters every weekend after breakfast.

A dying sun.  (Author's collection)

The bursts of flight being thrown up at us by the surface of the river are not unlike those dots and dashes or di(t) and dah, as my dad put it.
I remember some but not nearly enough...
...di-di-di-dit - easy, an H.
...di-dah-dah-dah - J, or a misreading of Y.
...dah-dah - M, or was it dah-dit - N?
Is it gibberish - my trying to find meaning in chaos?  Or is the dying sun sending us a message?  It's fantasy, surely, but an intriguing idea.  At any rate, the flashes occur with the speed and breadth of a meteor shower and, while beautiful, it's impossible to decipher what, if anything, is being sent.

I've had a few dreams about my dad since he passed - but nothing like the waking reverie I'm having now.  I want to believe in an afterlife or, at least, that our loved ones still exist in one form or another. Perhaps this is a sign.  At the very least, it's something to hold on to.
As the sun falls below the horizon, the earth darkens and the sky changes.  The great telegraph key falls silent with a final burst and whatever light remains reflects golden off the underside of the top wings.

Heading home at dusk. (Author's collection)

It was a long winter and while I've made perhaps a dozen flights so far this season, tonight's was my dad's first "visit" of the year.  It was for me alone and it's difficult to describe.  What I saw this evening proves, at least to me, that he isn't in the mausoleum, behind that granite plaque.  He's up here with me, in a single-seat biplane.
Tonight, it's obvious - and I see it as plainly as I can count the ribs in the Smith's wings.  Tonight, I took a few minutes back.

...di-di-di-dah-di-dah...

Wingman

The sun has only just risen over the horizon on a cool May morning as I push through the door of a local coffee shop.  There's a jingle of a bell as I walk into the warmth and light.  As you would expect, the air smells of fresh coffee grounds and warm pastry - an invigorating scent given I've only just risen myself.

I order my usual morning brew with two milk and one cream - repeating it twice because it's apparently an odd request - and, cradling the cup in both hands, shuffle over to a table in the corner where my two compatriots are huddled around an aviation chart.  I sit down and take that first tentative sip.  They often mistakenly add sugar but no, this cup is as advertised.
I look down at the chart unfolded before us.  I love maps - all maps really - perhaps because of the promise of adventure they represent or the artistry lovingly invested in depicting three dimensions in only two.  I suppose I'm not unique among pilots as this is a sentiment often shared, albeit in whispers and somewhat in embarrassment.
The chart before us has seen heavy use.  Its corners are curled and its creases are prominent and deep.  It has helped chart many flights as evidenced by the faint remnant pencil marks of course and drift lines, checkpoints and alternates.  I know, without looking, that it is certainly out of date and therefore its use likely runs contrary to one regulation or another.  Today's flight, as most of mine are, is a local one and we know the airspace well.  Truth be told, open cockpit flying with a chart is comically nightmarish and I only use one if the territory is unfamiliar.  As such, our veteran chart's role is to help plan out the morning's activities rather than to guide us. 
We use our coffee cups as paperweights.  Mist rises from the face of each mug as our movements - poking a town with a finger or using a fingernail to trace a course - cause ripples in the liquid.  As the level of coffee in our mugs drops, we sink deeper into briefing this morning's formation flight - rendezvous point, frequencies, speeds, join procedure, break-off contingencies, safety considerations and so on. 
Once all parties are satisfied, the final dregs are drained and we trudge together into the brightening morning - unique among our peers by promising to meet again in the sky.
An hour later, the Smith and I are clattering east across Orleans - the buckles of my leather helmet slapping against my cheeks and the wind rough against my face.  My goggles are up and my eyes are narrow - searching for my friends.  Their mount is a Cessna 172, white with green and blue cheat lines, and it should be at my ten o'clock position by about a mile.
After some searching, I pick out the shape of the Cessna.  It's surprising as I've been staring straight at it for the last several moments.
"Tally-ho!" I joyously bellow into the current of the air rushing by - head thrown back, grinning like a fool.  I've always wanted to say that on an open channel.  One day I might work up the courage.


 Taken on July 14, 2010, this might be one of my favourite pictures.  Myself and Garrett Watkiss in Grob 115C C-GKPB as number 2 with Mark Psutka in Citabria C-FTSP as number 3.  The lead ship is a Cessna 172.  Within months of this picture being taken, all three of us had moved on to other flying jobs.  (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

I key my mic and ask for my leader to slow down and begin a slight turn to the right so that I may close the distance.  A few minutes later, I slide into echelon right position - to the right and slightly behind the Cessna.  From this point onward, we will be one.
This business is life and death and our currency in the exchange is trust.  The leader trusts his wingman to not chew his tail off and the wingman trusts his leader to not lead them into the ground.  My eyes do not leave the Cessna.  My hands and feet work the stick, rudder and throttle to keep the Smith balanced in position.  Turns to the inside are relatively easier - requiring the wingman to slow down - while outside turns are much harder, as the wingman must put his boots to the flanks of his mount to keep pace.

Another shot from the same series.  Note the Grob's canopy latch is open to allow greater airflow.  I remember it as a very warm day.  (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

My early experience with formation flying was with two highly experienced pilot chums of mine - and almost always as lead, which is arguably the easier role.  In recent years, I'd acquired training on flying the wing position.

It's no secret that I've been obsessed with airplanes and aviation in general since before I could say so but viewing another airplane in flight is nothing short of surreal.  On the ground, they're simply a machine but once in the air, even a old girl of homely countenance becomes quite the belle - a carrier of dreams.  From the ground, two ships in formation appear held together by a string - rigid and unmoving relative one another.  In the air, the opposite is in fact true.  They glide along the invisible current of air, bobbing up and down and rolling right to left like two small sailboats racing across the sea.




Closing in on the lead. Judging from the farm at lower left of frame, this was taken just south of Cumberland. (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

A still frame of FAM, flown by Charlie Miller and in her original livery, forming up on a Piper Cub in southwestern Ontario, 1978.  This is a still from an old 8mm film found by Gordon Skerratt.  (Photo Courtesy: Gordon Skerratt)

And, of course, there's a thin line between fascination and terror.  My first experience seeing another airplane in such close proximity to mine, and by blood chilling accident, happened nearly 15 years ago at an airport not far from here.  As a result of a series of unhappy coincidences and oversights by the flight service specialist, the other pilot and myself, a Diamond Katana ended up flying its circuit inside mine - so that we both turned final in formation and completely unaware of the other.  When I did finally spy the interloper, he was to my right and slightly below, in a gentle right bank.  It was beautiful to behold - white with blue trim, propeller as a translucent disc, exhaust pipes belching, rivets forming neat little lines, a smudge of oil. 

It felt as though an eternity had passed before the tide of terror began to rise.  I turned left, away from the danger, and executed two full circles.  I called the tower to let them know and sounded calm enough.  Out of the second orbit, I rejoined the approach and landed without incident.  The plan had been to taxi off, shut down and allow my backseat passenger to ride up front for the return leg to Rockcliffe.  I barely made it to the bathroom before retching until my insides ached.  It took a quarter of an hour for my hands to stop shaking.


One of my favourite pictures of the Smith in flight - this is near Wendover on the Ottawa River.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

Hundreds of hours later and with now with well-coordinated purpose, flying this close to another airplane is both a wondrous and heavy business.  The concept itself is beautifully simple.  I've lined up the Cessna's nose wheel and right main and kept them in position by small adjustments in throttle and equally precise and constant movements of stick and rudder.  As long as these features remain motionless, I know that my position relative to the leader has not changed. 

Line abreast right with the Gatineau Hills in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

Formation flying was born in the Great War when larger, slower and poorly armed reconnaissance planes were shepherded along by a more agile and better armed fighter.  In time, as tactics became more refined, fighter pilots came to learn that flying in coordinated groups offered them both better protection and greater offensive capability - in short, a formation cut down their losses and increased their victories.  Given these machines lacked radios, communication was carried out with pre-determined hand signals or movements of the airplane itself, such as a wag of the rudder or the rocking of wings.  Recognizing one another was not a difficult task either - the Allies tied streamers to the struts of aircraft flown by flight leaders while the Central Powers, led by Germany, allowed their pilots to paint their ships in loud, heraldic schemes.
In the Second World War, the British favoured the three-ship, v-shaped vic which looked great in parade fly-pasts but had little tactical advantages.  The Americans opted for the four-ship diamond formation, placing the least experienced pilot in the number 4 tail-end-Charlie position - which did little for their already limited life expectancy.  The German Condor Legion developed the finger-four - so called because, when viewed from above, it resembled the four fingertips of the right hand - during the Spanish Civil War and the Luftwaffe used it with continued success into the great conflict that followed.  By war's end, nearly all air forces were using the finger-four against them.

Following the war, formation flying was employed in aerobatics - perhaps the ultimate pinnacle of high-stakes precision flying.

Showing off her "clean" biplane lines.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessna and the Smith are employing the basic two-ship element of leader and wingman.  We are not ideally suited dancing partners as the bigger Cessna, while seemingly ungainly, is the faster aircraft.  Her pilot has throttled back to slow cruise so that the draggy biplane clinging to her wing can do so without straining her own engine.  As my eyes are fixed solidly upon my leader, who remains relatively steady, I'm not immediately aware that we are hurtling across the countryside at appreciable speed.  This is why any changes must be predictably and smoothly executed by the lead pilot.  If, at any time, they are lulled by the flying into thinking they are quite alone, the results could be catastrophic. 
At times, I am vaguely aware of where we are by the glimpse of a familiar island in the river or a quilt-like patchwork of fields I know to be near a certain town or another.  I am, however, largely ignorant of our position until the leader calls to spread out the formation.  I slide away to the right, perhaps doubling my distance from the lead, and am finally in a position to have a look around.  We're south-east of Orleans, west of Navan, and heading east.
We've been flying for nearly an hour and I've settled into enjoying the close quarters work.  I feel similar to how I did when I first started learning aerobatics.  The promise of this new challenge and skill building is as invigorating as this morning's cup of coffee.

Waving goodbye with Orleans in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessna waggles her wings and breaks away to the south for home.  I raise my gloved had in farewell and make a slight course correction to the right for Rockcliffe.  We promise to meet later to debrief the flight, perhaps over lunch or a second cup of coffee.
I watch the Cessna fade away in the murk lying upon the horizon, silently wish them a happy return and turn my attention to my own.

Breaking off.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)



Chocks away!

The winter wasn't particularly long but it certainly was temperamental.  Temperatures could spike to just above freezing level before plummeting to well colder than -20 or 25C overnight or into the next day.  The Smith resides in a steel tube "temporary" hangar anchored into the old tarmac and covered with canvas.  The ground isn't terribly level and so any snow melt would run off into the back and far corners and then freeze solid when the temperature dropped.  By January, the Smith's wheels and two of the Decathlon's three points were stuck fast in about two inches of ice.
I had plugged the Smith's exhaust pipes and cowling openings as well as covered her with a tarp.  Still, I visited about once a week to ensure everything was in order and to wipe off any snow that had managed to invade the shelter of the hangar.
In late March, the weather began to improve and temperatures climbed high enough for us to pull the Smith out and get her ready for her third season under my care.

March 29, 2016. Warming up the Smith after her winter hibernation.  My friend Bojan Arambasic is in the cockpit.  While I trust him, note the chocks on each wheel. (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

My friends Ernie and Bojan joined me to help get the Smith ready.  We carefully removed the tarp and rags prohibiting access to the Smith's innards.  We returned the battery, which I'd kept at home and periodically charged over the winter, to its place behind the pilot's seat.  It's an awkward maneuver that, while it can be done singlehandedly, really should be carried out with two sets of hands.  Still, we managed to touch some sheet metal with a terminal - resulting in a shower of sparks and some exciting moments.  After replacing the pilot's seat and giving the airplane a thorough walk-around, we rolled her out into the sunshine for the first time in nearly 5 months.  Bojan climbed in and, with my help, fired her up.  The Lycoming caught on the third turn of the prop and settled into her familiar throaty rumble.




Hanging out in a luxurious hangar and ready to go for 2016. (Author's Collection)

The next week, Pat and I did an oil and oil filter change, swapped out brake cylinder gaskets and refilled the brake fluid.  It was brutally cold and we worked in the warmth and comfort of the club's maintenance hangar.  When I started up to taxi back to the hangar, a colleague passed me in the 150.

"Jon," the radio crackled.  "You going up?"

"Good lord, no," I replied, laughing as I brought one hand up to cup my breath against my face.  "I'd freeze solid halfway through the take-off roll."

The day finally came on Saturday, April 16th.  I had flown a pair of instructional trips in the Super D and had my last time slot open.  It was warm enough that I could get away with long underwear, a pair of track pants and my orange hooded sweatshirt.  After a few taxi runs to remind my feet of their duties, I lined up to depart on runway 27.
There wasn't much wind and yet the take off run seemed shorter than usual - as though the little biplane had had enough of her winter hiatus.  She leapt off the ground and I held her in ground effect to build speed.  Then, with brisk back pressure on the old jet fighter's stick, we clattered up and to the right and into the departure climb.
It was a severe clear day with very light winds.  I flew with my goggles to shield my eyes from the lashing of the slipstream and propeller blast.  We flew east along the south shore of the Ottawa River, called upon Gatineau to announce the start of our season, and continued across Orleans towards the ferry crossing at Cumberland.  Here, we turn south-east, made a few orbits or JP's farm and continued south towards a clear patch of fields with lovely grid lines characteristic of south-eastern Ontario.
Dutch rolls are a coordination exercise where the pilot endeavours to hold the propeller hub steady on a point while rolling the wings left and right.  In most airplanes, there's a natural and undesirable tendency to yaw opposite the roll and so a fair amount of pro-roll rudder is needed.  This is called adverse yaw.  In the Smith, however, there's very little - so Dutch rolls are a joy.  You can slam the stick one way or the other and the biplane will gleefully roll her stubby wings in the desired direction while keeping her nose faithfully on point.
We began with this exercise just to shake off the cobwebs before moving into steep turns and then lazy-eights.  Steep turns are easy in the biplane - roll in and then back pressure to keep the cowling at the desired angle against the horizon.  A glance down at the low wing reveals that the airplane is perfectly balanced on a wingtip, as the earth - deep browns, wet greens and steely greys, whirls below.
I lessen the bank angle, increase aft stick and the Smith leaves the steady plane of the turn and bounds upward in to a chandelle - a climbing, 180-degree turn so called because the airplane follows a trajectory akin to the flame of a candle.  Due to her high drag, the Smith bleeds energy like nothing else and, as we finish the maneuver, she flops into level flight again and dips her nose.
As the airspeed builds, a quiver passes through the airframe.  The wires buzz and whine - the sound building in intensity, hand in hand with our velocity along this downward slope.  The bellow of the slipstream now overpowers the Lycoming's low moan.  Brisk aft stick now - needing far more muscle than any aileron movement would.  The Smith lifts her nose, the horizon falls away and we roll left as we continue to claw skyward.  My left hand moves forward and the Lycoming roars in response.  The horizon slides into view again - our wings cleaving it neatly in two.
And then, life slows down, inching, crawling to a near stop.  It's quiet - although the engine is emphatically pushing out 2500 rpm.  The wires are still, glinting mischievously in the sun.  I can hear my heart thumping in my head. 
I've reached this apex many a time and each visit, it feels like I'm here a little longer.
The horizon slides up and we're accelerating earthward again.  Left hand back, lest we offend the provider of thrust.  I slowly roll out - aiming for a green-roofed farm house and silo with a red and white starburst dome.  I imagine I am Coppens, pressing home one of 35 successful attacks on First World War barrage balloons; or McCudden, moments before shooting up a trench; or Voss, doubling back in attack against a hapless foe. 
We vault upwards again and out of the reverie.  My breathing is laboured but my mind, hands and feet do not betray any rust from nearly 5 months away.
The landing will be the true test and, as we return to the field across the suburb of Orleans, I resolve to bail out of the approach at the first hint of dissatisfaction. 
It seems like mere moments before we're joining the circuit at Rockcliffe and setting up for the first landing of 2016.  Things happen fast - as they always do in the Smith - and I hear Andrew Boyd's voice again.
"Flying these things is easy," his voice clear in my headset as we're about to turn final at Smiths Falls.  "It's fitting into the circuit that's hard."

Landing Runway 27 in the Smith.  C170 C-GOAW and C172 C-GYWN are holding short. (Photo courtesy: Chuck Clark)

As is my habit, I lift the left wings to make sure I'm not going to cut off another airplane already established on the final approach, and then turn inbound - still in descent.  I add a bit of nose up trim for 85 mph and throttle back to 1700 rpm.  It won't be much longer now.  Everything is as it should be. 
The trees reach up from the copse short of the runway then the perimeter road slides by, followed by the airport fence.  The brownish-green carpet of grass suddenly turns to grey asphalt.  White stripes race by. I tilt my head back and start the first of many "mini-flares" - very small aft movements of the stick meant to maintain the landing attitude.  As the speed bleeds away, I slowly bring the throttle back.  The Smith begins to sink and the asphalt reaches up to meet us.
There is a moment, right about now, where I find myself wondering what kind of landing this will be.  I've done everything by the book and the result should be as placid and straightforward as the approach I've just painstakingly executed.  Alas, there are no guarantees and anything can happen.
On this particular approach, I've lined things up well and the Smith rolls out straight and true with only occasional rudder input from her pilot.  It's the first of what I hope to be many happy landings this season. 
I only know one thing with any degree of certainty - no two will be alike.

Aloft, alow

Buckham's Bay is a long, finger-like slash in the Ontario shoulder of the Ottawa River opposite Quyon and Pontiac - about where the waterway widens and makes a sharp turn south towards the capital.  A good friend of mine has a cottage property - two small cabins with a dock - on the western shore of the bay, abeam its mouth.  It's a favourite summertime destination for the Smith and I.  Both father and son are aviation-obsessed and enjoy the occasional "beat-up" pass.  We're always happy to oblige.

Buckham's Bay "beat-up". (Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

And so, Ernie's place was my target on a pleasant and warm evening in mid-August.  We climbed away from Rockcliffe a little before 8 with the sun still fairly high in the sky.  We approached the Bay from the south-east on a direct course out of Rockcliffe and set up to fly our first pass from south to north.  The extremely popular Constance Bay beaches are less than a mile to the east and the bays are both well-frequented by float planes (and the occasional wheeled daredevil) conducting aerial survey of the more attractive beachgoers under the guise of training.  As always, it's necessary to keep a sharp a lookout but the potential for increased traffic sandwiched into such tight confines make it doubly important.
As we pass Ernie's place, I peer over the side.  One fool is thrashing about in the water, wildly waving his arms.  There's another on the dock.  Both are shirtless and both are likely well into their cups.  I rock our stubby wings in response and roll into a right turn away from the shore and into the open bay.  Head on a swivel, I reverse the turn to bring us back around for a north to south pass - again keeping an eye out for any interlopers.
I know about the Cessna 150 orbiting the beaches to my left - white with a rainbow flash from nose to tail.  The loud paint scheme identifies him as an Ottawa Flying Club machine.  He's flying east now, away from us - either heading to the VOR and then home or simply finishing a pass.  In a few moments, I'll know for sure.
Another rock of the wings and more splashing and waving in response from below.  As we sweep overhead, I guide the biplane into a slight right turn to open up another south to north pass.  As I roll right, the top wing reveals something of a surprise.  There, framed neatly in the backwards "C" formed by both left wings and the interplane struts, are two powered para-gliders - one orange and the other blue.  They're a bold collection of a paraglider wing, shrouds, a lawn chair and an oversized fan being driven by the aviation equivalent of a lawn-mower engine.  Ironically, one of the more popular models also bears the name "Miniplane". 
They appear to be almost stationary - hovering in formation over the southern tip of the bay with the blue wing leading the orange in echelon right.  Their lack of reaction indicates they haven't seen us.  I continue my turn to the east and climb for extra altitude.  It'll be easier to keep tabs on them against the forests and fields below - rather than squinting into the sinking sun.
I pick the paragliders up again as they turn east towards the beaches at Constance Bay - still crawling along in formation.  The 150 has vanished - having likely headed home.  A larger Cessna taildragger, either a 180 or 185 on floats is traversing the bay from the south-west.  It's likely headed into one of the small lakes that speckle the Gatineau River watershed to the north.  As the float plane continues across the river, I fly a few more passes up and down the bay - rocking my wings in greeting each time. 
I've planned my last pass to finish on an approximate return heading for Rockcliffe.  I take the Smith up to 2500 feet so as to cross the river with plenty of altitude.  The only other aircraft I spot is a yellow and blue high wing Zenith job - likely a 750 - scurrying west for Arnprior.  I waggle my wings in salute.  No response.  She slides by our wings and disappears into the blaze of the western sun.
Night is encroaching on day.  A few bonfires flicker and dance in the deepening gloom settling below. The sun now resembles a golden pebble balanced precariously on the precipice of the horizon.  An orange band languishes across the length of the western divide - throwing golden light across the darkening landscape.  The Ottawa River and a few scattered lakes on the Quebec side shimmer in response, their placid faces glowing orange, now pink and now blue.  The colors live as though they were notes played as part of a great concerto, brightening and fading with a rhythm not unlike music as it peaks and then falls away. If it wasn't for the faithful growl of the Lycoming, I swear I could hear each note. 
The sky, however, remains a flat, dispassionate gray - stoic against the exuberant concert of color crashing across the land below.
And then, the pebble rolls off the edge of the earth and the great maestro's firm hand closes on his opus.  Soon, the dying sun pulls the colour and sound into the depths with it to begin its next journey - rolling across the other half of the world.

The pebble.  (Author's collection)

Alow, in the small town of Breckenridge, a boy about to return home after an afternoon playing in the yard looks skyward, prompted by the rhythmic roar of my engine.  Soon, the biplane's dark shape, silhouetted against the shadowy heavens, sweeps into view.  His eyes follow me south-east until just before I disappear behind a stand of trees.  He reaches for the door and pulls it open, sending warm lamplight, the chatter of supper time family life and the smell of dinner spilling into the night.  When he glances up again, I've vanished into the gloom with only the fading sound of the biplane's engine to betray my presence.
Aloft, the boy's throwing open of his front door was but a brief spark in a sea of grey twilight sliding by under my wings.  I don't notice it.  As the light and warmth seep out of the August air, I grow anxious - like a boy caught out after curfew.  Aloft, it is not yet "legal night" - a term used to describe one half hour after sunset - and there is still a fair amount of light.  Alow, on the earth upon which I will soon resume my citizenship, night has already fallen.
I inch the throttle forward and the Lycoming's song increases in pitch and urgency.  The luminescent dials of the instruments are only just starting to glow - providing some comfort in the form of airspeed (105 mph) and altitude (1,400 feet).  I hasten my approach south-east towards the city, her few high-rises huddled together in the downtown core, blackened monoliths, rising up above charcoal horizon; her streets - golden veins lined in Morse code pinpricks of light - sprawling south and stitching together the fabric of the city.  Car headlights weave, probing in the murk.  Taillights blink on and off, sparking crimson chain reactions not unlike dominos falling.  I count - until losing count.  Here, the multi-colored cyclone of a police cruiser's lights soundlessly announce a minor infraction or a more severe tragedy.  There, a searchlight, likely from a theatre, reach skyward - swinging wildly.
I would be more impressed, awestruck even, by the beauty of the scene if it wasn't for night giving spirited chase from the west.
As I turn left around the plunging granite walls of the Gatineaus, Ottawa's northern sister hoves into view.  I have given up valuable ground, turning to give my quarry a broadside look at her prey.  I pull the nose up, the blackened earth falls away and I climb three hundred feet into the indigo sky.  As I lower the nose again, the Gatineau airport reveals herself just off the left side of the Smith's cowl as a series of lights blinking on.  A frequency switch allows me to briefly listen to a Piper Cherokee make its approach and takes me back more than a decade - to driving an aging Beech Sundowner around that same airport on nights blacker than this...and with a temperamental landing light which insisted on overloading and popping off in the flare.
A slight course correction to the south will take me overhead Rockcliffe.  Night continues her advance.  The moon is delinquent, missing.  The only light in the cockpit comes from the glow of the instruments and the radio. 
I reach down to a panel by my right thigh and flick a switch.  My anti-collision lights fade on like the tubes in an old radio - with about half the intensity.  It is an entirely futile act but it gives me some comfort.  I tune the radio back to Rockcliffe and call the Unicom.  No answer.  The dispatcher must be vacuuming the hall or scrubbing down the bathrooms, preparing to close up the clubhouse once the last training flight returns. 
I cross the river and abruptly think about the almost 40-year-old wiring snaking through the wings and fuselage to the lights - green on the right wing, red on the left and white in the tail.  All it would take was one crimp in a wire, one spark and the fabric would burn like a torch.  It would only be for a few spectacular seconds but it would be long enough.
I reach down again and switch them off.  My thumb starts working the transmit button - periodically opening a channel to trigger the runway lights. 
Was it 5 or 7 in an 8 second period?  Or was it 8 in a 5 second period? 
The runway lights wink on.  Either the dispatcher has returned from his chores or my clumsiness with the transmit button has yielded a result.
The Smith and I arrive overhead just before 9 o'clock.  I chop the throttle, the Lycoming whispers her reply and the wires sing in the slipstream rushing past me.   I stand her on the port wings and let her fall to earth in a graceful spiraling dive to the left - aiming to come out on a short final for runway 09.  Twenty seconds later, we roll out abeam the RCMP horse paddock and press our approach home as night finally washes over the field. 
We touch down with a little skip before rolling out straight ahead as the night sky returns us to the bonds of the earth.
A few minutes later, we roll to a stop outside the canvas hangar and I switch off.  It's barely perceptible but my hands are trembling.  I feel calm and content but it seems the nearly-night landing has taxed my nervous system more than usual. 
I extract myself from the Smith's cockpit and sit down next to the left main, leaning my head against the warm aluminum of the lower cowls.  I can hear the engine ticking as its metal innards cool.  The gyros are winding down with soft whine.  Underneath these sounds of flight realized, the crickets are chirping.  The field is dark now - save for the lights of the clubhouse and the outline of the runway.
A deep, steadying breath.  A few thoughts of thanks. 
The runways lights wink out - all at once - and, suddenly, the night's conquest is complete.

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.

Five Days in May

On May 2nd, I had an open booking in the middle of my day.  It was a gorgeous spring morning with light winds, temperatures in the high teens, clear blue skies and unlimited visibility.  I had already taken the Super Decathlon up to do Immelmann turns with a student and didn't have my next lesson - hammerheads - for a little more than two hours. 
With KXD tied up on the line, the Smith sat alone in the shade of the hangar.  I sat a few hundred feet away, watching, and chewing thoughtfully on a protein bar.
The Smith was imploring me to take us out for a quick rip.  There was no mistaking that.  You may think it isn't possible for a machine, in this case a collection of steel tubing, hand-planed wood and doped fabric, to give you a look - but, believe me, it is.  It's the same look a dog gives you when it simply must go for a walk this instant.  The Smith might as well have been sitting by the door, tail wagging, leash hanging from her jaws, whining softly.
With a sigh, I hop off the plywood box meant to house wing covers, engine blankets and tie-down ropes for a Cessna 150, and start walking towards the biplane.  It's a haphazard, circuitous root.  I stop to let the Cessna 170, that old flat 6 Continental clattering, roll by.  I casually wave to the pilot.  On the other side of the taxiway, I chat briefly with another aviator and, once the pleasantries and idle topic of the day are exhausted, promptly forget what the conversation was about.  With each step, my excitement builds.  The whining grows in volume and urgency.

The Smith in her corner of the hangar on May 2nd. (Author's collection)

A few minutes later, I've rolled the Smith out of her corner and into the bright sunlight.  I give her a thorough pre-flight inspection, lingering longer than usual in certain high importance areas.  I've noticed that I'm doing that with increased regularity and I'm fairly certain I know why.  Still, the anticipation prods me onward through a full circle of the bipe and her underside.  Everything is at it should be.
Not too long after, with the Lycoming growling in my ears, we're sprinting down the runway.  I've hardly touched the rudder pedals on this particular roll - save for periodic taps on the right pedal.  I've eased off on the forward stick so that the Smith adopts a slightly tail low attitude as we approach flying speed.  As I've planned, she calmly breaks ground of her own accord and we begin rising gently into the sky above Rockcliffe.
I haven't decided where we'll go or what we'll do.  I just felt like going up to have a look around, just for the fun of it.  The Smith and I consider the concrete carpet of Gatineau, the hills and the flat lands beyond as our destination but her little wings keep pulling us around onto an easterly heading.  Holding the leash, I let the biplane set the pace. 
We crawl along above the Ottawa River, chat a little with the flight service station at Gatineau, and keep pushing on to the east.  At Masson-Angers, we turn left to follow the Du Lievre River north past Beauchampville on the left bank and Buckingham on the right.
Beyond these small towns, the landscape settles into a narrow ribbon of puzzle-piece farmers fields centered on the river and flanked for miles by a sea of granite cloaked in green.  The river, once used move lumber downstream to the Ottawa, meanders north-north-west to the small town of Notre-Dame-de-la-Salette.
There's something about this town.  We noticed it last season when we first flew out this way and loitered overhead for a little while.  We felt it again on our next visit but couldn't quite identify the allure.  It might be that the little town, known as Portland until the mid 1960s, is the only outpost for 15 or 20 miles in any direction.  It's beautiful but lonely up here and perhaps, this tiny speck of civilization soothes that feeling.  It might be how the town is nestled tightly around a set of crossroads nuzzled up to the river's eastern shore...or the way the sunlight glints off the steel grey roof of the church. 

A house destroyed the 1908 landslide in Notre-Dame-de-la-Salette. (Collection Bastien)

 

The feeling is also one of inexplicable sadness.  It washed over us each time we orbited overhead, on days much like this one - when we had absolutely no reason to feel this way. 

After our second trip out here, the feeling persisted and I did some research.  Notre-Dame-de-la-Salette has many reasons to be sad.  More than a century ago, in the early morning hours of April 26th, a landslide swept down the western shore of the river - taking 3 houses with it and killing 6 people.  With the river blocked by mud and debris, huge blocks of ice were carried across the town, destroying a dozen houses and 25 other buildings.  In the end, 34 people were killed, roughly ten per cent of the town's population - many of them in their beds. 

Two additional landslides, in 1900 and 1912, as well as a 1903 fire, ravaged this river town.

The scene of devastation after the 1908 Notre-Dame-de-la-Salette. (Collection Bastien)

And maybe that's what we feel, what makes the air heavy - that lingering echo of catastrophe, careening off the nearby hills, swirling around the town and rising gently into the sky above.

After a few more lazy spins around the village, we point our nose west and follow it through the hills to Poltimore, then south to Val-des-Monts before picking up a valley and taking it west to Wakefield. 
Here, we turn south again to follow the Gatineau River home.

At this point, I became aware of a faint headache.  It was after 1 in the afternoon and the sun was strong and high in the sky.  Sunlight leaked through the propeller's disk, bounced off the Smith's nose and into my eyes.  I hardly ever wore sunglasses when flying and I'd likely been squinting for most of the flight.  In order to take advantage of the warm air on my face, I'd left my goggles on my forehead and now the pressure points were burning and seemed to be centered on my temples.  All this conspired to force my mind from the business of flying to the urgency of landing.
The circuit is not our best.  We're pushed out long and wide by the busy Saturday afternoon circuit. The final approach features more power adjustment and speed chasing than I'd normally deem acceptable.  And yet, I pursue the approach.  I'm sore and flushed from the sun.  My head is pounding and my eyes itch.  I just want to put the little ship down.
We rush over the perimeter fence and into the flare.  I could bail out of the approach here but I don't.  Instead, I bring the power off, the plane settles onto the pavement and skips back into the air.  We slide sideways for a few feet and touch down a second time before galloping at once into air again.  I see the edge of the runway hovering into view as my hands and feet work to wrestle the biplane to the ground. 
An instant later, the little ship, tired of flight, sags to earth and the wheels chirp as I manage to finally horse the biplane into running straight. 
We roll clear of the runway at Bravo taxiway.  My mouth is dry and tastes of ash.  My heart beat is crashing around inside my cavernous head. 
I am an idiot.
The Smith's only reply is the admonishing rumble of the Lycoming at slow idle and the swishing sound of the prop. 
"A good approach is a good landing," I hear my Dad say, as clear as though he were standing next to me, leaning up against the cockpit rim and shouting advice into my ear.
He's right.  That was a lousy approach.  I had plenty of reasons and many chances to break off and set up again but I chose to press the approach and then tried to save the landing.  I broke every rule I incessantly hammered into the heads of my students.  In fact, and ironically, I'd echoed my Dad just this morning.
I tucked the Smith into the corner of the hangar, laid an apologetic hand on her cowl and went back to the Decathlon and hammerheads. 
The hammerhead is perhaps the most exciting and most difficult maneuver in the basic aerobatic repertoire.  It involves a brisk pull to the vertical - until the wing cleanly cuts the distant horizon in half.  One must lean on the right rudder to stay straight during the pull and, once the desired angle is achieved, slight forward pressure on the stick is required to keep the machine from slowly rotating onto her back.  At this point, it's a waiting game.  As the ship climbs the vertical line, gravity inevitably takes over and her heavenward progress slows and will eventually stop.  The slipstream tightens around the airframe and gives the pilot a buffet, a trembling of the stick similar to what's experienced during run-up when the machine is stationary with the engine at high power. This is the only real cue the aviator is afforded. At this point, some four to five seconds after the hitting the vertical line, the pilot must add left rudder to begin the pivot, right stick to hold the wing down and slight forward pressure to keep the cut even.  If executed properly, the aircraft pivots through 180 degrees and travels earthward again.
There's a lot going on in the hammerhead, most of it counterintuitive - and it all happens more or less at once.  In the novice, there's a terrific desire, fueled by borderline panic, to stuff everything into a corner and then get frustrated about the unpleasant result.  With experience, however, time slows down, the process crystallizes and the hammerhead grows into the sweet maneuver it really is.  Of course, time doesn't really slow.  The sand in the hourglass keeps flowing at the same rate but patience and experience make it much easier to count the grains.
"Patience is a virtue," my dad used to say.  He used to say it all the time.  He kept saying it after he'd passed. 
When my wife and I had settled on a venue for our wedding - a building that my dad had built, in fact - we were faced with only two available dates, one in May and one in October.  Given it was already March, I was pushing heavily for October.  Mel wanted May.  After some discussion, she relented.
"Patience is a virtue," she said. 
I wept.  My wife had met my father once, and only for a few minutes.  After I had calmed down enough to question her about the phrase, she admitted she never really used it and didn't know why she had at that particular moment. 
I did, however...and we were married in October.
Over the next week, I flew the Smith four more times.  For the first two flights, I flew only circuits - at first stop-and-go landings and then touch-and-goes.  I concentrated on the fundamentals of speed, energy management and power above all else.  Keeping her straight while blind out the front had become almost second nature.  I went around a few times - once because of traffic on the runway and twice because I just didn't like the approach.  On one or two occasions, I rolled out to a slow walking pace, taxied off and went back out again so that I could simulate full stop landings.  I sank myself into sharpening my skills in the most critical phases of flight, shoehorning the tutelage into short intervals made even shorter by the biplane's faster approach speed. 
The circuit flights were relatively short - no more than 25 or 30 minutes.  This kind of flying in the Smith was just as taxing as the time I'd spent in the Pitts - the only difference being I still had lessons to teach in the Super D.  The physical workload was significant but mentally, it was a marathon.  I'd emerge from the cockpit sweating from exertion but grinning in triumph.
The second pair of flights involved circuits bookending a short jaunt out of the airport's zone.  The goal here was to give me a break and an opportunity to just relax and fly the biplane.
With each flight, I became increasingly aware that I had been hurrying the airplane, forcing things to happen before they naturally should.  The May 2nd flight in the midday sun was a perfect example; I was tired, uncomfortable and anxious to land so that I could uncoil myself from the airplane, get some water, shade and rest.  The unplanned extension of the circuit exacerbated that impatience and I then punched through every warning sign in an effort to put the airplane down.
The Smith was teaching me to be patient again.  If I did things just so, she would reward me with a gentle touch down and a well-behaved roll out. 
It really was that simple.  Good things do come to those who wait.

Fluency

My full-time employment at the Rockcliffe Flying Club remained on my own terms.  I set myself up to work Wednesday through to Sunday in order to keep myself available for the higher trafficked weekends.  The aerobatic program competed annually with the petulant nature of April weather, with its undulating temperatures and sporadic rain showers that often came unannounced with the fury of a monsoon.  May usually brought stability in the weather and a more or less constant stream of returning and new aerobatic students.  In the short term, I planned to fill the gaping holes in my schedule with short jaunts in the Smith.

I had plenty of opportunity in the days following our first flight of 2015.  The Smith and I launched on the 16th, 17th and 18th with the goal of recapturing the modicum of comfort and skill we'd built during the previous season.

On the 16th, we went east instead of west - racing along the south shore of the Ottawa River and across the urban sprawl of Orleans spilling out of the nation's capital.  Once the ferry crossing at Cumberland disappeared under the left wing, we turned right to a heading of roughly south-east.  Here, Orleans breathed her last gasps of suburbanization and the expanse of field and forest reigned.  Here and there, a small town or hamlet crowded the intersection of two county roads that, remarkably, ran straight and true for miles until fading into the dull, grey blur of the horizon.

I picked up a rare winding asphalt road, crossed a small patch of fields, then a forest that had sprung a cell phone tower from its pine canopy.  Just beyond, was J.P. and Maria's farm with the cliché red barn and its incongruous slabs of solar panels.  I guided the Smith through a few left hand orbits until someone emerged from the house and stood in the dirt courtyard, shielding their eyes with one hand while waving with the other.  The Smith and I went around the patch a few more times before waggling our wings and sweeping southward to crisscross the countryside.

I love this part of Ontario because it has remained largely unchanged since the days when we first took to the skies.  You could, as they did in aviation's infancy, take off or land from any of the fields spread around us - provided they were reasonably flat, devoid of ditches and you took care to avoid fences, trees or livestock.  Later, when the literal flying fields became aerodromes and then airports, the purpose-built installations at Rockcliffe and Pendleton were carved out of the wilderness or born from repurposed land.  Airplanes too became more specialized, more sophisticated - and they flew higher and faster behind engines of increasing power.  Still, they remained essentially the same - wings for lift, a tail for control and stability, a compartment to carry the aviator and an engine to provide thrust.

Rockcliffe's face had changed drastically over the years.  Her three runways had been whittled down to just the single strip - one being erased entirely while the other now serves as a taxiway.  Her expansive military hangars are gone, leaving only the faint footprint of their foundations and the occasional iron tie-down ring.  The song of the Merlin and the bass rumble of the old radials has long since faded only to be replaced by a chorus of small Lycomings and Continentals with the occasional refrain of a Kinner and Jacobs thrown in.  Purists decry this aging as the tearing down of national monuments while most are simply glad the old field exists at all.

Further east, and actually not far from where we are now, is the former RCAF Station Pendleton.  During the second world war, it hosted No. 10 Elementary Flight Training School (EFTS) where trainee pilots were given 50 hours on the Tiger Moth or the Finch.  The field remains largely as it did more than 75 years ago.  It retains its characteristic triangular arrangement of runways and most of the buildings from that era, however, the asphalt is in such bad shape that the tow planes and gliders mostly use the grass.

I can see the pale triangular smudge of Pendleton, neatly framed by the forest, hovering just over the nose.  It's well camouflaged and, if you're not purposely looking for it, easy to miss.  I quickly tune my radio to Pendleton's frequency and listen in.  Silence.  Well, outside of the blast of the slipstream and the growl of the engine.

My eyes strain to pick out any traffic loitering about the old airport.  No joy - and it's not surprising either.  It's lunchtime on a Thursday.  I'm very much alone in the sky's basement.  In fact, it's likely that I'm the only pilot flying around these parts.  At least the only pilot not getting paid to fly.

I smile in spite of myself.  I suppose this is one of the perks of being more or less unemployed.

About ten minutes later, still smiling over my how great misfortune led to me frolicking in the skies while everyone else worked, I am crossing the field at Rockcliffe and about to join the circuit.  There's only one airplane in the circuit, a rental flight in one of the club's Cessna 172s, and I've been listening to him plod around the pattern for the last several minutes as I flew inbound.  As I'm about to make my overhead call, he comes up on the frequency to say he's turning base.

This is good news.  As Andrew Boyd taught me during my apprenticeship in the Pitts, "flying these things is easy, it's fitting into the circuit and landing that's hard."  With that in mind, I fly a circuit similar to the one flown by the ride-hopping WACO.  It consists of a descending, U-shaped base to final at 85 miles per hour and carrying 1700 RPM until the flare.  In the Pitts, I flew a similar profile to a slant final, before making that final adjustment to line up with the runway as I crossed the threshold.  I can see well enough straight ahead over the nose in the Smith to render the slant final unnecessary.

The whole thing, from the end of downwind to touchdown takes about 25 seconds.

Still, given the 172 is on base for a touch and go and I'm overhead, this should work out nicely.

The only issue is that the 172 isn't where I expect it to be.

After squinting hard at what I would expect to be the terrain above which one normally flies a base leg, I catch a glimpse of the white trainer turning final somewhere past Beacon Hill.  The accompanying radio call confirms it.

My groan is instantly swept away by the wind, leaving only a despondent rumble in my chest.  I power back and trim for 70 miles per hour, which is the slowest speed I care to cruise at.  This is 10 miles per hour faster than the Smith's stalling speed and only slightly faster than the 172 final approach speed.

And so we come to every biplane pilot's rub. Two wings means double the lift but also double the drag.  These things can't glide worth a damn.  Rockcliffe affords little when it comes to off-airport landing sites so once you're in the pattern, the preference is to stay close enough to the field that you can make it should the engine quit.  The trouble is, you can't fly slow enough to avoid being pushed way out by a slower airplane flying a wider circuit.  The end result is that we end up wallowing around the pattern, holding our altitude until final and then increasing speed to 85 miles per hour for the approach.

It isn't dangerous or difficult, really - just backwards.

The end result is, by the time we're crossing the perimeter fence, we're a little faster than we should be.  I know I can carry a lighter power setting into the round out and bleed off the excess by being patient in the flare. 

I let the cushion of air beneath us flatten a shade earlier than I'd aimed for and the little ship skips back into the air.  It's an unpleasant feeling - hanging a few feet above the asphalt with the power at idle and the scenery rushing past in a frenetic blur.  I know we're floating more than a meter above the runway - I can feel it in my seat and in how the wings feel heavy.  I won't break it if I drop the Smith from this height but it will be a wild ride down the runway. 

This is the Smith talking to me.  Like any language, it fades with disuse.  After 5 months away, I'm only just starting to remember some of the words.

Instinctively, the left hand moves forward and the engine responds.  The wings, light again and invigorated by thrust, stop the Smith from settling.  With the lightest of pressure from my right wrist, we rise into the sky again and set up for another go.

Breaking 700 total time and 25 in the Smith on 18 April 2015.  I'm holding a sign displaying the numbers.  (Author's Collection)

On the 17th, we flew north-west to the drag strip at Luskville with the intention of racing against cars but there weren't any.  On the 18th, we flew a short patrol up the Gatineau River to Wakefield.  When we returned to Rockcliffe, I'd surpassed 700 hours total time and 25 in the Smith.
My time in the Smith represented 3.5 per cent of my total flying time over 13 years.  When I reflected on the simple mathematics, it dawned on me that the meaningfulness and impact of that time, barely a day, had quietly defined my flying life.

Waves

It's peaceful out here.  So tranquil, in fact, that it stands as a rare moment when one can experience each individual sense as its own monument to a life well lived.

I was 26 years old in June of 2010 - hardly a long life but certainly a rich one.  I had been fortunate to have travelled much of my country and the world, gained an education, something of a job and membership in the relatively small but tightly bound group of aviators.

As I said, it's quiet out here. The only sound is of water lapping against fibreglass.  And my breathing - somewhat labored but calming as the pounding of my heart, reverberating like a drum inside my head, subsides.  The air is clean and fresh with an undertone of a salty waft of an ocean breeze.  The Pacific is a deep grey, nearly black and almost oil-like as it rolls by in gentle undulations between ridge and valley.  The flat, shimmering disk of the sun has only just dipped its feet in the distant western horizon.

On this vast face, we bob like two corks - perhaps a half mile from a shore that slides in and out of sight.  I'm lying prone on my board, hands tightly clasping the edges while my feet hang off the edge, occasionally dipping into the waves as they work their way back in with the tide.  I have my left ear against the board listening to the sound of the sea slowly drowning out my heartbeat.  My friend, who I haven't seen in a few years now, is perhaps another fifteen feet out to sea, sitting astride her board and knee deep in the Pacific.  Eyes closed, face upturned - she's the only break on a wide horizon tinged in red and violet.  She came out here after university to find...something.  I'm not sure what but I think I may know why.  We haven't really talked about it and I have no intention of broaching the matter.  They are her secrets and hers alone.  She does seem happier and that's more than enough.
We could not be more different, more divided.  I marvel at her ease and quiet confidence - straddling the ocean in the same manner as one holds dominion over a backyard lawn chair.  I'm clinging to my postage stamp of salvation and wondering how deep the water is and why on earth I paddled out beyond the break. 

Dominion.  Yes, it wasn't always this way.  It couldn't have been.  This mastery came only with time and practice and repeated defeat.  Where I am now, she once was.  I begin to understand the responsibility she assumed by bringing me out here.  I now accept why we (rather she) spent hours studying the waves, changing beaches, waiting for the proper conditions.  I accept that having ventured into the maw of the Pacific, we would inevitably be spit back out.

"Okay," she says, eyes still closed as if in communion with the sea.  "Let's go back."

I swing my board around, dip my arms and feet into the cool water and, instantly invigorated and emboldened, start paddling for shore.  As my speed builds, the gentle waves grow.  At a certain and very specific point, I feel the ocean swell under my board and drive me forward with more force than I can muster on my own. 

"Get up!"  I hear her distant cry through the roar and hiss of wave and spray. 

I'd practiced getting up on the board on dry land and in the surf without success.  Even before paddling out, we vowed that this will be my last attempt.

A frantic second later, I'm standing on the board.  A quick glance at my feet confirms it.  I've no clue as to how this happened.  I am riding the ocean, gliding along on the crest of a small wave - just one heartbeat of this rolling mass.  The euphoria almost instantly devolves into fear and the bottom falls out.  The board goes one way, my feet the other.  The horizon revolves smoothly before disappearing in a rush of white mist.

Surfing Tofino in 2010. (Author's collection)

Nearly six years later, I draw my collar up against the blast of a chilly spring wind.  I am far from the warmth of the Pacific.  Rather than lying on a board, I am sitting on an old park bench in the shadow of the portable building that has served as the flying club's temporary home for nearly a decade.  Both have been painted an alarming combination of sky and royal blue.  The paint, hastily applied, is peeling and chipping.  I brush away a few specks with a gloved hand.

Rather than studying the waves, I am gazing intently at the windsock mounted above the fuel pumps.  It is my visual indicator of the unseen waves of air that roll across the surface of the old air base at Rockcliffe.  It points stiffly east, indicating a wind of some twenty knots out of the west.  Every few seconds, it flicks, spins or wags as the waves change direction and speed.  Every few seconds, I change my mind between staying on the ground or launching into the blue.

The wind is straight down the pipe and no stronger than the day I first brought the Smith here.  But that had been nearly ten months ago and I hadn't flown the airplane, or any airplane for that matter, in the last five months.  The airplane was made ready yesterday and my feet had betrayed no weakness during a half dozen taxi runs.  And yet...

"Just relax and fly it."

The words belong to Geoff, our ramp manager.  Clad in blue coveralls and topped by a mane of grey-blonde hair, he towers above me - a giant silhouetted by the early afternoon sun.

I nod resolutely and begin the walk to the hangar.  Moments later, I am listening to the sound of the wheels roll along the same tarmac that once hosted AVRO 504Ks, North American Harvards, Hawker Hurricanes and Avro Lancasters.  I drum my fingers on the taut fabric of the wings, strum the flying wires and tail braces, run my hands along the leading edges, cowls and prop.  Dropping into the cockpit, I'm welcomed by familiarity - the sights, smells and feelings of a well-worn armchair. 

DSA comes out of hibernation.  (Author's Collection)

Belts on and locked.  Helmet on and goggles up. Fuel on.  Throttle set. Mixture to full rich. Three shots of prime.  Master switch on.  Ignition switches on.  Brakes set. 
I whisper the words as my eyes follow my hands around the cockpit. 
Right hand on the stick, left hand resting gently on the throttle, head up and neck craned left - straining to look around the long nose.

"Clear!"

My pinky finger hits the starter button.  The propeller cracks, swings around once, twice.  There's a cough from the Lycoming and then it roars to life.  The Smith quivers and trembles in response, in excitement. 

A few minutes later, we're climbing into a clear blue sky with only a scattering of wispy clouds.  The take-off roll, thanks to the wind, was quite short.  My blood is still pumping but I'm happy with how my body performed.  My mind too, sharpened by that unique mingling of fear and anticipation, did an admirable job.  Having reached a thousand feet, I turn slightly to the right to cross the river at Gatineau's Jacques Cartier Park.  I'll permit myself to relax a little now, rolling my shoulders back and letting my body sink into my seat. 

We race across downtown Gatineau.  The casino, with its lake and hundred foot water spout, slides by the left wings as the hydro electric dams at Chelsea float by on the right.  The Gatineau Hills slope up from left to right just beyond the nose.  Jostled by periodic bursts of wind, I guide the little biplane towards the lowest point of the hills.  My eyes dart from the engine gauges to the few fields and off-airport landing sites available on this brief run.  I have them memorized.  Should the engine quit now, I will go here.  Should it quit then, I will go there.

The Lycoming, offended, purrs steadily on.

At last, we bound across the pass and I guide the airplane into a gentle right turn to the north-west - right wings over the sheer drop of the Gatineau Hills escarpment, left wings framed by an expanse of patchwork fields and the river beyond. 

It's a Tuesday afternoon.  The radio is silent and the skies are clear.  From my meager height, I can still see the eastern reaches of Algonquin Park.  I will never tire of this view.

Flying near Luskville on the first flight of the season.  Note the ice still clinging to the shores of the Ottawa River.  (Author's Collection)

Tuesday, April 14th, 2015 marked the beginning of our second season.  It had been an eventful offseason.  After being laid off in late November and taking a month off to reset, I launched myself into finding new work.  This search, in and of itself, was a full-time job.  The process was at times both exciting and discouraging and, while I did enjoy a few call backs and interviews, I had yet to land work.  So, as the flying season opened in April, I offered my full-time services to the Rockcliffe Flying Club.

Working as a full-time pilot had never been on my radar. While the pay was decent due to my specialized skill set, there just weren't enough hours in the day to safely make a go of it.  I always considered it a great way to keep my hand in some interesting flying while avoiding the high cost of rental.  Later, after acquiring the Smith, it became a convenient way to run the biplane without leaning too heavily on the fruits of my day job. 

I thought the flying club job would keep me from slowly going batty.  It would give me a sense of professional purpose and normalcy, I argued.  It would also put some money in the bank.  This was important given we had welcomed a baby boy at the end of January - the only bright spot in an otherwise cruelly bleak winter. 

The 5 months preceding this flight had subjected me, and at times my family, to a wide and wildly opposed range of thoughts and emotions.  In the same minute, I would feel the hot pang of anger bordering on white rage, followed by a desperate sadness and powerful feelings of eroded self worth.  I busied myself by searching for work, writing applications and going to the gym - usually twice but occasionally as many as 3 times a day. 

When I was a little kid, I remember saying something along the lines of "I hate this..." and my father telling me, quite solemnly,  that "hate is a very strong word and while you may not like something or someone, you might even strongly dislike them, hate is never something you should feel."

Sorry, Dad.  I felt hate.  I hated in bountiful, unhealthy amounts.  I wished terrible things onto unsavoury people.  I knew it was wrong, and yet...

Sorry, Dad.

But I tried to fight against it.  Every time my mind's eye saw a face I wanted to drive my fist through, I drove to the gym and mindlessly pushed weights until my muscles screamed.  Every time my mind wandered to some aspect of that bone-chilling November morning, I chained myself to my laptop until I'd written three job applications.

Every time I went down the proverbial rabbit hole, I fought like hell to get out.  And always, once a day, I caught myself sighing, "God, I am so tired."

And then, on one of those bitterly cold January mornings when the whole of your world waits in longing anticipation of that first ray of sunlight and when the snow, carried on a stiff wind, swirled outside and collected on window ledges, things...everything changed.

I trudged down a hospital corridor in suede mukluks, grey jogging pants and a t-shirt I'd been wearing for 24 hours.  My wife, being wheeled in a bed by a portly nurse, was outdistancing me and eventually vanished around a corner.  The hospital, clad in uniform taupe punctuated by the pastels of nurses' scrubs, hummed around me.  And I was lost in the presence of the little boy I cradled in the crook of my left arm like a football.

I asked for forgiveness for all the wrongs I'd committed - known and unknown.  I forgave any wrongs - known or unknown - that had been done to me.

Sorry, Dad - that you can't be here to meet your grandson.  It had been my fear since I'd heard about the second cancer diagnosis.  And now, here it was.

The Smith purrs on faithfully, reassuringly - each cylinder following the one preceding it with unerring regularity.  Intake, compression, power, exhaust - in that order and a million times over without as much as a hiccup.  I've put the escarpment on the left wings and pointed the nose south-east towards the gap we'll run on our way home to Rockcliffe.  The wind is shepherding us along at a fairly fast clip and while the airspeed indicator assigns one number to our velocity, the hum and tremble of the flying wires betray a much greater one.  We'll be landing at our home in a matter of minutes and, suddenly, this flight feels too short for the time I've waited. 

Short final approach to runway 27 at Rockcliffe.  We got some good chop off those trees.  (Author's collection)

The approach and landing are much like our first successful one at Peterborough and I recall it, even seconds after, only in single-sense snapshots.  The Smith and I play that old game where one attempts to outwait the other, endeavouring to keep the little ship balanced mere inches above the pavement until the wings surrender their lift.  I'm amazed at how my hands and feet operate a shade faster than my mind.  There's a squeak as the main wheels touch and a little swing as the tailwheel grabs the pavement.  My feet contribute an ever-so-subtle jockeying of the pedals and the bipe rolls out straight and true.

The tension melts from my back and shoulders and a smile creases my face.  I pull my goggles up and breathe a sigh of equal parts relief and restoration.

Now, firmly anchored to the earth again, I feel light.  The seconds and minutes passed without consequence while we were aloft and while nothing had really changed, the mantle of my worries and responsibilities is not quite as heavy as it was barely an hour ago. 

This is the afterglow and I will wear it a little while longer still.