Strapping into the Stearman

I was in Michigan this past weekend where the rest of my dad's things were. My step-mom had taken them there when she moved in August and I just hadn't gotten the opportunity to get up there until now and we combined the trip with her celebration of life on Saturday. 

I got everything that was left sorted out and either carried back in a suitcase (thank you Southwest Airlines for the free bags) or shipped back (thank you Kevin at the FedEx store in Portage). Among the things coming back with us were more framed pieces of Red Baron photos than I'll ever need, several of my dad's Red Baron jackets (not his leather jacket, that belongs to "Boo" - read the book), all of his log books from his first flight to his last, a piece of his actual airplane (look at the photo below - it's the headrest and that red sort of triangular part just behind the pilot's head), and a little journal I found with some musings within it. 

In this journal was his spiel that he would give to people he was giving a ride to in the Stearman. There's absolutely no way to explain to you what going up in the Stearman was like if you haven't done it. There's just nothing to compare it to. I could use some adjectives: amazing, exhilarating, fun, exciting. It still wouldn't adequately capture it. 

I'm actually not sure how many times I went up. Maybe once a year when I was growing up? It was special every time. I didn't always go with my dad. A handful of times I went with another pilot. I pretty much jumped at the chance to go regardless of who I was with, but it was always the most special with my dad. 

I recall one time the airplanes had to be moved from one place to another. I want to say somewhere in Kansas? I can't recall exactly, but it was a different kind of ride. I was in the cockpit for a long time. It didn't get boring. For a part of that trip we did a sort of crop dusting style flight. Down over the fields, up and over the power lines, back down over the fields.

Of course, the aerobatics were the best part. If it was a ride at an amusement park, it would have a line hours and hours long. You'd definitely need a fast pass. But it's not like any roller coaster you've ever been on. I always asked aerobatics and in my mind I can still feel what it feels like. Pure joy.

My maternal grandfather wrote a beautiful letter to my dad after flying with him once. My dad and my grandfather had a really special relationship, even after my parent's divorce. Honestly, my dad probably would have never been a pilot had my grandfather never been one because it was my mom that suggested he become a pilot because, "all my family are pilots and you should be to." And so he just said, "sure!" 

I read my grandfather's letter at my dad's celebration of life because it just felt right somehow. It felt like it encapsulated the gifts my father gave to people in his life, not just in flight. It's a great reflection on gratitude and joy and speaks to the character of both men (both of whom were highly influential in who I became as a person). 

Dear John:

I haven't the words to say it. That I gladly admit at the outset. But let me try to you of the great gift you gave me and what it means.

When you reach my age you realize, at long last, that there are many things you'll never have the chance to experience again. You come to grips with the cold, unyielding fact that the hands of the clock will not move backwards, even for you. And it's hard to accept. Depending on your emotional outlook on a particular day, internally you still are 25 or 30 or 40 or . . .

It's harder still to admit that the miles and the years have stolen away the skills and abilities that once seemed as permanent as the color of your eyes.

Then you came with that wonderful old Stearman. Just seeing it and hearing the smooth, bass rumble of its round sound and catching that ancient smell would have been one of the high points of a score or two of years.

But your gift to me was incomparably dearer. Just to have flown brought back a sudden flash of my childhood in those old Wacos and Travelairs. But to have total possession of that marvelous machine, even for a few moments, gave me back a shining day of my youth.

On that wondrous Wednesday morning, as I dove into that loop, I was back there, young one more time. The years were gone. And as I wracked it around through those delicious maneuvers, the earth and sky interchanging, the sounds and pressures building and retreating, I convinced myself regardless of the truth that I was flying well for one last time.

I was wildly, deliciously euphoric and I didn't come down for a couple of days. I walked and stood straighter as a young man might. And there were plenty of silent tears of happiness and gratitude in the wee hours of that night.

I know it won't happen again; it doesn't need to. For because of you I had my day in the sun. You'll never know just what it meant until that day, well down the years, when it comes to you.

So I simply acknowledge an unpayable debt. And you will always be a friend who occupies a place too special and unique that no one else can ever be admitted.

Take care. Always use that sound sense, judgment and skill that has kept you from harm.

my best,

Rev

What's funny is that I didn't start writing today with the intention of sharing that piece of writing, I actually was going to share the aforementioned gem from my dad's journal about getting strapped into the Stearman. Well, sometimes my brain takes a little meandering journey to get to the point. Welcome to my brain. Finally, here's what you need to know about getting strapped into a Stearman:

“As you get up on the airplane, stay on the black part of the wing here,” I say, indicating the wing walk. “This part is cloth and you might slip if you step on it.” 

“There are two hand-holds on the very back part of the upper wing.” I point and look for a glimmer of understanding. “Use the hand-hold on our side and step right on the front seat as you get in; you won’t hurt the seat. I’m gonna get up there and put several sets of straps and a hat on you and give you a little briefing before we get started.” I step back and say, “After you!” 

I’ll be right behind you as you get up on the wing, and if you’re tall (or large) I will kind of hold the parachute harness up behind you as you settle, so it will fit over your shoulders.

“Stick one paw in here,” I say, helping your arm into one side of the harness. “Other one over here. Now, these grey straps I’m putting on you right now are the parachute harness. This one goes across your chest, the others around each leg. The parachute harness does not hold you in the airplane; it’s not connected to the airplane in any way—just to you! 

“These straps I'm putting on you next are the seat belts. This is what holds you in the airplane. These two which come over the shoulders join up with the two that come across the lap, and they all come together into this one buckle in the middle, “I say, snapping the buckle’s lever down. I tighten all the seat belt straps, tuck the ends of the shoulder harness straps under so they won’t beat you in the face and say, “Now we have all these straps snug; we don’t want you flopping around in here! 

“Now I get to tell you how to get out of here in case of an emergency,” I say, leaning back on my haunches on the wing-walk and looking you directly in the eye. “If we have a fire-drill, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding the emergency exit—you’re sitting in it! What you have to do to get out of this airplane is two things: one , remove the flying hat there (indicating the flying helmet with David Clark headset lying in the crook of the cabane strut and fuselage), lift this lever, (pointing to the seat belt lever) and get out of the airplane on either side taking the grey pack and straps with you. 

“Now, if we have to get out of the airplane in the sky, the getting out part is the same: undo the chin strap and remove the flying hat; then lift the lever to release the belts and get out of either side of the airplane with the ‘grey stuff’ on. The instant you’re clear of the airplane it’ll be time to open the parachute—you have to do that yourself by pulling this handle—this is the “rip-cord” handle—pull it out across your chest as far as it will go, that will open the ‘chute.” 

I help you find the handle on your left chest; you instinctively (?) reach for it with your right hand or you may giggle nervously and say incredulously, “a parachute?” 

I have absolutely no faith whatsoever in your ability to do the things I have just told you (twice) to do. 

I pick up the khaki flying helmet and say, “this headset you're wearing today will protect your ears from the sound the airplane makes; it will also enable us to converse. There is a volume knob on the upper part of the right ear-dome.” 

I slip the hat over your head, adjust the goggle strap and say, “you may have to adjust it to fit comfortably over your ear-bobbers.” I snap the chin-strap and say, “the chin-strap snaps on the left side under the ear.”

I then adjust the mic and say, “This is your microphone: when you and I talk it will be a private conversation; no one else will hear. You will hear lots of other stuff in the headset, so when I’m talking to you I’ll use your name. When you’re talking to me the mic needs to be very close to your mouth - almost touching your lips - and you need to press this little button on top of the control stick. Try not to move the stick when you use the mic button and we’ll stay friends. Just put your finger or thumb on the button and hold it down while you talk and then release it so I can talk. You will hear yourself in the headset when you talk, if you’re doing everything right.

“There are a pair of goggles for you to use (on your forehead) if it gets breezy—not mandatory; you’re pretty well protected behind the windscreen but if you get your head out into the slipstream be sure to hold your glasses on.

“I won’t do anything suddenly that might startle you, so relax and enjoy the ride—we’ll be talking on the intercom…

As I read it, I could hear his voice and I remembered the whole spiel and the funny little words my dad used like "ear-bobbers" and his reference to sticking your "paw" through the strap. And I remembered all those straps and what it felt like to be strapped into that seat and the sound of his voice over the roar of the engine (even with the headset). I know I'm incredibly lucky that I was able to have those experiences and I'm so grateful.