by Jack Doub

Sometimes the thrill of a summer afternoon can change a life

The aircraft glided in over the trees with a whisper, the propeller spinning silently as the wheels touched the grass. After rolling a few meters, it turned and taxied towards a group of people chattering outside a tiny hangar. A hand-painted sign proclaimed "Aeroplane Rides $2."

I stood straddling my bike in a clump of trees near the runway. I'd never been so close to a real aircraft before.

I'd been riding north-east of Tampa, Florida, looking for a promising fishing spot, when the plane swooped just overhead. After following the noise to the airstrip, I hid among the pines and watched. The pilot helped a passenger into the front seat and climbed in the back. With a low purr the plane spun around and pulled on to the runaway. The tail wheel rose, and the bright-yellow-coloured aircraft rolled along perched on its front wheels. Then, in a  fluid motion that thrilled me no end, it rose slowly and climbed out of sight.

I leaned the bike against a tree and sat down. Ten minutes later, the plane reappeared in a gentle descent. There was no engine noise - just the whoosh of air through the struts as the plane settled into a perfect landing. I sat there enthralled for the rest of the afternoon, wishing for all the world I had two dollars.

At dusk, the last customer departed. I watched the pilot push his plane into the hangar and shut the door. As he turned to his car, he paused and stared in my direction. I thought he might chase me away, but he got in his car and drove off.

 Suddenly I realized my mother would be upset - I never came in late. I frantically pedalled the 15 kilometres back to the city. It was dark when I got home.

"Sorry, Mum," I blurted as I rushed to the table.

"Where were you, son?" She sounded stern.

"Up north, by the dam. Guess I was further than I thought."

"Fishing good?" my father asked.

"Uh, no, sir. Didn't catch a one."

He raised an eyebrow. At 13, I was a fairly good angler.

"Next time, leave earlier - whether they're biting or not," my mother said.

"Yes ma'am." I hadn't exactly lied. After all, I hadn't caught a fish. Of course, I hadn't got a line wet either.

The following Sunday, I was off for another "fishing trip" at the airport. All day the little yellow aircraft came and went. Once, as it rolled past, I thought the pilot waved. I waved back, but then felt foolish. Why would a pilot wave at a kid?

The weeks went by, and I never missed a Sunday. One evening I asked my father if I could earn two dollars from him. "Not now, son. I'm sorry." It was 1947, and he had suffered a business failure. We were living in a tiny one-bedroom cottage. Even with Dad's two jobs, there was talk of Mum going to work.

One Sunday, as I sat watching the plane overhead, a thunder storm blossomed. The pilot landed the plane. The sky darkened, and as the customers bolted for their cars, huge raindrops splattered down. I nestled under the trees as the storm strode on. The sun reappeared, but not the passengers. The pilot came out of the hangar and peered at the sky. He started for the plane, and then stopped and looked in my direction. My heart thudded as he strolled over. Was he, at last, going to run me off?

He stopped a couple of metres away, and I respectfully rose. A strapping figure, he wore riding pants, brown boots and a military shirt with epaulettes. His most impressive embellishment, however, was a huge handlebar moustache.

"Well, the rain didn't drive ya off, eh, lad?" He had a accent I didn't recognize.

"No, sir. It was dry here in the trees." Almost as dry as my throat.

"Ya like my little Cub?"

"Cub, sir?"

"My plane - it's called a Piper Cub. Ya like 'er?"

"Yessir, I do. It's a lovely plane."

"Have ya flown before?"

"No, sir!"

"Well, I need 'er washed. How about doin' that for me and we'll take a spin to dry 'er off."

"Yessir!"

He led me to the Cub. As he showed me where to wash, I ran my fingers over the fabric. I was actually touching an aircraft ! He produced a bucket, soap and a rag. Never has a machine received the loving care the Cub got that magical afternoon. I had scrubbed it inside and out and was redoing the belly when the pilot reappeared.

"Aye, lad, that's enough. You'll wash off the paint!" he said, chuckling. "What's your name?"

"Jack, sir. Jack Doub."

"Well, my name's Sandy. Help me swing the tail around, Jack, and we'll go fly."

Once we had the Cub pointed towards the runway, he helped me into the front seat and adjusted the seat belt. With a flip of a hand, he spun the propeller, and the engine hummed to life. After climbing into the back seat, he pulled the rope to pop the chock from under the right wheel and cast it aside.

"Here we go, lad !" The Cub rolled towards the runway. I was vaguely aware of the tail coming up, and then suddenly we were in the air, the trees slipping away beneath us. I was flying !

"Great, ain't it?" Sandy bellowed over the engine noise. I could only nod.

We levelled off at 600 metres and circled the city. To the south I could see Tampa Bay and dozens of tiny lakes. It was an enchanting moment.

All too soon we were landing. The propeller ticked to a stop while I sat in the plane, relishing the final seconds.

"Are ya okay, lad?"

"Yessir." Reluctantly I crawled out of the Cub. "I'm going to be a pilot some day, sir, just like you."

"Good ! We need smart, hardworking fellows like you."

The sun was setting. I ran to my bike.

"Jack !" Sandy called. "See you next Sunday?"

"Yes, sir !"

I made it home just before dinner. I noticed Dad eyeing me, but thought nothing of it. Later, as I sat drawing pictures of the Cub, I became aware of him standing there. "What happened today, Jackie?"

With trepidation, I told him the whole story. "I'm going to be a pilot !" I ended up declaring. A smile played at his lips, and he gave me a hug.

Nine years later, Dad pinned Air Force wings on me. Since then I've flown supersonic fighters, commercial aircraft and all sorts of recreational planes. But none compares with the little yellow plane, whispering in over the pines on those lovely summer afternoons.

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