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lv personal literary writing literature poetry short stories essays

and the rest is history sort of......DAVID EIDE.COM

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Reflections at night when the dark is good and we see farther. A short meditation.
"A silent conjunction between what one thinks and what has been thought."

Brief Tales on a Whim.
There is nothing more pitiful than the storyteller without his stories.

Meditations on the 60th Anniversary of Hiroshima What would the end of the world entail? Do we boast that we can imagine such a thing?

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In the apprenticeship period hopes are high.
"But then, who will save us from our own crimes?"

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RIPE STORIES AND FRAGMENTS

AH CHILDHOOD

The dad had flown in the great war. It had defined him, given him an idenity and he wanted the same for his sons. He had flown sea planes like the PBY out of Hawaii and Guadalcanal. He had flown B-26 Marauders and J-2 Ducks. Once, on Guadalcanal he had lost his engine just as the plane was attaining lift. Now it was a life and death situation and the dad had has co-pilot step on the rudder as he brought the plane around and in for a landing.

Now he had the idea of joining a local flying club and showing off his skills to his family. The club had an old Cessna 154 and later got a Cessna 172.

So they would go out to the local airport, troop into the terminal and the dad would file a flight plan and radio it into Hayward or Oakland. Then the brothers and he, along with the dad, sometimes the mom would mosey around the plane for a while, checking the engine, oil, surfaces and make sure there was no damage. It was the Cessna 172 painted white with pink stripes along its body. The dad had dismissed it as a "puddle jumper" since he had flown big, powerful planes in the war but to the boy it was a wonder.

There was always the argument about who would sit in the copilot seat and eventually they learned to rotate the special seat, the one that got to learn all about flying the plane. "I commanded eight crew members and they did what I told them to do but you kids ignore everything I say," he'd finally blurt out. The boys would climb in and soon the dad would yell "contact" and fire up the engine until everything in the little plane was vibrating. The chock blocks had been removed so the plane rolled out toward the runway. Everyone kept very quiet as the dad got in touch with the tower and received instructions to take off. At that point the silence was an established fact. The dad went through his check-list, revved the engine a few times, tested the surfaces and before long the little plane was rumbling down the runway, picking up speed, more speed, until that ethereal moment when there was lift and the boy soared with the plane as it left the runway and sailed into the sky. That was the magical moment when the plane lifted from the ground and the boy felt a freedom he'd never experienced before, so quiet and powerful, as the plane lifted up with the ground dropping away, then the highway and the hills. The dad would bank the plane slowly and circle into his flight pattern and off they'd go.

They flew north, south, west, but never east where the Sierra Mountains were. They would fly over the fields in the valley, they flew over SF Bay, over Alcatraz, and the bridges. The big plane at that time was the Constellation, driven by four props. He always counted it a good day when they spotted one of those.

Sometimes they would just wander around for the day. The dad taught the boys to look out at the ground and spot places they could land in case something went wrong. They were constantly doing this while watching the surface of the Earth pass by like a toy land of some sort. If they flew over San Francisco they'd watch all the jet and prop driven airliners passing above, sometimes below them.

Once in the air the dad would let the co-pilot take over. They were always to be aware of the fuel gauge above the window on either side. The plane had a heading. It had a compass and the boy would keep the heading, always keeping the nose slightly up, indicated by a floating ball as one would find in a carpenters level. On the floor were several pedals. One turned the plane to the left, the other turned it to the right. And as they turned they pulled back on the back of the stick and slowly turn until they got into the right heading, eyes always alert for other aircraft. The flaps were operated by a red dial between the pilot and co-pilots seat. The throttle was in the center of the instrument panel. To increase power the boy put his thumb at the base of it and slowly squeezed back with his other fingers. He was always aware of the air speed, usually around 100-120 knots. And altitude that was usually around 5,000-7,000 feet. "And keep the nose up," the dad would say.

They always flew over SF Bay, especially Alcatraz Island. "We aren't supposed to do this," the dad would say, "but I don't think they will shoot us down." Over the Golden Gate, down the coast, back over the valley and endless fields and smoke from the burns, over the freeways and the traffic. A kid felt good, high up like that going faster than the fastest car and flying on air with hardly any obstacle. And the endless houses of San Jose and Fremont that made him think of his own house and how he loved and hated it at the same time. He was so glad to be up in the plane with his dad and brothers, up and away from everything down on the ground, away from the stife and containment of the ground.

After hours of flying they would head back to the airport, guided by Mt Diable just as the first settlers had been as they made their way to Sutter's Fort in Sacramento. The dad would take over at that point and call in to the tower, identifying the plane and its position. The messages passed between the dad and tower were so fast, so coded and garbled the boy could not make out what they were saying. By the time the airport was sighted the little plane would be in descent, the eingine speed would be reduced, the plane would flutter down, down, turning and going down falling out of space as it were. The dad would be operating the flaps and they'd flutter down, down, the runway would loom closer and closer. Right before the wheels touched the runway the stall warning would go off, a loud buzz to tell the pilot the plane had no more lift. The plane would touch down, roll, brakes were applied by the tapping the top of the pedals until the speed was so reduced he could taxi the plane off the main runway and toward the fuel pumps to put gas back in for the next guy who used the plane. It was a short trip to taxi to the parking berth, the engine would be shut down, the last vibrating shudder from the eninge would be absorbed. The boys piled out and helped tie down the plane then off they went, back home.

They had big plans for the plane. Fly down to the Grand Canyon, fly over to the East Coast. They didn't own the plane, it belonged to the club and had to be reserved and certain limits were imposed. Then the dad went to the club and presented a plan for him to take his family down to Mexico for twe weeks. Somehow he got permission so the great flight to Mexico was on.

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