Outdoors—by Ross McGehee


A Wing and a Prayer


   I have had more than a passing interest in airplanes ever since Billy Simmons took me flying when I was five years old. I grew up with his sons on and around the Natchez airport; and the approach pattern of the main runway goes over my momma’s front yard; so if a plane comes in, we’ll see it. We use airplanes to spray our crops, to survey timber conditions, and to see how floodwaters are affecting farms. I’ve been to “Ground School” and taken the test but never took the time for formal lessons. I spend far too much time looking out the window to be a safe pilot. As Clint Eastwood said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.” I remind myself of that frequently.
   Still, I enjoy flying, as long as someone else has primary control of the aircraft. However, there is one ride I took that was memorable beyond any other. And although all of us that were on board can laugh about it when we see each other now, it wasn’t quite so hilarious at the time.
   The national association that coordinates soil and water conservation efforts among the states hosts a variety of training sessions throughout the year. In the summer of 1996, there was a four-day leadership development meeting held in Hawaii. The state folks figured that, since the only thing I could lead was an argument, maybe I should go to this thing in Hawaii. I protested, of course, but finally was persuaded to take one for the team. Also along were Dana Little, a forester with Georgia Pacific, and Daryl Burney, who is now a circuit clerk in north Mississippi.
   Since it’s too far to drive, the state folks booked us a flight from Houston to Honolulu. It got interesting when we started looking for our connecting flight to the Big Island. We could not find the desk for the connection! After searching forty-five minutes and asking four terminal employees, we found out that “Puddle Jumper Air” “doesn’t have a desk; you just go get on the plane.”
   “What is this, Hooterville?”
   Yes it’s true. You just walk out of the terminal at ground level with your luggage and climb on board. But halfway to the plane, a uniformed gentleman of obvious Asian descent ran up behind us and said, “Wrong plane guys; follow me.” The nice commuter jet was apparently too much for the three of us, so we got downsized. Oh, here our group became four of us because our old friend Calvin Trice from Arkansas ran out of the building trying to catch up.
   We literally walked past some nice aircraft AND the motor pool to a plane sitting next to the perimeter fence. This Cessna 401 was built in the 1960s. They only built about four hundred of them; six to eight passengers, twin engine, noisy, serviceable, but approaching obsolete. We were thinking that this was somebody’s prank that was being pulled in retaliation for some transgression; but, no, the uniformed agent stowed our luggage in the nose of the aircraft and asked us to board. We climbed in and the agent followed and plopped down in the pilot’s seat! Oh, isn’t this informal. It gets worse!
   Knowing a little about aircraft loading and balance, I asked where he wanted us to sit. “Oh, just anywhere” was the response. So I looked around and asked where his co-pilot was. There wasn’t going to be one.
   “Do you mind if I fly “right-seat?”
   He said, “Sure, come on up.” Can you imagine what Homeland Security would have to say about that?
   So, into the co-pilot position, I started looking at the instruments. There were a few holes in the dash. Then I looked out the window at some loose rivets on the wings. Okay. At some point the joke is going to be called, and we’ll all laugh, right? Not if he doesn’t stop the warm-up he’s doing on the taxiway.
   Next thing we know we’re airborne and now it ain’t a joke! It’s a one-hour flight to the Big Island on this type of aircraft, plenty of time to plan for a water landing.
   Daryl poked me on the shoulder and asked what our altitude was. I pointed to a hole in the dash where the altimeter should have been and guessed that we were at about 2500 feet. The pilot finally got the engines balanced so the throb in the cabin wasn’t unbearable, and I asked him how long he’d been flying.
   “My father was a pilot and got stranded here in the ‘40s. It was too far to swim back to Japan; so he stayed, got married, and taught me to fly when I was old enough to see over the dash.” I got the joke. Figured I’d share it with the guys after we landed.
   None of us had ever been to Hawaii before; so when our staff booked us into the Waimea airport on the northwest corner of the Big Island, we didn’t have reason to question it. But when our pilot began his descent from 5000 feet, I couldn’t see an airport ahead.
   Daryl poked me in the shoulder again and asked, “What are we doing?” I just shrugged and kept looking ahead. Finally, at an altitude of about 3000, I saw a pencil-thin strip in a valley below. But there was nothing around it but what appeared to be brush. The closer we got, the more concerned I got because, if this was an airport, we were “coming in HOT.” Far too much airspeed for a landing and way too much angle! At 500 feet I saw the reason.
   The Waimea, Hawaii, airport is in the middle of the Parker Ranch. Ranch is the operative word here. There are cows on the ranch, and no fences to keep them off the runway, so it’s just like landing in Mississippi. You’ve got to buzz the runway to check for cows or run them off! And the runway has such a hump in it that you can’t see from one end to the other from the ground. I looked back and Calvin’s eyes were big as dinner plates as we made our first pass. The pilot threw the plane up on one wing, slung it around, and dropped his flaps. Two minutes later, we were at the terminal.
   Stack-of-bibles, as soon as we got off the plane, the airport crew pulled the seats out and stowed them on a cart! The day’s mail from the entire island was loaded onto the plane for the return trip! We stood there slack-jawed in amazement at the whole deal; then we found out that there was no shuttle service or anything else to that airport from any local town. Someone did call a cab for us and a ninety-dollar ride got us to the meeting. It also bears mentioning that as we exited the terminal, if you could call it that, they locked the doors behind us! Closed for the day! “What, are we in Guatemala?”
   As we stood forty-five minutes waiting for a ride, I mentioned that the good news was we’d made it. The bad news was that we were booked on the same service for the return trip!
   “Oh, HELL no.” Calvin was on the cell phone trying to get a signal to change his flight on the spot!
   The return trip was interesting, too. As mentioned, the airport is in a valley. The east side of the Big Island gets about 500 inches of rain a year, and the west side gets about 10. When we flew in to the airport from the dry side, we could see a huge mountain ahead of us. As we departed toward the wet side, there was a 200-foot ceiling and pea soup from then on.
   Calvin had gotten another flight. Dana, Daryl, and I figured we’d take our chances with our pilot friend of Asian descent. I have a picture of Dana staring out the window into the gray with a look of terror on his face. He had just mentioned that he “seemed to recall a mountain” being in the general direction that we were flying and that he’d just realized the value of an altimeter! Well, we obviously cleared all that; and the pilot said that, since we’d been good sports, he’d give us the scenic ride. You’ve seen pictures of the waterfalls cascading off the Hawaiian cliffs into the ocean. He dropped us down over the ocean and flew us right past the falls for an up-close view, and it was beautiful.
   Dana was still a little nervous. He asked, “Without instruments, how does he find Honolulu?”
   Daryl said, “Dana, the airport is at Pearl Harbor. The pilot is Japanese. Think about it!”
   Our pilot just grinned and shook his head and, referring to his earlier joke, said, “I asked for that.”
   Oh, we could have canned the whole thing and gone the safe route on some Boeing. But on the other hand, a Boeing would be boring. A little stress can be a good thing. But still, I don’t think my boy Dana has flown since, boring or otherwise.