Although the seaside scrivener has attended and enjoyed numerous conclaves of the homebuilt aerodyner's club and always has admired their handiwork, he never has been impelled to follow suit. His dearth of ept in mechanical matters, as reflected in the fact that he must obtain his wife's written permission before operating any of her appliances, had raised serious doubts in his mind about the reliability, utility and structural integrity of any airplane that might materialize under the undeft touch of his welding torch and pop-rivet technique.
However, last March the winter vacation wanderings of the Wander Bird Too led to Lakeland, Florida, and the annual hoodingy known as Sun 'n Fun. Drifting from one display airplane to another like a farm kid at a tractor show, the plane-happy penman prowled exhibition areas of colorful ultralights, pristine classics, refurbished antiques and fascinating warbirds. When he came upon a great gaggle of gorgeous, glistening fiberglass gee-whizzers, the latest state of the homebuilders' art, their sleek, flowing lines were candy for his eyes.
One in particular caught the old guy's fancy. With its three-blade propeller, the orange and white low-winger looked like the offspring of a P-51 and a Piper Comanche; but instead of a conventional door or sliding hatch, entry to the plush, two-place cockpit was gained through a pair of upswung gullwing doors, a la De Lorean. It was a lean and mean goin' machine; just sitting on the ramp, it looked ready to break the sound barrier. Notably, the deliciously viciouslooking airplane had a name instead of a number. On its flanks was painted The Barracuda. No other name would have been as apt.
"Hi," said a muscular, stocky-built man who was wiping the morning dew off the slanting windshield. "I'm Jack Yoder. How do you like the airplane I built?"
Because the sauntering spectator was having difficulty speaking with his tongue hanging so far out, the airplane groom continued, "I'm about to take' it up for a few minutes. Want to go along?"
Ordinarily the invitee would have bounded aboard as a piece of lint is sucked into a vacuum cleaner, but climbing into a Barracuda, specifically tailored to fit the physique of someone more supple and less convex, proved to be a formidable undertaking requiring a gymnastic procedure. Coached by a running commentary on where to step, when to pivot, what to hold and how to lean, the old crock finally plopped into place like a foot slipping into a well-worn boot, wondering momentarily how he was going to get out later. Then his host squiggled into the left seat, snugged them both in with what seemed to be an unnecessary web of safety belts and closed the gull-wing hatches, glomp, glomp. The pilot deftly pushed, pulled and tweaked levers and switches; the engine roared into life, then settled back to a throaty rumble.
"What do you have up front?" asked the sandbag, trying to make conversation during the taxi out to the active runway.
"It's a turbocharged, fuel-injected 300-hp job," replied the builder while doublechecking the engine gauges. His guest shuddered slightly—a 300-hp two seater!
When the go sign came from the traffic controller, the throttle was advanced gently. The Barracuda accelerated as if prodded by a bayonet, ran for about eight seconds, lifted off and angled steeply into the sky; its rate-of-climb needle pegged on 3,000 fpm. Hooooo, Boy!
Leveled off and trimmed at 5,500 feet, the proprietor pointed to the stubby control stick between the guest's knees and said, "Go ahead, fly it." It seemed to be a ridiculous suggestion since the right seater's stomach and entire nervous system were still in a quivering heap back on the runway, but it was an offer he could not refuse.
Fingering the stick as if it were a sprig of cactus, the novice learned instantly that minimal movements created dramatic results, including steep banks, sudden course deviations and sensational altitude excursions. However, after a short demonstration of involuntary aerobatics, he developed the gentle touch and got the airplane under control. It was fun.
Sneaking a look at the airspeed indicator, he was moved to remark that 210 mph was pretty good.
Yoder, alertly scanning the sky ahead, responded, "That's knots—or about 240 mph. It really goes a lot faster at 20 grand, when the turbo spins up."
A few minutes later, The Barracuda fitted smoothly into the busy traffic pattern under the sure hand of its master, then it settled down gently and stopped in 800 feet. As it taxied back to its regular parking place, it was the cynosure of all eyes, all of the way.
After unscrewing himself from the cockpit and hopping to the ground, the passenger was moved to comment on the strength and agility of the fiberglass construction.
"Heck," said the builder. "This isn't fiberglass; except for the powerplant, landing gear, controls and windows, it's an all-wood airplane. If you can use a saw, chisel, screwdriver, plane, gluepot and follow written directions, you can build one, too."
That set a train of thought creaking into motion on the oldster's one-track mind. There is nothing like a dose of raw speed to whip up any pilot's enthusiasm for a new airplane, whether it makes practical sense or not for the kind of flying he or she actually engages in. There is something spine-tingling about watching the ground unreel below like a film that has jumped its sprocket.
Off and winging a few days later, enroute home at the usual leisurely pace of the Cherokee 140, the pilot prattled endlessly about his recent experience and how great it would be to spend his spare time putting together an airplane that would take them almost 1,000 miles between breakfast and lunch. With a quick conveyance like that, they could take flying weekend forays to any place east of the Mississippi River and she could shop in Chicago, noodle around in New Orleans, or beach in the Bahamas whenever a nice weekend showed up.
His lady love said not a word in response to his boundless babbling, not even trying to change the subject. As the daughter of one fisherman and the wife of another, she knew better than to argue with him, which might set the hook he was mentally toying with and possibly transmute a passing whim into an obsession. She knew from connubial experience that the odds were against his building an airplane because his modus operandi is to read directions only after all else has failed, and that his principal skill with edged instruments is a tendency to bleed all over the carpet. So she merely smiled, perhaps a trifle grimly, as the Cherokee's propeller chewed up the miles.
However, the impassioned monologue must have had some effect on her thinking. A few days after they returned to their beachside domicile, her husband noticed that his toolbox was newly adorned with a large, unbreakable padlock.
Frank Kingston Smith, AOPA 124393, is a multi-engine instrument pilot, reformed lawyer and the original Week-end Pilot.
Related Articles
