The second Saturday in March came in warm and windy in Boulder, Colorado. I checked the wind gauge as soon as I was out of bed. Fifteen to 20 miles an hour. Too much by a bunch for my Breezy. Aaugh!
My son, David, called at 8 a.m. "Let's meet at the airport at 11," I told him. "Maybe the wind will drop." He had yearned all week to fly the Breezy today. He hadn't flown all winter and knew his landings would be rusty. A newly minted private pilot, he is careful, which pleases me.
I read the morning paper between trips to inspect the wind gauge. The gusts seemed to be easing off.
At 10:30 I went to the airport. The wind was now eight to 10 knots out of the southeast, and the temperature in the mid- 60s.
Our winged steed, a Breezy, is a homebuilt that lacks an enclosed cockpit or fuselage. It behaves reasonably well in a modest amount of wind, but turbulence and thermals quickly jolt the fun out. The wings are lightly loaded, and the pilot sits way out in front of the center of gravity, with just a seat belt and shoulder harness holding him on the flying machine. No doubt there are macho muchachos somewhere who can ride a Breezy through chop with saintly equanimity, trusting God and their seat belts, but David and I are not among their ranks.
The only way to find out whether the air is bumpy is to go up and see. With me on the front seat and David on the rear, we fired up the pusher-mounted Lycoming and taxied out.
The machine lifted off more or less under my control. Although the wind was significant at our 60-mph climb and glide speed, the air was just smooth enough. As usual when flying this witch's broomstick, I worked hard on the basics: stick, rudder, and throttle. I talked my way through two landings, trying to explain and demonstrate the technique that works best for me; then we switched places. Alas, only the front seat has a control stick; David was on his own.
We were using Runway 8, so the wind was quartering from our right. David did fine on his first circuit of the pattern until he made the turn from base to final, when the plane turned into the teeth of the wind. It floated. Power back a bunch, coming down again, left rudder at the bottom to straighten her out, and he hit hard.
He bounced on the second landing. The third looked pretty decent, but the nose wheel shimmied severely. He braked and hauled the stick back into his lap while I tried to talk on the intercom — I thought the nose tire had blown. It hadn't. The shimmy had developed because the airplane was drifting a tad sideways on touchdown.
Encouraged by that third landing, David went out solo while I stood on the ramp, smoking my pipe. As he took off, I could see that he missed my weight on the machine. He overcontrolled; the plane soared skyward. Then he got the nose down and climbed away, apparently under control.
There, on the downwind, he's just a little dot moving against the hazy blue. Hard to believe he's 18 now, loves math and science courses, and has his heart set on going to a good engineering school. He was a little boy just �yesterday, it seems.
He overcontrolled on landing, bounced, then didn't add power, so the airplane hit hard the second time. He kept it on the ground and taxied in, wearing a bemused expression.
"Without your weight aboard, it's like flying a dried leaf," he said. "Too much wind today, I think."
It would handle better for me because I'm 50 pounds heavier than he is, and in a machine this size that difference is significant. There's a 50-pound sack of bird seed in my garage; next time, we'll put it in the passenger seat.
Together we put the airplane away and looked it over, then visited on the ramp outside. Unwilling to say good-bye, I took David to lunch at a nearby restaurant, where we talked about this and that and told each other tidbits of our lives. When we parted, he stuck out his hand to shake. I was wearing a wide smile as he drove away.
That afternoon the wind gradually slackened, a little bit anyway. I did a few of my Saturday chores and tried to take a nap, but at 4 o'clock I gave up. Back I went to the airport, got out the Breezy, preflighted it, strapped in, and left behind the cares of the ground.
I stopped for fuel at an airport 10 miles away, then was off again. At 1,500 feet above the high plains under a high, thin ceiling, the visibility was excellent. The tower and terminal of the new Denver airport were clearly visible 25 miles away to the east. To the west, the mountains were still clad in snow. The wind was fierce at this altitude; I needed a 25-degree crab to stay westbound above a highway while cruising at 65 mph. No bumps or jiggles, though.
I reentered the pattern at Boulder and set about practicing my own landings. We were using Runway 26 now, with the wind out of the southwest at about 10 knots.
On my fourth approach, the lady who mans the unicom radio came on the air. "Ultralight in the pattern, stay south of Jay Road." Jay Road is our gauge for the proper downwind.
I was indignant. "This is an experimental aircraft, not an ultralight," I informed her huffily.
"Breezy in the pattern, stay south of Jay Road."
I rogered, did my touch-and-go, then on the downwind pondered the import of her admonition. I made the next landing a full stop, taxied in, and shut down in front of the FBO that handles unicom chores. I strolled inside. "Did you have a noise complaint?" I asked.
The lady was apologetic. "There is this woman. She even wrapped her refrigerator in sound-proofing because it kept her awake at night. She called in again. She has a scanner and listens to the transmissions, so I had to call you. I know you weren't north of Jay Road; I was watching."
There were three or four pilots loafing in the office, so we talked about noise, about the housing developments that surround the Boulder airport, about the new developments going in adjacent to the airport boundaries, about the people who will buy these houses and immediately start squawking about airplane noise. "And the airport has been here since 1920," the unicom lady said.
"They're going to close this airport one of these days," one of the pilots predicted. "The land's too valuable for development. Greed will win. Again."
"I'll be out of flying by then," I mused aloud. "My son won't be, though."
"What they want is to be rid of all general aviation," the oldest pilot declared grumpily.
Out on the ramp I fired off the witch's broomstick. I had better get mine while the getting is good. I climbed to 1,500 feet above the ground and departed the pattern to the north, where the development is thinner, the houses farther apart.
In spite of the brisk wind, the air was smooth as the sun set, the ride extraordinary. The red glow of the instrument lights on the airspeed indicator, altimeter, and tachometer between my knees were comforting as I sat on my windblown perch, looking at the torn-up prairie below and the dozens of houses under construction. I checked my anti-smash light on the tail, flashing bravely in the gathering gloom.
Finally I entered the pattern and made a full-stop landing.
A man and boy wearing shorts and pullover short-sleeve shirts came strolling over as I parked the Breezy by the hangar. The boy was still small, about six or seven years old. He reminded me of David as he was just a few years ago.
The boy sat on the pilot's seat, watching the control surfaces move as he stirred the stick around. He examined my small collection of instruments while his father and I talked flying. The father used to fly a Mooney. Apparently he had to give it up when fatherhood took priority on his finances. I know that tale well. "He's really interested in airplanes," the father told me, his eyes on the boy.
One thing led to another. I got out of my coveralls, and we suited up the father. I strapped him in and arranged one of my motorcycle helmets with a lip mike on his head. The twilight was gone when we took off.
Enveloped in the night and caressed by the wind, we climbed out to the southeast toward the vast light display that is the city of Denver. I told my passenger that my name is Steve. "So's mine," he said. We got a good look at the twinkling lights of Boulder, from 1,000 feet a rich, jeweled panorama, then swooped back for a landing.
The boy, Max, was next. Decked out in the coveralls and my smallest motorcycle helmet, he looked like Tom Hanks in Big after he shrank. The boy rode my magic carpet in silence as I wondered what he was thinking, seeing the world at night from this sublime vantage point for the first time.
The landing was my best of the day, a greaser on just the mains, with the nosewheel staying up until the last possible moment. Somebody up there must like me.
Max told his father, "We could see everything!"
"If he joins the Air Force, I have you to thank," the father told me, grinning.
Max gave me two small pieces of chewing gum from his hoard; then they left with handshakes and smiles.
That night the wind blew in earnest. I woke up sometime during the night, with the wind howling around the eaves and windows. I examined my wind gauge. Over 50 miles per hour just then. High gust 69.
Yeah, I need to get mine while the getting is good. I went back to bed and snuggled under the blankets.
Stephen Coonts, AOPA 1056593, owns a Cessna 421B, a 1942 Stearman, and a Breezy. A former naval aviator and attorney, he is the author of Flight of the Intruder, Final Flight, The Minotaur, Under Siege, The Cannibal Queen, and The Red Horseman.
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