For better or worse, the cultural icon of general aviation is the Piper J-3 Cub. The name Cub has become generic: the nonflying public uses it to describe every aircraft smaller than a Boeing 737 and slower than a P-51. Within the aviation community, artwork of the little yellow airplane with the cutesy bear logo on the tail has been so overexposed and abused that I have been known to mutter under my breath when I discover it yet again on another poster, calendar, coffee cup, T-shirt, tie tack, aviation book, or magazine cover. Yuck!
Of course I had never actually flown a J-3, or even ridden in one. Every civilian pilot I know, including my wife Deborah, has some J-3 time somewhere in his or her logbook or books. Except me. Somehow I missed out. Or did I?
One calm, clear October Saturday my wife and I went to Haysfield, a suburban Maryland grass strip only a few miles from where we live, just to look around. In the mobile home that functions as an office, Deborah saw that the FBO owned and rented a J-3, and mentioned it to me. One thing led to another, so at 4 p.m. on a clear, breezy, cool afternoon a few days later, I found myself preflighting that Cub.
This plane was an average example of the breed, as near as I could tell: Cosmetics were only so-so, the chipped yellow paint showed previous touch-up attempts, the black lightning-bolt accent stripe down both sides was peeling in places, and oil streaked the belly and coated the bottom half of the case of the 65-horsepower Continental four-banger. The tires looked to be in reasonable shape and the metal prop was in good condition. The Spartan cockpit sported two sticks, a wet compass, airspeed indicator, altimeter, tachometer, oil pressure and temperature gauges, and one ball-type slip indicator mounted dead center in the instrument panel so that it would be invisible to the pilot in the rear seat.
There was no starter, no radio, no transponder, no VOR, no GPS — no electrical system. The fuel gauge was a bobber thing that stuck up out of the fuel cap, forward of the windscreen.
My guide on this aerial expedition was Craig Kerr, a CFI with 18,000 hours of flight time, more than 4,000 of which were in Cubs. When he joined me by the Cub he asked if I thought there was too much wind, a comment I took as high diplomacy — had I lost my enthusiasm for this adventure after inspecting the plane?
"If it will fly in these conditions, I'm game," I said bravely. Two hefty men, 65 horsepower, 10 or 12 knots of wind? "You know the plane: you tell me."
"It'll fly fine," he said reassuringly. He rigged a battery-powered portable intercom — purists might regard this as cheating, but both of us wised up about airplane noise years ago — and helped me mount the rear seat. A teenage gymnast could probably swing up gracefully, but my joints don't move that way anymore. Fortunately, I managed to get aboard without breaking anything we were going to need later.
At Craig's direction I firmly applied the heel brakes. He tugged on the prop and the airplane moved. "Harder," Craig said, so I really pushed.
Finally satisfied, he spun the prop. The engine caught on the third try, setting into a chugging idle. I fed it a tad of gas and the engine settled down to an 800-rpm hum. I grinned like a kid at Christmas. My very first airplane ride, when I was six years old, was in a 1946 Aeronca Chief equipped about like this Cub. The plane belonged to my father's partner, who flew it off a short strip on his farm. I still remember sitting in the cockpit looking out as the men spun the prop to start the engine.
The Cub takeoff was quicker than I expected. With full throttle in, I lifted the tail — too much, Craig said — lowered it somewhat...and she segued into the air like an angel rising. Of course 12 knots of wind straight down the runway helped, but the seemingly effortless transition to flight filled me with delight.
We climbed at 55 mph. I looked around Craig every now and then to check the airspeed, and found it easy to hold the attitude just so against the horizon. I leveled at 1,500 feet, reduced power a mite, retrimmed with the crank by my left foot, and watched the needle on the airspeed indicator move around to indicate 80. Craig scoffed. "Seventy might be more like it. Don't pay much attention to that."
Visibility was excellent, the air relatively smooth — no thermals or turbulence. Oh yes yes yes.
The upper window on the right side of the cockpit was open and I had the left window lowered about an inch, so the airflow inside the cockpit was invigorating. Cool too, this being the latter half of October. Fortunately I was wearing a jacket and Craig a sleeveless, lined vest. Still, as we motored along he sort of hunkered down from time to time; I wasn't sure whether he was over-invigorated or just trying to let me see around him better. Whatever, I figured after 4,000 hours of this, he could stand one more.
The semi-open cockpit gives the J-3 a unique flavor that differentiates it from the other little taildraggers that one sees tied out at airports all over America. I decided I liked this flavor.
Craig suggested some S-turns along a road. Now I've heard of this maneuver and may actually have done it a time or two back before the dinosaurs died, but the specifics have long faded from the little gray cells. Craig demonstrated.
Oh. Turns to play the wind. I worked at this for a while, trying to coordinate rudder inputs and watching the nose attitude so we didn't go up or down too much, watched the way the sunlight moved about the cockpit as we turned left and right, bemoaned the drabness of the fall colors this year, and noted how neat the countryside looked as we soared 1,000 feet above the Maryland landscape.
Altitude determines perspective. At J-3 speeds and altitudes the land isn't far away; the houses and cars are almost close enough to touch, much like a set for a model railroad; and the whole thing passes quite sedately. You can see how the roads wind; how the subdivisions fit together; see people in yards, working on the highways, jogging along. They rarely look up when you fly over in a J-3 because the thing is so quiet — a perfect suburban neighbor.
We entered the pattern at Montgomery County Airpark in Gaithersburg, Maryland, after a careful squint around for traffic. "What airspeed should I use on final?" I asked
"Whatever feels good," Craig said.
God, what faith! Never before have I met a man with faith like that!
The Cub came down final fairly steady at an indicated 65, though only the Lord knows what the true airspeed might have been. The turbulence increased slightly as we neared the planet and got into the swirls caused by trees and buildings. A little crosswind from the left took a tad of rudder and sideways stick, just a smidgen. I hoisted the nose, closed the throttle, and let the Piper settle like a hen on an egg. Then I jammed the throttle forward and the motor got marginally louder, and, gravity be damned, we flew again.
On the way home we did stalls and Dutch rolls, and Craig demonstrated what would happen if I cross-controlled too vigorously in a turn. The spin entry was sweet and smooth, almost non-violent.
She settled back onto the grass at Haysfield as if I knew what I was doing. The evening was advancing, the wind dying, the sun making shadow lines of trees that had lost some of their leaves. The $45.15 tab for an hour aloft was money well-spent. I drove home full of bonhomie, warm, happy, at peace with the world.
The daily newspaper waiting to be read — full of politics, terrorism, and crime — didn't interest me. Somehow the glow endured through my nightly pilgrimage to the nursing home where my father now lives. That night when I joined my wife to watch a World Series game on television, I didn't pay much attention to the game. I was still somewhere over Maryland with the 65-hp engine humming sweetly, the cool wind swirling against my cheeks, and the sun shining brightly on splotchy yellow paint.
When the friction and angst of life brings me completely back from the sky, I think I'll go to Haysfield and fly the Cub again.
In the meantime I'm going to buy a Cub coffee cup, the next one I see.
Best-selling author Stephen Coonts, AOPA 1056593, will release his next novel, Cuba, in August. He and his wife, Deborah, currently own three airplanes: a Breezy, a Piper PA-22/20, and a Beech S35 Bonanza. Visit his Web site ( www.coonts.com).
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