Getting the "Flying Illini" club Cessna 172 for spring break wasn't easy, as sealed bidding was used to award airplanes to those proposing the most flight hours over vacation. Al and I pored over my charts, seeking destinations far enough away to snatch the airplane from other spring-breakers, but close enough so that we wouldn't go broke in the process.
Our dream goal materialized amusingly close to everyone else's Florida destination, yet at the same time excitingly far away - the Bahamas! We won the bid and, filled with visions of flying to an exotic foreign country, invited our neighbor Larry to go along and share the expenses. (Based on his ability to ride motorcycle wheelies farther than anyone else outside a county fair, Larry was the only guy we thought would be nutty enough to blow his summer earnings on such an adventure. He accepted the offer immediately.)
I was a 175-hour private pilot at the time, with recent flight experience consisting mostly of round trips to nearby Decatur to pick up motorcycle parts and sample peanut-butter-slathered burgers at the airport restaurant. Clearly, preparation would be required to complete our mission safely.
I first ordered a Bahamas travel kit from AOPA (still available to members today, though now much refined) and then researched the most thought-provoking flying leg of our trip - 60 nautical miles of open ocean between the Florida coast and Grand Bahama Island. There's nothing like studying flotation devices and ditching procedures to get one's heart racing.
Like many low-time pilots, I'd never been very comfortable with night flying, so I also took some after-dark dual instruction to prepare myself should the need arise along the way. Further practice came through moonlit flights with my girlfriend to the Mattoon, Illinois, airport steakhouse.
When school and the control tower finally released us for spring break, my first thrill was crossing the Ohio River and entering Kentucky as a pilot for the first time. And following takeoff from Smyrna, Tennessee, I made several hours' use of my freshly honed night flying skills.
Of increasing concern as we flew south was a cold front ahead accompanied by IFR conditions. Although forecast to quickly clear our route, it was barely past Atlanta when we landed that night. After sampling Atlanta's "Underground," we awoke next morning to find the front all but stalled across our route. With me not instrument rated, we barely covered 186 miles that day to Waycross, Georgia.
Fortunately the front zoomed away unexpectedly overnight, and we proceeded the following day to Stuart, Florida, to rent survival gear for our "crossing." Lindbergh could hardly have felt more trepidation before his epic flight than did I as a new pilot, facing my own tiny slice of the Atlantic in our trusty 172.
We took off and climbed to 9,500 feet before turning eastbound over Palm Beach. After what seemed like an eternity spent out of sight of land (actual flight time was under 40 minutes, shore to shore), we spotted the customary fair-weather clouds over Grand Bahama Island and landed uneventfully at Freeport, there to enrichen the casino and meet up with Larry's friend Steve.
Next morning brought 90 miles of island-hopping over red reefs and sparkling waters to Great Abaco, one of many Bahamian "out islands" accessible only by boat or light aircraft. The wind was howling at our Marsh Harbour destination, and I was grateful for Midwest crosswind experience when it came time to land.
At the airport we were greeted by "Mr. Strong," a charming and affable Bahamian official who filled out the requisite paperwork. Bedecked in uniform, his powerful physique matched his name. "How will you get to town?" he boomed in bass.
"Taxi?" we asked.
"It just so happens I run the taxi," he said. "Hop in."
Upon learning we'd made no reservations, Mr. Strong asked if we were interested in renting a house. "My wife cleans houses and acts as rental agent. Let me show you one." The house was heaven, on a narrow spit with pristine beach on both sides; we signed up on the spot.
Mr. Strong then asked about our dinner plans. Countering student frugality with tales of luscious island food, he offered "the best cook on the island" (Mrs. Strong) to prepare us dinner. The price seemed reasonable, so we shrugged at each other and accepted. That evening we dined on fresh grouper, homemade conch chowder, and key lime pie. It was a gourmet dinner I'll never forget.
The next days were spent walking beaches and snorkeling crystalline waters amid schools of tropical fish. And when time came to depart paradise, there was still the joy to relive of overflying coral reefs and turquoise waters on the way home.
We landed late that night at Macon, Georgia, and the next day I experienced my first mountain turbulence over the Smokies near Chattanooga. We touched down at University of Illinois-Willard Airport eight days and 24 flight hours after departing, astonished that we three average college students had completed such an exploit.
Bikinis? Hard as we looked, I don't believe we ever saw one. But beautiful beaches we found plenty, as well as wondrous travel by flying carpet to places that few classmates would visit in a lifetime. To this day I doubt many would understand how our spring break could be more memorable than all of their parties put together. Which reminds me...what flying trip are you planning for your next vacation?
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