Several years ago, during a visit to my grandmother's farm in Gloucester, Virginia, my father and I made a trip to the old Gloucester airport. The airport had been on the Washington, D.C., sectional as a closed airport for quite some time, and we wanted to go see what had become of the field. I can remember as a kid on some of those farm visits seeing a fair number of small airplanes in the sky, and it was clear even to my young mind that they were coming from and going to a fairly busy place. It was one airport that I never got to see while it was still open.
When we got to the airport, our reaction was shock. The place was overgrown with grass and weeds. The runway and taxiways were distinct and visible, but I would hardly have called them usable. The building that had been the fixed-base operation was closed up tight. One window had shed the plywood used to board it up, not to mention most of the glass. Through it, we could see a few old posters on the wall, some items left in the display case for sale, and a couple of old chairs that had heard their share of hangar tales. An old sectional was taped to the back of a door. The thickness of the dust and the stale taste of the air gave a clear indication that its last visitor had come and gone years in the past.
Parked on the cracked cement of the old ramp was a single airplane, the only one we would see that day. It was a Cessna 172. It was an old one. It had the square tail, the manually operated bar for the flaps, an attitude indicator from just after the second World War. The airplane was in shambles. I've long wanted to do a total restoration of an old airplane just like this one, but this was beyond my means at the time, and I'm not sure I'd have wanted to tackle this particular project. The wheels were flat and rotted, the skins were corroded, and the engine and the propeller, well, let's just say this airplane wasn't going anywhere under its own power. Yet, looking at it, that Skyhawk — with sun and rain damage and years of neglect — stood proud, like it was a monument to what was once a great airport. What had I missed before the place shut down?
We dream of a state of perfection in all aspects of our lives. What makes for a perfect airport? What keeps one alive forever?
Fate has allowed me to see much of the country as a pilot. While I love the challenge of Chicago O'Hare International or Boston's General Edward Lawrence Logan International I am never more at home than I am at a small general aviation field. I don't mean the ones hidden away, but ones that are easy to find, next to a main road, with no more than a chain-link fence to border them, and no control tower. Somewhere, that ideal airport is waiting for me, and this is how I envision it in my mind. Tell me what you think....
Airports need to be next to water. A large open bay, a lake, an ocean, a wide river running blue. It doesn't matter. There needs to be water and there needs to be a beach. Pilots tend to like boats, and boaters need us when they break down. Beaches let us get away with flying low and slow on a hot and windy summer day under the guise of banner towing in an old but reliable taildragger, windows open and sunglasses on. Shoes are optional. The beach near the airport is ours, long and private, so there is plenty of room to do the pickups and drops without worrying about trees or buildings. Beaches give good crosswinds and a steady breeze. Besides, flying got started on a beach, ergo, we need a beach.
Water will afford a good seaplane school as well. If you haven't flown a seaplane, you don't know what you are missing. But seaplane schools are hard to find. This one will thrive. You want a can't-miss date? Get a seaplane on a clear day and take your honey to a quiet beach on a lake with a picnic lunch. Swim, eat, fish, and relax the day away. Take off just as the sun is setting over the trees, laying a carpet of bright-red paint on the water, and come home. We'll help you put the ship away.
The other side of the airport will have the FBO. An FBO needs to have personality of its own. The building needs to welcome any and all. No one can feel like a stranger or be afraid to approach. A porch with worn but comfortable rocking chairs and a restaurant upstairs with balcony seating on the roof of the porch, the better to watch planes take off and land, will add to the ambiance. Not too big or fancy. Inside, things can be cluttered, but the place needs to be clean, to make you feel warm and welcome. Lots of pictures, torn solo T-shirts, and a refrigerator with free sodas and water to drink while sitting on the sofas and looking out the large windows on rainy days. The customer service desk will be large, built for short people like me, and it will be attended by men and women enthusiastic about flying, not just there to work a job. These people will be the epitome of grass-roots aviation, the VFR-only kind that can receive phone calls from potential customers and have their names in the renters log before they hang up. There will be no arguments about which airplane you want to fly, or what time you want your plane fueled up. You need it, and it will be done, fast and friendly. You won't have trouble finding that one sectional you need, either.
No airport should be built without a grass runway. This should be a law. Have you ever listened to a plane land on grass? It comes in to land, engine at idle, barely audible as the noise is drowned out by the slipstream moving by the cowling. As the wheels touch down in a good landing, there is a unique whoosh sound as the grass brushes the wheels. You won't hear it on asphalt. The rollout has a bit of rhythmic rat-tat-tat sound. It's good, right. To make this work, a grass runway needs to be not quite flat, but crowned for water runoff. It must be smooth and green, like Wrigley Field. The grass needs to be cut short, like the fairway of a golf course. Besides, ultralights were meant for grass, and this airport will have ultralights. Like a seaplane, if you haven't flown an ultralight, you are missing something very special.
My longtime dream has been to live on a residential airpark. There is something special about being able to taxi your airplane to your house. There will be no long drive to the airport, no Friday traffic to fight. Wake up, open the hangar door, and be airborne in a Champ or a Cub — over the water, of course — just a few minutes after waking up. A bright-red or purple sunrise in an airplane can be mesmerizing. Most residential airparks I've seen cost a fortune to live in. This airport is an everyman's place to live. The homes aren't fancy, and neither are the people. Formal attire means you wear socks and take off your baseball hat. Our houses line the grass runway, and it's an easy walk to the FBO. In good weather, we leave our airplanes parked on the grass, much as we might leave a car in the driveway instead of the garage. The largest airplane will be a small twin, maybe a Piper Apache or Aztec. No fancy turbines allowed.
The flight school will be busy, taking advantage of business from the neighbors and the people at the beach who just want to go on a sightseeing flight. The school will be in the back of the FBO, and each instructor will have his own cubicle, and a classroom is available for ground school. The staff will be a mix of retired airline captains, middle-aged professionals teaching part time, and young, freshly minted CFIs who are in no hurry to leave, but instead love to fly small airplanes and love to teach.
Quality will be as important as quantity of hours flown, and the fleet will be busy from sunrise until after sunset. Airplanes, after all, are meant to fly, not park. When the young pilots do leave, they will come back to fly the banners and teach in the seaplane and the ultralights. This environment will be hard for them to leave.
The hangar will be next to the FBO, the big door always open. The mechanics in the shop are friendly, easy to approach. The rates are reasonable, the shop is clean, and the work done right. Your help is encouraged, but not required. Nobody is belittled, and nobody knows it all.
People, though, are the essence of any community. I spend enough time in big terminals with people who are just nameless faces, part of a mass of humanity in a rush. We need a place where everyone is relaxed, sharing stories and secrets of places discovered, the pilots and nonpilots friendly, engaging, willing to listen, and gentle in criticism, "where everybody knows your name." Young, old, or in between, none of us is better than the next. As one pilot I heard once said, the old timers have discovered all the mistakes, and the young ones will repeat them. Share what you can, avoid what you should, and when you hear a pilot admit to a mistake, remember that you probably made the same one as well (just don't make it more than once). The young guys and gals are never made to feel intimidated. Kids on bikes come to the fence to watch, and some finagle a ride. This airport is as it should be. This is home, both mine and yours.
Where is it?
Chip Wright, of Hebron, Kentucky, is a Canadair Regional Jet captain for Comair.
