Six people share a Cessna Centurion
It was the first visit to Phoenix for Jean and me. Back then we lived in Lafayette, Indiana, where I taught at Purdue University. Two fellow faculty members, Bruce Papier and Kingsley Wu, were also pilots. One day Bruce appeared at my office with a gleam in his eye. "The Arizona State University design conference is soliciting presenters," he said. "Maybe we should fly there together!"
"What do you have in mind?" I asked.
"The Department offers travel money for attending meetings," he explained. "If we team up, maybe between partial reimbursement and cost-sharing we can afford to attend. Kingsley wants to go, and with Jean that would make four of us."
The university flying club offered three Cessna aircraft at the time: a 172 Skyhawk, a 182 Skylane, and a 210 Centurion. Journeying to the three-day conference by Skyhawk would take too long to be feasible--some 13 hours and four fuel stops each way. The Skylane was more suitable, but also more expensive. Fastest and most comfortable would be the Centurion. Although most expensive of the airplanes per rental hour, if we could fill all six seats the per-person cost would be the lowest of the three, beating airline fare.
"Would any other faculty members consider flying across the country with us?" I asked Bruce the next morning over coffee. "Reed and Vicki from Interior Design might be interested," he replied. While neither had light plane experience, both were intrigued by the conference and the flying adventure.
No one in our cramped cabin of six adults complained when we finally ascended westward through damp clouds one cool April morning. Lively conversation brightened the first four-hour leg to Wichita, Kansas. All talk stopped, however, when a few hours later flat farmland gave way to golden rockscapes and jet-black lava flows of the Southwest.
Old Town Albuquerque was deserted when we arrived that Tuesday evening, and nearly everything was closed. As we searched in vain for an open restaurant, squealing tires and blaring sirens shattered the silence--a car rounded the corner, closely pursued by police cruisers. Following the chase up the block, we spotted an open New Mexican restaurant. There the beautiful hostess's dark sparkling eyes and jet-black hair unexpectedly transported me back 100 years into Marty Robbins's woeful ballad, "El Paso." I found myself in Rose's Cantina, where a young cowboy's passion for a lovely "Mexican maiden" leads to his death. Such romance would one day draw our Flying Carpet permanently West.
Phoenix was much smaller then, as was Sky Harbor International Airport where we landed the next morning. Having departed chilly springtime Indiana we were unprepared for the desert heat. Although temperatures were cool at our cruising altitude of 12,500 feet, the cabin grew alarmingly warmer with each thousand feet of descent. As our densely packed cabin filled with the odor of sweat I momentarily feared the possibility of fire under the engine cowl. Then to my relief Kingsley noted outside air temperatures in the nineties. No wonder we were hot.
Everyone's conference presentations went well in Phoenix, and Jean, Bruce, and I spent an enjoyable day touring central Arizona. I remember hearing 102 degrees on the airport weather recording when we departed Phoenix a few days later; during climbout there was high anxiety in our heat-soaked cabin until we reached cooler temperatures aloft.
After dark in Amarillo that night, we checked into the cheapest hotel we could find. It turned out to be a dump. Jean and I changed rooms to find a working air conditioner, but that proved a mixed blessing. The grating, rattling compressor tortured us for hours. Then, at 2:30 a.m. the air conditioner crashed three feet from the wall of our room to the floor. In spite of the hot air and outdoor lights penetrating the opening, we finally fell into fitful sleep.
We emerged next morning to discover our companions leaning over the second-floor balcony outside our room. "So that was the smell," observed Vicki of the vile green slime lining the otherwise empty swimming pool directly below our door. There was no sadness leaving Amarillo for home that morning.
With all the sights seen on this trip, Jean and I most vividly remember the night we arrived in Phoenix. Bruce, who'd been to Phoenix before, remembered a "really great" Polynesian restaurant. Succumbing to his descriptions of giant tiki masks, sky-scorching torches, and a volcanic fire fountain, we agreed to dine at the exotic Kon Tiki.
Inside, however, notions of island feasts and grass skirts were quashed by gum-popping waitresses in dowdy diner dresses. Shady characters glared from nearby tables as our server dealt greasy menus offering only a half-dozen entries: hot dog, hamburger, corn dog, cheeseburger, chili dog, and French fries.
"This is not what I had in mind for dinner," said Reed, unflinchingly. With heads bowed we sneaked stealthily out the door.
"This place has changed since my last visit," said Bruce as we approached the car.
"I hope so," smirked Jean, pointing to a previously unnoticed marquis gracing the entrance. "Waterbeds rented by the half hour," it said.
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, Job Hunting for Pilots, and You Can Fly! Visit his Web site.
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