August 26, 1973, was a fine day for flying. On this day I would be teaching a friend, James. We worked together at the Days Inn of Daytona Beach near the speedway. The aircraft was a beautiful Piper J-3 Cub, N70670. James had been flying with me for more than 20 hours, but he was a nervous sort. He would freeze
on the controls the moment he took them. He would yell, “I’m losing it…I’m losing it” until I assumed control. But we kept at it.
As I said, this day was beautiful, very few clouds, and the pattern was empty. We completed the preflight of the aircraft and flew north, away from the airport, to find a nice area for some simple power-off stalls. The past two hours of instruction had been going over and over the process: clearing turns, carb heat, power to idle, nose up, let it shake, nose down, full power. Somewhere between clearing turns and carb heat James would inevitably get lost.
I was determined that today would be different. I went over the process. Now it was James’s turn. He went straight to the nose-up attitude. No clearing turns. No carb heat. No idle power. I snapped.
I grabbed the controls, slapped the throttle to idle, rolled the aircraft inverted, and began recovery from the split-S. But, what was this? The engine was still at 2,000 rpm. The throttle was not at idle? Yes, it was! It’s amazing how fast even a J-3 will pick up speed when pointed downhill with power. I had one eye on the airspeed indicator, another on the rapidly approaching terra firma, and both hands on the stick. After what seemed like an eternity I was able to regain level flight, and the wings were still attached.
The engine was still turning 2,000 rpm with the throttle at idle. I advanced the throttle to maximum, and the engine went to 2,300 rpm. I again reduced the throttle to idle—and it stayed at 2,300 rpm. The throttle linkage was broken.
The aircraft was a basic tandem-seat Cub, with no battery, no generator, and no radio. I was on my own. I yelled over the engine noise to James, “We will be flying back to the airport. When we get there I will need your help to shut down the engine so we can land. I will wag my wings to attract attention and descend into the pattern. Then I will tell you to turn the magnetos off.” There was no mixture control—and the magneto switch was in the wing root area behind me.
“Yeah…uh-huh…OK…yeah,” he replied. The airport was quiet, with no traffic visible. The wind was straight down the main runway. I began wagging the wings and was well established on the upwind leg. “James! Turn the magnetos off!”
“No way!” he yelled.
I turned around and grabbed the magneto switch and turned it off.
By now the engine had been running at full throttle for about 20 minutes, and it was very hot. Without a mixture control, the fuel enters the engine through the carburetor; flows into the combustion chamber, where it isn’t ignited; and then into a very hot exhaust manifold. The backfiring sounded like a dozen shotguns trying to down a single bird. Everyone on the ground was looking up.
I continued around the pattern with a now very silent engine. The approach was perfect, the landing excellent, and I even had enough momentum behind me to pull off onto a taxiway and clear the runway.
It took me many years to realize the most important lessons of that day. James, as it turned out, loved flying—that is, he loved to be in an airplane and loved to see the sights; but, he did not like to control the machine. He could not enjoy the sights and emotional release of flight while trying to contain the rage of the beast.
The lesson? Aviation is a beautiful and intensely reverent activity for us all. For those truly into the art of flying, the challenges are like an artist’s canvas and brushes, and the colors are our gentle techniques that produce the greased-on landing, the perfect coordination, the rock-solid ILS approach. We create the beauty of flight so that others (our passengers) may enjoy the flight. The beauty of flight makes it appear as if the “roaring rage” is nothing more than a purr. James saw the beauty; all I was doing was producing the rage. He did not understand why.
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