Flying Carpet

Alex and Nicole Chambers (center, left) with friend Carol Wyatt-Smith, at Sedona Airport, Arizona.

I questioned how much Alex Chambers would appreciate an airplane ride celebrating his fifth birthday, given little kids’ notoriously short attention spans. But Jean’s friend and tennis coach, Nicole, had long reported her son’s obsession with airplanes, so I willingly offered a flight when Jean suggested it.

Normally I fly first-timers around the nearby San Francisco Peaks, followed by breakfast at scenic Sedona Airport. But for little Alex, I figured one or the other would be enough. I also bought a toy airplane to occupy him if necessary during our flight; finding no Flying Carpet-style Cessnas, I selected a nifty Republic P–47 fighter.

Our opportunity arose a week after Alex’s birthday. Nicole’s visiting childhood friend, Carol Wyatt-Smith from South Africa, would join us.

“Why are we going inside the gate?” Alex asked his mom when we met at Flagstaff Pulliam Airport.

“We’re going to see Greg’s airplane,” she explained. Alex squirmed shyly when invited out of the car, but eventually emerged to open his P–47 birthday present and stash it with his backseat airplane collection.

I assigned my young friend to push the button opening the hangar door—always popular among youthful passengers. Then he helped me pull out the airplane. Surprised at Alex’s level of engagement, I demonstrated the elevators during preflight.

“These make the airplane go up and down,” I said. “What do you think they’re called?”

“Are those the flaps?” he replied. This is a 5-year-old, mind you, so I was impressed that he could name any flight surface, even the wrong one. As I buckled his seatbelt, he boasted of flying on a Boeing 747-700.

“This is a lot better than listening on my pretend headset,” Alex commented via intercom as we taxied to the runway. Nicole explained how Alex’s father, Robert, had fabricated one out of shooter’s ear muffs with a simulated mic boom.

“Mom!” interjected Alex. “Listening to a real radio is a lot better than listening to you talk.” Alex remained straight-faced while laughter filled our cockpit.

Following takeoff we steered over town. Nicole seemed more excited about seeing their house than Alex did, although he was disappointed to miss the city dump when Carol observed it on her side of the aircraft. After circling Sunset Crater, I asked my passengers whether we should continue around the San Francisco Peaks or land at Sedona. The latter won unanimously, and as I set course Carol boosted the little boy to the front seat so he could try the controls from his mom’s lap.

Young children often aggressively wiggle the control wheel, but to my surprise Alex immediately assumed a serious “captain’s demeanor,” and smoothly steered our little ship toward the landmarks I designated.

Sedona is only 20 miles from Flagstaff, but 2,200 feet lower. As we approached, we returned Alex to his seat. I briefed everyone on clearing their ears, and we descended steeply to join Sedona’s traffic pattern.

We touched down amid much oohing and aahing, and settled on the airport restaurant patio for coffee. There I learned that Alex had asked to visit the Flagstaff airport for his actual birthday a week earlier. He’d convinced his mother to intercept a just-landed Apache helicopter crew, who had offered a cockpit tour. The Apache was now Alex’s new favorite aircraft.

Carol and I continued chatting while Nicole supervised Alex flying “turns about a patio,” complete with outstretched arms and engine noises. Today turned out to be Carol’s first small-airplane flight.

“I get nervous during takeoff and landing in airliners, so I was a bit concerned before we took off,” she explained. “But I actually felt more comfortable in your airplane.” Carol’s son Taylor aspires to be a pilot for the British Navy, and it turned out he was shadowing Cape Town Flying Club operations during Carol’s travels.

“You should visit that flying club yourself when you get home,” I said, based on her enthusiastic questions. The birthday boy soon touched down at our table, and with gravity asked, “Are we driving home or flying home?”

“Which would you prefer?” I asked, as if we had a choice.

“I think flying would be more fun.”

“Then we’ll fly, Alex!” I said. Carol sampled the controls on our short hop back to Flagstaff, during which our young friend fell asleep. Nicole gently wakened him for landing.

“Look! An Apache helicopter!” Alex exclaimed as we taxied in. He also noted a Cessna 182 parked nearby. “That’s the same kind of airplane as this one,” he said, “except it has three propellers and this one only has two.” With our engine still running, he’d obviously counted our propeller blades earlier.

Nicole texted that evening. “Alex has not put down his ‘thunderbolt’ as he’s calling the airplane you and Jean gave him.”

“Alex knows the toy is a P–47 Thunderbolt?” I asked, astonished.

“That’s what he told me. Too many YouTube videos, I think. He has only just fallen asleep with the airplane in his hand. Too much excitement, and his last words were ‘I’ll dream about being in Uncle Greg’s airplane, Mom!’ Really and truly.”