Dancing with ‘Georgia Girl’

I approach the Waco tentatively. I want to come closer, get reacquainted, but I’m not sure it remembers me. We’ve been familiar, but it’s been a while. I circle the Waco, wipe smudges off the cowl, give it a couple of gentle pats and notice the low wing, just a couple feet off the ground…ah, that’s right, it will not tolerate a sloppy landing. Easy to scrape that low wing if my feet get lazy or upwind aileron is released too early. I round the tail and then take a nearby chair to keep my eye on Georgia Girl while I review old checkout notes and sip some coffee.

I step up the bottom wing and climb into the front cockpit, look around and confirm the space is secure. Satisified, I move to the back, practice a strap-in, and reacquaint myself with the sparse yet spacious cockpit…oh, yeah, I can’t reach the parking brake with shoulder harnesses tight. Now where is the fuel selector? I remember it’s hard to reach…here somewhere…good grief…good thing I don’t need it in a hurry. Ahh, there, low left behind the throttle quadrant. I sit for a while and reacquaint my eyes for instant location of rpm, airspeed, oil pressure. My left hand moves from throttle to mixture to carburetor heat, all crowded together on a tight quadrant, logical and easy enough when you run through it a couple of times, so you can grab the intended lever without looking.

I decide to at least taxi around, run it up, and see how we’re both feeling. Can I take the belle dancing without stepping all over her toes? My brother, a UPS 747-8 captain, dreamt for most of his adult life of owning a Waco and giving open-cockpit rides. My hesitation is the risk of causing any blemish on the manifestation of his and partner John Damgard’s dream.

I escort Georgia Girl out of the dark hangar and into the sunlight, like presenting a debutante at her ball. I pull the prop through to confirm no oil is trapped in any cylinders that could cause hydraulic lock on start and a bent rod. “Careful, pull it through slow, deliberate, don’t force it. If you feel too much pressure, stop,” says every Waco pilot. “How do I know if it’s too much pressure?” I ask. “You’ll feel it,” is the response. This “feel it” dynamic is part of the Waco’s ethos.

After fueling I walk around once more—caps, cowl, chocks—then slip into the rear cockpit. I dry-run the “three-handed” start, then work it: primer and starter, three blade swings, then reach across and add magnetos. The Waco rewards me with the paean it reserves for those who nudge her awake properly, a dactylic rhythm of cylinders awakening, then synchronizing. It is impossible to suppress a smile when you are the initiator of this majestic sequence.

The oil warms after a long while and on taxi it feels like the Waco and I are in balance. I remember my brother’s coaching: “Not your Super Cub, give it more time before raising the tail, and when you do, anticipate more gyroscopic effect from the big propeller. Feed in right rudder before you need it.”

Georgia Girl tracks straight on takeoff roll and lifts me airborne. The exhilaration of the open cockpit is immediate. Loud, windy, noisy, magnificent. The Waco seems delighted to be in its element, and we sashay through the North Georgia countryside, lazy eights, whifferdills. It is balanced and smooth, giving me exactly the response I expect for the control and power inputs I make, which defines a “true” flying airplane.

We head back to the airport. I fly 70 mph on downwind, carburetor heat on, pull it back to 1,000 rpm and set up a slightly steep descent. I anticipate the Continental burp when adding power on base and it’s there, no longer alarming to me. On final I power back, set in a slip, and slow to cross the fence at 60 mph. Slipping to see the runway, I wait to just above the flare, exit the slip, and work to feel a blind touchdown. The Waco mushes down comfortably on the mains, tailwheel low, power all the way in idle. I work the rudders and fly the tailwheel to the runway. We taxi back and fly a couple more patterns so I can cement the sight picture and our bond.

Another glorious flying day. Perfect conditions, space, and time to re-establish proficiency and confidence at a measured pace in an airplane entirely willing to fly exactly as I command it. I clean it up, tuck it in, and pat the cowling.

Good-bye Georgia Girl. I’ll come calling again soon.

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