God is still my co-pilot

It was about forty years ago. Give or take a flight or two. A sunny Saturday afternoon. Piloting a Piper Cherokee 180 out of the Center Airport. Destination Mount Pleasant, to visit my parents.

The short 45-minute hop with a panoramic perspective of East Texas was easy. A familiar one I had made numerous times flying a variety of aircraft. Previous trips had been routine, but this one went in a different direction from the get-go.

Before we got the bugs worked out, you might say. Memories of that trip grew wings again last week in a discussion about airplanes and the old Mount Pleasant airport. It was located smack dab in the middle of what is today the Preifert Manufacturing facilities complex.

The present-day Preifert event center, in fact, started life as a hangar at that old airport and remains as the last reminder of where it used to be. Whether it is the one that was dubbed “the main hangar” or not, I don’t know. The hangar once adorned with a Mobil flying red horse and a windsock at the roof ’s peak. The one with faded letters noting the airport’s name and field elevation. About 400 feet above mean sea level as I recall.

Bill Phinney was the airport manager. Pilot friends who encouraged my interest in aviation to take off at that airport included David Brogoitti, Frank Glover, Ronny Narramore, Jim McGuire, Gale Braddock, James Spann, and others for which brain cells are failing to fire at the moment.

Instructor Doyle Amerson got me through ground school and my first solo before his untimely death. Soon afterward, Grady Firmin returned from military duty as a Vietnam-era military pilot and flight instructor, guiding me to the goal—a private pilot’s license.

The preflight for the trip to Mount Pleasant was routine. With family on board, I taxied onto the runway and applied full power for the takeoff roll.

Midway of the runway, the airplane began to feel light and started to fly. That was good. However, just clear of the ground as Highway 7 passed underneath us, the airspeed indicator fell to zero. That was not good.

Contradictory to the instrumentation display, we had power, and the airplane was performing as it should. We were airborne and climbing. But critical flight instruments were not functioning.

“Center unicom.” It was my voice this time. “We’re airborne, but we have instrument problems.”

The pitot-static system controls three flight instruments: airspeed indicator, altimeter, and vertical speed indicator. So, we were flying but I had no idea how fast. We were going up, but I had no idea how high or how fast.

This lack of primary data gave new meaning to the old saying, “flying by the seat of your pants.”

“Probably a dirt dauber in the pitot system,” Bill said. “Come on back around and land, and I’ll clean in it out.”

Silence. Then I responded, “How do I set up a landing approach without knowing my airspeed, altitude, or rate of descent?”

After another moment of silence, Bill offered his suggestion that I attempt that at the larger Mount Pleasant airport.

The typically short trip seemed like an eternity. Pilot training emphasizes being sensitive to the feel and sound of your aircraft at all times. I felt and heard everything the aircraft offered for the next 40 minutes or so. It was a 40-minute relationship best described as intimacy between man and machine.

Using my “oneness with the airplane” and little else at my disposal other than the seat of my pants, I reached Mount Pleasant. The sweet feel of tires touching asphalt conjured visions of a bumper sticker popular at the time … “God is my co-pilot.”

Taxiing the plane to a stop at the terminal was followed by a long sigh, which was followed by wiping sweat from my brow and offering a prayer of thanks.

No maintenance was available on Saturday. Assuming that if we did it successfully once, we could do it again, the visit was cut short and took off to beat the darkness back to Center.

With shadows long and the sun’s orange glow mere moments from disappearing behind me, wheels gently kissed the runway again. This time safely at home.

Sleeping kids in the back seat never woke up.

Remembering that adventure reminded me again how some things never change.

One, it’s been a long time since I was “pilot in command” of any aircraft. But apparently, dirt daubers are still a threat to working the bugs out of flying. I still see red “Remove Before Flight” warning flags on pitot tube covers.

And the other thing? God is still my co-pilot. In the air or on the ground.

-----—Contact Leon Aldridge at leonaldridge@gmail.com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge.com