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I took my graduating son to an airfield during a Fly-in event.
We were going to fly in a WACO open-cockpit biplane. First, I was still secretly surprised that my son agreed to this experience at all. He did not like anything that pumped anxiety through his veins like the plunging dive of a roller-coaster. It had to be that he really didn’t understand what exactly we were getting ourselves into.
Our first mistake was to forego the suggested earplugs. I was reminded of this error for the better part of a week afterward, as my hearing struggled to return to normal after the deafening loud engine powering the propeller.
We watched one of the classic birds touchdown close to our tent, where we waited for our adventure to begin.
My son was quieter than usual. I knew he wanted to bail, but we were too far along for that now. So, he probably imagined the possibilities that could go wrong. Or he was trying to block thinking about anything altogether.
Our bright yellow open cockpit biplane gurgled to a stop in the grass next to us. The biplane had two holes in the top to sit in. The pilot sat in the rear one. We would sit in the one in front of him, behind the engine, and under the upper wing and above the lower one.
When we were given instructions to board, we simply listened without objection. I was told to get in first and slide over to the far side. Then, my son was placed next to me. My side had a shoulder-high metal wall over which I could see. Then, I realized my son had to sit with his entire side exposed to the cutout, where we could get into the cockpit. It was too late; the person who seated us was gone, and the pilot had us rolling.
We felt the movements and quirks with each bump and turn as we puttered and sputtered toward the runway. He was eyes in and forward, glued looking at his feet, I think. I watched the grass pass by his open side, thinking, damn, I’m glad I don’t have to sit there. I wanted to reassure him that it would be okay, but once we were accelerating and left God’s green earth, you could shout at the top of your lungs; nobody could hear you—even if they were sitting right next to you.
I let out a bit of euphoria, “Here we go!”
And go we went.
The nose pointed to the sun. Our hair and clothes whipped wildly from the rush of air flowing over us. The town below transformed into a miniature playset, and the surrounding farmland resembled square puzzle pieces. We were up, up, and away. The sun was gleaming, the horizon glowed. And my son clutched where the metal stopped in front of his exposed side in sheer panic; I was convinced.
The whole time, that engine raged in our ears!
And when I thought it couldn’t get any worse for my son, the pilot showed off. We unexpectedly climbed upward, steeply and rapidly.
Please, don’t blow an engine now, dear Lord!
I met my son’s eyes and smiled when we leveled back out. He looked back to his safety spot, his feet surrounded by metal—except for one side, of course.
Then, the whole plane dipped to the side, and my son was above me, and we sailed in a big, wide turn like that.
Then, the unthinkable: my son’s side dipped just as severely. I was now higher than he was. The air current was so strong I wondered if my skinny boy would be sucked out of his seatbelt into the low-hanging clouds. I tried to grab him to reassure him and ensure he stayed in his seat.
Once we were past the cartoonish cloud, I looked past him, out his hole, and straight to the ground below, thinking, This kid will need therapy after this.
I craned my head to see the pilot behind me. He gave a grin and a thumbs-up. That’s when I just let loose and laughed my ass off like I hadn’t in years. I knew not even my son could hear me, and he wasn’t looking anywhere but forward and down, so I just roared long and hard.
When we landed, I thought, Wow, that was a fantastic experience, and the visuals were heavenly.
Once we touched the planet with our feet, my son turned and simply said, “I’ll never do that again.”
By Frank Rocco Satullo, The OhioTraveler, Your Tour Guide to Fun!
