Contrails: The Epiphany

By Steve Weaver

It must seem to newcomers in our world of aviation that the pilots who were flying back in “the day,” must be conspiring to weave a universal tall tale about how aviation was in the old days. Then they take turns telling the tale while the rest of the codgers nod in solemn assent.

In these times of six and seven dollar avgas and single engine piston aircraft pushing three quarters of a million dollars, it’s hard to visualize a world of 40 cent fuel and affordable airplanes, which the factories were pumping out like popcorn.  Imagine a time when we had the freedom to fly just about anywhere in almost anything and when almost anyone who was working could afford an airplane of some kind.

To those of us who lived and flew during those halcyon days, it seemed normal at the time because we hadn’t known anything else. Most of us thought that it   would continue this way always and that was just the way it was supposed to be. It also seemed to us, to me anyway, that aviation was probably about the same in every progressive country. I had no clue what an oasis of aeronautical privilege we were living in.

But in the mid ‘70s I had an experience that opened my eyes. I was given a glimpse of aviation in the UK and Europe, and I saw firsthand that flying there was mostly for the wealthiest. If you can stand a circuitous route to the point I want to make, I’ll tell you the story.

In the spring of 1976, I had taken a break from flying, my career, and life in general and I was spending several weeks touring the UK; this while morosely contemplating the wreckage of my life, since my little world of aviation had imploded that winter. Alas, my rascally accountant had made off with the corporate purse, and my flying service had tumbled around my head. Airplanes, employees, hangar, shop, charter service, and Piper dealership all had gone, and with it, my ability to make a living. The banks had swooped in and also taken everything I owned personally that was worth taking, so I had little left but my clothes.

It was pretty apparent to me at that point that I had reached one of life’s ugly little mileposts. I needed to stop and take stock and decide what the rest of my life would look like. I needed a change of scenery and a place that would help me do that.

Serendipitously, about that time a check showed up. It was from my bank, the proceeds of a closed out and forgotten account. I remember holding the check and thinking that it wasn’t enough to change my new and admittedly horrible lifestyle, but it was enough to take a trip overseas, where I could think more clearly about things. Without hesitating, I purchased a round trip ticket to London and started filling my backpack with the things that I would need for a month of travel.

I hitched a ride to JFK with my friend, Jake, who let me ride along on a trip he had in the King Air he was flying, and there I caught my flight to Heathrow. It turned out that I had unknowingly booked on the inaugural U.S. flight for Virgin Airways. There was lots of celebrating in First Class, and I saw a smiling Richard Branson swinging a glass of bubbly, but the fete never made its way to Steerage.

In London, I hired a car, as they call it there. It was a Morris Mini, the grandfather of the present day Mini, and it looked much like the present car, except it had wheels so small it made the car resemble a roller skate. I had seen pictures of them, but never had seen one for real, and certainly not one with the driving position on the right (wrong) side. I stowed my gear in the boot (trunk).

I set off with great apprehension, steering from the wrong side of the car, shifting with the wrong hand and flinching as cars came at me from the wrong side of the road. My brain wasn’t designed for this. Roundabouts were completely mind blowing, and I approached each one with fear and foreboding, which usually turned out to be appropriate feelings for what was about to happen. After a few miles of this and several shots of adrenalin in response to cars coming around a turn on “my” side of the road, I stopped to fill up at a petrol station, and attendants swarmed the tiny car. With the tank full, fluids checked and preflight complete, I stepped in the office and settled my bill.

Back outside, I jumped back in the car and stared dumbly at the dash panel in front of me. The steering wheel was gone. I looked to my right and found it, smugly attached to that side of the car. I looked to my left and saw three smiling petrol attendants giving me their unblinking attention. Thinking quickly, I opened the glove compartment and sorted through the documents there, as though I needed something vital to my continued driving. Clutching the owner’s manual I jumped out of my seat and ran around to where the steering wheel was waiting for me and quickly sped away, blushing to my hair roots.

Well into the Northumberland countryside now, I settled into the journey and began to relax. As the miles unfolded, I grew ever more delirious with the richness of rural England. Stonewalled farms swam by, and the two-lane road twisted across the green and rolling landscape to offer new vistas at every turn. As I rounded a bend and came out upon a long valley, I suddenly saw a runway off to my right. Not just a runway, it was an aerodrome, and not just an aerodrome, but one from WWII. There were Quonset Huts set in rows and aging hangars, their darkened interiors guarded by shadow. The crisscrossing Emerald runways lacked only landing Spitfires to convince me that I had traveled back in time.

Of course I had to stop, and as I pulled into the parking area, one of the strangest and largest gliders that I’d ever seen was being pulled from one of the hangars by a half dozen or so men.

I introduced myself to them as a pilot from the U.S. and to my confusion, became a sort of instant celebrity. They gathered about me in a circle and asked many questions about what flying was like in the States, one after the other submitting their inquiries in a sort of very polite interrogation.

Then they showed me their glider, which was the only aircraft on the aerodrome they said. It was a two place, side-by-side affair, the open cockpit of which resembled a ‘30s English Roadster, and you sat in it up to your ears in airplane. The wing span was enormous, at least 60 feet, and as I looked it over, they asked me if I’d like a ride in it. Of course I said yes, so it was trundled out to the runway, hooked to a double-decked bus, which had been converted into a winch tow, and off we shot, for a short but memorable silent tour above the greenscape.

Their hospitality didn’t stop there; back on the ground, I was to operate the winch they said, and so I did and logged what would be my career’s only winch tow.

When it was time to say goodbye, I shook hands with these delightful men whose hospitality and fervor for the sky humbled me. One of them said something to me as I was leaving that I thought about for a long time afterward. He said, “Oh I wish you’d been here last week; we had a powered airplane come in.”  

I never forgot that statement because it brought home just how privileged those of us who love the sky have been in this country, but I am saddened by how much less accessible aviation is to the average person in our country now.

It’s my hope that aviation is not on a slippery slope in this country, and that we never arrive at a place where a visit by a powered airplane is an event.