The Runaway Airplane!

By Steve Weaver

Twilight faded by the minute and darkness descended like a cloak on the rugged West Virginia landscape slipping by, a thousand feet below the dangling wheels of the white Luscombe I was flying. The first twinges of panic rose in my chest as the seriousness of my situation dawned on me. I stared frantically at the lights of cars moving on the now-invisible roads below. Inside them, I knew, were ordinary people, safely making their way home along familiar highways. I wanted to be with them. I wanted out of this devil machine, carrying me to my apparent doom. I wanted my mom.

It was June of 1962. The week before, I had not only made my first solo flight in the Piper Colt trainer at the old airpark where I was learning to fly, I had bought an airplane, a Luscombe 8A, the following day. The Luscombe happened to be for sale at the airpark, and the next day I checked out in it, too. At that point, I’d logged about nine total hours in the air, soloed two machines, and made one of them mine. I was on a roll.

With these milestones behind me, it was time for the coupe de gras of my new flying career. I must now do the obligatory first flight over my parents’ house. In the best new-pilot tradition, I would show the world — my small world anyway — that I had mastered my fate and conquered the air. I was now a pilot, and people needed to know this. What better way to announce my membership in this exclusive club than a screaming pass – in my mind only, in reality it would be a leisurely aerial stroll — above my home village?

A small problem existed. The target of this surreptitious flight lay some 90 air miles to the southeast of Parkersburg, where I now lived. Being new to flying, I had not yet been exposed to some of the details of the sport, details that I might need on such a flight. Bothersome items, such as navigation and cross-country planning, had not been covered during my brief aeronautical tenure. However, I felt these inconveniences could be overcome.

I happened to work with a very experienced pilot, an old hand who possessed an actual private license and had spent perhaps 60 hours in the air. The next day at work as we sat eating our lunch, I craftily brought the conversation around to flying. He listened intently as I shared news of my exciting purchase of the Luscombe. I explained that someday, far in the future when I had learned about navigation and aeronautical maps and such, I would use my airplane to fly back to my family’s home in central West Virginia. How long, I wondered aloud, did he think that would take?

He took the bait. Eager to show his prowess, he quickly brought his chart, plotter, and flight computer from his car. I showed him where the village of Arden was on the chart, and he measured the distance. He asked me the speed of the Luscombe, and I gave him the figure that I remembered seeing on the airspeed indicator during the brief moments I had flown the ship in level flight. Mysterious whirring of the flight computer ensued, accompanied by low mutterings from my guru. With a triumphant smile he announced that when I was a fully formed pilot and had mastered the art of navigation, I could expect my airplane to carry me home in about 56 minutes, give or take for wind, whatever that meant.

This was wonderful news. I could make the flight after work and get back well before dark. Today was a beautiful day with little or no wind and fine weather forecast to continue. I would go this very evening!

You can read the rest of this article in this issue of Goldenseal, available in bookstores, libraries or direct from Goldenseal.