Bunny’s Childhood Memories, vol. 10: Volare!

In the timeline of human history, controllable heavier-than-air flight has only been a reality for a few minutes. It’s still new and exciting to us as a species. Though the business travelers among us may have grown weary of it, flying still strikes wonder into the hearts of young and old, myself included.

My father too, but on an even grander scale. He used to tell me that his dream was to be an astronaut. He came of age in an era when a young boy’s heroes weren’t felonious hip-hop singers or New Jersey-based reality television stars—no, they were the jet pilots, the spacemen, those with the Right Stuff who were exploring the farthest reaches of the sky. Pop would take me out on dark, clear nights to look through his telescope at the moon’s great seas or the Pleiades cluster. My mother knew that we shared a yearning to take to the skies, and for his birthday in August of 1994, she decided to indulge us a bit. She bought us two tickets to ride on a WWII-era Stearman 75 biplane.

The biplane was flown by Classic Aviators, a little aerial tour company that operates out of the grass-strip Katama Airfield on the eastern side of the island. During the summer months, the biplane can be heard (long before it’s seen) rumbling over the beaches and golf courses as its passengers take in the sights. Now, we’d be taking a turn.

The old man and I showed up at the airfield with plenty of time to spare. Upon arriving, we found out that the normal pilot was out that day, and covering for him was a gentleman that Pop knew named Mike. Given this, he said he’d give us the “special treament” and do some acrobatic maneuvers he wouldn’t normally do with his usual clients. We walked out to the strip and beheld our craft; the Stearman was gleaming in the late summer sun. Her blue fuselage was complemented by yellow main wings and a red-and-white striped rudder. Mike gassed her up and ran through his checklist, and gave us our goggles and headsets. We’d need those, he said, because when you’re in an open cockpit and there’s a nine-cylinder, 680 cubic inch Lycoming radial engine with an open exhaust and the throttle pinned swinging an eight-foot wooden prop about two feet in front of your nose, it gets a little loud and breezy. We hopped on up to the front cockpit. We couldn’t wait.

The smell of gasoline wafted over us as Mike completed his pre-flight. I imagined myself a would-be World War Two flying ace, taking his first round in the trainer on his way to becoming a hero of the sky over Berlin or the Pacific. Stepping up to the front of the plane, Mike took the propeller in hand and gently turned it over a couple times to work some oil into the rings and prime her up. Then, it was brakes on, mags hot, contact. He took a firm hold on the prop with both hands and gave it a mighty throw. The veteran radial belched a great cloud of smoke and thundered to life. Mike hopped up behind the stick, and we taxied out. I was electrified with excitement. He lined us up on the grassy runway, and eased the throttle forward. The engine snorted, cleared its throat, and roared up to takeoff power. We bounced down the strip, and before you could say “Rosie the Riveter,” we were airborne.

The mighty Stearman pulled us skyward. Even with us wearing our goggles and noise-blocking com headsets, the engine at full song was a force to be reckoned with. It put all five senses into overload. This was aviation as it was meant to be; raucous, elemental, nothing separating you from the air through which you were soaring but a bit of wood and wire. We did a pass over South Beach, and once the Stearman had stretched her legs a bit, Mike gave her the beans. He dimed the throttle and went into an impossibly steep climb, and just as it felt that the plane was going to fall out of the sky, she nosed over and executed a hair-raising stall turn. We did a few sharply-banked turns over the beach, to the delight of us and those on the ground. The old man and I were giddy. Mike stopped short of going completely inverted, as the old Lycoming might have suffered fuel starvation, and we might have suffered unintended ejection. We started following the coastline towards Gay Head. It was the perfect day for open-cockpit flying. I found myself singing the chorus to Steely Dan’s “Babylon Sisters,” the part that goes, “here come those Santa Ana winds again.”

My mother, my sisters, and practically half the island knew that Pop and I were going to be riding the biplane that day, so as we chugged our way up-island towards Lucy Vincent, Squibnocket, and Philbin, we were soon greeted by a hardy welcoming committee. Tanned, shirtless bodies took to their feet, beach towels in hand, as the Stearman’s roar approached. Mike dropped his altitude to the point that the beachgoers could feel our prop wash. Our friends waved their towels and their arms as the old 75 burbled overhead. Mike dipped the wings as Dad said, “wave!” We greeted our adoring fans. It was like we were national heroes returning from battle.

We blasted up the face of the clay cliffs, startling the overweight tourists disembarking from their stuffy buses as we crested the precipice at full chat. Mike pointed the Stearman in the direction of our house. We were close enough to the ground that we could have picked a few dandelions for my mother on the way. Pop instructed Mike over the com as to which roof was ours. I knew Mom and my two sisters would be awaiting our arrival. Sure enough, as we tore over the back yard, there they were, my mother in her sunbathing attire, and my two sisters waving towels. Mike circled our abode a few times as we waved. We gained altitude and majestically turned eastward, heading back towards Katama.

We passed over a few of Dad’s houses he’d built. Most interesting to see was Sid Knafel’s half-underground compound with its flat roof, acres of groomed lawn, and polygonal swimming pool. My perspective on the island was changing and maturing; I could now see how tiny it really was, and how all the little places I’d come to know in my ten years fit together. We trundled our way towards the airfield. On the approach, the Stearman tottered from side to side. Mike throttled her back to idle, and as the two front wheels touched the ground, I let out an elated “ALLRIGHT!” Not that I was happy to be on the ground, far from it; rather, I was overcome with joy over the previous hour’s experience. Mike echoed over the com, “allright!” The biplane jittered over the grass strip, and Mike put her back where we’d left off. He cut the engine. We were windblown, lightheaded, and half deaf, but oh boy, was it worth it.