One of the cool things about living where I do – at least for an adrenaline-addict like me – is our close proximity to many private airports. Growing up here in the greater Los Angeles area, my siblings and I were some of the very lucky few of our friends and schoolmates who had the regular privilege of seeing our hometown from the perspective of a thousand feet above. That’s because, while some kids’ dads had a hot rod parked in the garage or a ski boat docked on a trailer in their driveway, mine was a part-owner of a sleek white, black and yellow, “v-tail” Beechcraft Bonanza airplane. Boo-yah.
I would always look forward to the weeks when it was my Dad’s “turn in the bucket” as he would call his every-three-weeks turn to fly the fast, low-wing, single-engine plane – with which he shared ownership with two other pilot friends. Driving out La Tuna Canyon Road and over to the private terminal at the Hollywood-Burbank airport early on Saturday mornings became a much anticipated ritual of my youth.
The excitement would build as we walked out from the PAC terminal to where the small Beech was tied-down across the field from where all the huge PSA Airlines jets were parked at their gates, smiles painted on the noses of the planes and stewardesses strutting up the mobile stairways in their hot pink mini-dresses. Did those PSA commercials really feature the stewardesses looking at the camera and saying, “Fly me!”? We’ve come a long way, baby.
Upon reaching the spot where our plane was tied down, we would nervously fidget and chatter at each other as Dad would unsnap the silver cloth cover from our plane’s windshield, do his walkaround to check the tires, inspect the edges of the propeller, and make sure the flaps, ailerons, and elevator/rudders moved freely. He would check the dipstick on the plane’s two wing tanks to see that they were both topped off with fuel, then climb up into the cockpit, take his seat and yell out to us to get in and buckle up.
After turning on the plane’s avionics, checking radio communication with the control tower and making sure the many gauges were operating properly, he’d open up a small side window on the pilot’s side of the cockpit, yell out, “Prop clear!” and fire up the engine.
The thrill of watching that big propeller slowly begin spinning and quickly turn into a round blur at the front of the plane was like nothing else. Better than riding my dirt bike in the hills above Gorman. Better than playing my Slingerland drum set in a rock n’ roll band at a high school dance. Better than kissing Lynn Kennedy in the sunroom at the back of her parent’s house. Okay, maybe not better than that.
If I close my eyes and listen to the memories, I can still hear my Dad talking on the radio as clearly as if it were yesterday, “Burbank tower, this is Bonanza six-two-one-victor requesting clearance for takeoff on runway eight-two-six.” What I wouldn’t give to hear that again.
Taking off to the West, it always struck me as morbidly funny that the first thing departing aircraft would fly over was a vast, green cemetery. Looking down at all the tiny tombstones as we climbed away from the airport, I’d sometimes wonder how ironic it would be if a plane crashed on takeoff right smack dab into the cemetery. I actually remember thinking (in a way that only a young teenage boy’s mind could possibly think) that it would be a real time saver as far as funerals and burials would go.
Once in the air, we’d gain altitude over the homes and small businesses dotting the Burbank and east San Fernando Valley communities, watching them become smaller and smaller the higher we flew.
I loved being along for the ride when Dad would practice ‘touch-and-go” landings at the smaller, nearby Van Nuys airport which did not have any commercial air traffic. He’d line our plane up on approach to the runway, slow to landing speed, briefly let the wheels touch the runway surface, then immediately throttle up and take off again and climb back into the skies above the valley. Big, big fun.
A few times that I remember, my Dad would get an early morning call (I never knew who from) and we’d quickly drive out to the airport to join other volunteer pilots on flyover searches for downed planes in the local or San Bernardino mountains. As much as we didn’t want to see a wrecked plane in the forests and steep, rocky canyons below, the excitement of those searches was undeniable.
The only time I was less-than-thrilled to fly was when my younger sister would come along with us. That’s because she would often wait until we reached cruising altitude high over the Mojave desert or Antelope Valley and then plead with our Dad to “Stall the plane, Dad! Stall it!” He would then purposely put the plane into a too slow, too-steep climb angle that would set off a series of frighteningly loud stall warning alarms inside the small cabin and ultimately end with the lift disappearing from under the wings, the nose suddenly pitching to the right and then pointing straight at the ground rushing up from below.
There’s a good reason our plane had barf bags at every seat. My palms are sweaty just remembering those episodes. Dad was an excellent pilot, of course, and would always guide the plane out of the stall effortlessly, all the while chuckling at my wide eyes, pasty complexion and death-grip on the armrests of my seat.
It’s been nearly 40 years since I last flew in that plane with my Dad, who would often take it up to cruising altitude far away from the crowded airspace over the Los Angeles basin, then swing the control yoke over to the passenger side where one of us kids was sitting, take his hands off the wheel and matter-of-factly announce, “You’ve got control. Watch for other aircraft and don’t crash.” Gulp. Each of the two front seats had a set of control pedals, so whomever had the wheel was flying the plane. We always knew he would quickly take the wheel back if there was trouble, but it could be a nerve-wracking experience nonetheless in any turbulence or stormy conditions.
Sadly, my Dad gave up flying many years prior to his eventual passing. And although getting my fixed wing pilot’s license has been high up on my various bucket lists over the years, most of the flying I’ve done since then has been in commercial jets. Now, I realize there are many for whom flying in even a huge airliner is a nerve-rattling experience. But trust me when I say – compared to flying in a small, single-engine plane, it’s like the difference between driving the Angeles Crest highway in a school bus vs. a Lamborghini Murcielago. There’s simply nothing like the thrill of a small plane.
At least that’s what I thought until this past weekend. Turns out there’s something even better.
On Friday, Steve Goldsworthy, Vice-president of the CV Town Council and husband of CV Weekly Publisher/Editor Robin Goldsworthy sent me a Facebook message saying he had the keys to a gleaming metallic blue, Robinson R44 helicopter in his back pocket and would I like to ride shotgun on a weekend flight? I couldn’t say “Yes!” fast enough and woke at the butt crack of dawn last Sunday to meet him out at Whiteman Airport near Hansen Dam.
Lifting off from the tie-down pad alongside the airport’s main runway, I could only think that this is what being a bird must feel like.
We flew low and slow, as only a helicopter can do, above the San Fernando Valley, the Sepulveda Pass and the Santa Monica mountains, pier and coastline. Flying low over beaches not yet populated with sunbathers but only the occasional dog walker and surfers on dawn patrol, we continued north along the coast, then turned inland to skim the rooftops of the mansions and hillside hideaways of Malibu and Topanga Canyons.
The too-short morning flight did more than bring back happy memories from my youth. It also reignited my lifelong passion for flying. Sure, I’ve enjoyed the typical overly choreographed, predictable helicopter tours of the Hawaiian islands before. But those have always been in much larger, highly soundproofed, luxuriously appointed, tourist-friendly helicopters.
In other words, somewhat boring – at least when compared to soaring over the Southland in the small, agile, four-seater bird piloted by Steve Goldsworthy. It was a flying experience unlike any other I’ve had. I felt like that goofy, ear-to-ear grinning teenager again with all of life ahead of me and the cares of the every day world far below me. Sigh.
I can’t thank “Goldy” enough for the high-flying fun last weekend. And I may just have to revisit that bucket list of mine. I’ll see you ‘round town.
Note: This is a longer version of my column first published yesterday, 10.6.11, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).
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