I was summoned to the boss’s office a couple days before the Fourth of July to discuss some upcoming magazine stories. With EAA AirVenture Oshkosh 2018 only weeks away, EAA CEO and Chairman of the Board Jack J. Pelton is down to working mainly half days — 12 hours — directing a cast of more than 200 employees and thousands of volunteers as he oversees preparations for the World’s Greatest Aviation Celebration that is, simply put, a homecoming for the hundreds of thousands of EAA members.
As we finished our conversation Jack told me he was going to fly the EAA Flying Club’s Wag-Aero Cubby on the Fourth of July to continue his tradition of flying to honor our country’s independence. I asked if he was up to do “a little formation” with my Aeronca L-3 and we agreed on a time to meet.
As a kid, the Fourth of July meant cookouts with family and friends, booming fireworks, and those long dirty charcoal-like “black snakes” that stained our sidewalks and driveways until the first snowfall. But it also means remembering our past and whispering a thank you to all those who have given the ultimate sacrifice, both at home and abroad, to ensure that our freedoms are protected and safeguarded. One of the liberties I have enjoyed the most over the last 30 years has been the freedom of flight. To fly, to taste the sky and see the world from a whole other perspective is beyond magical. The sights, smells, and sounds from a lofty perch, sometimes just hundreds of feet up in the air, is beyond intoxicating and addicting.
At 9 a.m., with temperatures already in the high 80s and what I consider a warm hug — high humidity — Jack and I cranked up our Continental C85 engines and followed the ground control instructions to proceed to Runway 18. As the Cubby and Aeronca waddled down the taxiway, I could not help but smile and envision the thousands of airplanes that would soon be descending on and invading Wittman Regional Airport. But today, with waves of heat shimmering off the concrete, there were no sunburned volunteer flagmen in orange vests with matching paddles showing us the way, or those topless orange Volkswagen Bugs with big yellow signs telling us to “Follow Me.” Jack and I would remain independent and find our own way to the runway. Taxiing over colored, soon to be repainted large circles on Runway 9/27 stirred up memories of watching countless arrivals trying to “land on the dot.” From all over the country, and even the world, these fellow aviators in airplanes, sailplanes, helicopters, airships, and just about anything else that flies gather to celebrate a homecoming and The Spirt of Aviation.
Sixty-Five years ago, thanks in large part to our founder Paul H. Poberezny, EAA began as a grassroots organization with a direct focus on individuals designing, building, and flying their own aircraft. For many, it was about how economically they could achieve their dream. Others wanted to challenge themselves to create a flying machine made out of wood or metal tubing covered in fabric, or maybe something made of fiberglass or aluminum. Some wanted to see how fast they could go while others strived for endurance or to see how far they could fly on a shot glass full of fuel. But for all of them it was just part of the journey to become one with the sky and savor the freedom of flight that went hand in hand with their accomplishments. Since those early days, EAA has become much broader in scope, welcoming all who fly. No matter their type or pedigree — dreamer or doer, pilot or enthusiast — all are welcome and all are free to choose their type of aviation.
With our run ups complete, and cleared to takeoff, Jack led the way down Runway 18 in the silver colored Cubby as a bright blue dot slipped below our wheels as we made a climbing left turn. Heading north over Oshkosh in loose formation, I momentarily looked down on Main Street. As the annual Fourth of July parade below us made its way down the main drag, I wondered and hoped that the spectators below would look up, see two slow flying airplanes, and smile. I hoped they were curious. I hoped they would watch us fly over and wave. I hoped that a few of them would jump off the fence and finally pursue their own journey to the sky. I hoped that someday I could pass the “flying torch” to one of them so they could continue to keep the dream and passion of flight alive. I hoped.
As Jack and I flew over countless cottages, boats towing water-skiers, and small towns, soaking up our box seat views, neither of us were in a hurry to go anywhere in particular. With my side window open, the smells of the lakes and farms below churned around inside my cockpit. This was definitely “aviation potpourri,” a scent I wish I could bottle for when I am stuck on the ground. After the Hobbs meter showed almost an hour and a half of flying time, and with clouds beginning to build and gather, we decided to head back home. As our flight of two was cleared to land, the chatter on the radio began to increase with other inbound aircraft making their way to Oshkosh and Wittman Airport.
One in particular, the pilot of a Cessna 172, seemed somewhat nervous and unsure of his position and the proper radio terminology, as the tower had to repeat several instructions to him. Maybe a student, I thought. As Jack and I descended and made our short final to Runway 18, I listened as the controller advised the tense 172 pilot of our position over the numbers and that he was cleared to land behind us.
Jack greased his Cubby onto the runway while I made a less than stellar three-point landing with a little skip thrown in for good measure. Got to work on those I thought as I scolded myself. We were instructed to switch over to ground control as we began taxiing back to the hangars. I watched as the “nervous pilot” of the 172 made his approach, touched down with a slight bounce, corrected, and tracked straight ahead. As the 172 slowed, a different voice came over the air from the 172. The voice was clam and seasoned: It was that of an instructor, advising the tower that he would like to be dropped off near the runway so he could step out of the airplane and let his student make three touch-and-goes. “First solo,” I thought. “No wonder the nervousness.” I recalled my first solo from this very same airport around this very same time of the year. Mine was done on Runway 9 in a Cessna 150 more than 30 years ago. For some reason, Runway 9 at Wittman has and will always remain my favorite. It’s a flight I will never forget.
I began silently cheering for this guy, hoping he calmed himself down. I saw the first landing — not bad — heck it was better than mine that day. I missed his second one as we pulled into the gas pumps. Jack and I watched from a distance as he made his approach for his third landing and noticed the windsock begin to dance. He corrected for the crosswind, touched down, and slowly taxied back to his instructor. They weren’t on the ground long, but long enough that I observed a pat on the back and a handshake. Whoever you are, congratulations and welcome. Don’t ever stop learning and remember to savor this triumphant moment of your first solo, especially on the day set aside to recognize our independence.
With our fuel tanks topped off, I thanked Jack once again for sharing his tradition with me, and vowed to repeat it for years to come. That flight only emphasized once again how truly lucky we are to fly, and served as a reminder to never forget that flying, like our freedom, is a gift and it should never be taken for granted.