By Jeff Seaborn, EAA 793688, Chair, EAA Canadian Council
This looks like a great idea for a series of articles. We all have that special aviation photo that has a story behind it. Why not submit your photo and story? – Ian Brown, Editor – Bits and Pieces.
In 1998, my dad had recently finished the restoration of his Fokker Super Universal. It took close to 20 years and something in the area of 18,000 hours to restore. It certainly wasn’t a project for the fainthearted. See the story behind the restoration by following the link below.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YxErFV8QOU
To capture the essence of the airplane, we’d planned to do some air-to-air photography. This was before digital cameras were common and certainly before they had the high resolution that we now enjoy.
In fact, the camera I used was almost as old as the Fokker. Or at least it felt like it. The camera was a Mamiya medium format camera which had a tremendous lens and captured the image on a large film, giving a very high resolution picture. The camera was built before the concept of ergonomics. It was bulky and boxy and heavy. Three-and-a-half pounds heavy. It was designed to be mounted on a tripod, not for hand held action shots.
The photo ship for this exercise was a Kitfox built and flown by friend and fellow EAA’er, Bruce Goodwin, EAA 449317. The Kitfox is close to ideal in that the passenger door is easily removed, allowing an almost unrestricted view out the right-hand side. I say “close to ideal,” because there are some limitations. The high wing limits the view up and the lift strut limits the view out and down. But looking between the Kitfox’s 4 o’clock and 5 o’clock, the view can’t be beaten.
Of course, this view doesn’t really suit the normal sitting position in a cockpit, and there’s not a lot of room to manoeuvre in a Kitfox. Fortunately, I was younger and more flexible then. To take the air-to-air photos, I had to ensure my lap belt was secure and look over my right shoulder while twisting my upper body so that my shoulders were twisted over 90 degrees from alignment with my hips. I challenge the readers to try this right now and you’ll agree that this manoeuvre is suited for professional gymnasts, contortionists, and very few others. I tried this. Oww! – Ed.
Each shot meant turning around, leaning out of the cockpit into the slipstream with the heavy and awkward camera, finding the Fokker in the viewfinder, pushing the shutter button and hoping for the best. I would unwind myself, return to the full comfort of the seat, and crank the round knob on the side of the camera to advance the film to prepare for the next shot.
Unlike now, where there is practically a limitless number of photos you can capture on a memory card, film had a finite limit. Our last shot, with the last frame of the unexposed film ready, I leaned back out. Whether we had hit some turbulence or my body was tired of being turned into a pretzel, I lost my balance and fell outwards. My “fall” was minimal, but it was enough for me to ignore the intention of the flight and focus instead on my survival and keeping the camera from making an enormous crater in the field below us. During this, I’d closed my eyes and pushed the shutter button, capturing the last shot of the day. The photo shoot was over.
That last shot was the one you see here. It was the best one of the bunch. It’s been published in countless magazines, posters, calendars, and websites. If I had a nickel for every time this picture’s been used, I could fill the Fokker’s tanks with the 140 gallons of Avgas it carried.