Like many people, there are various times where my present day life briefly intersects and reacts, in a providential way, to certain events or moments from my obscure past. Jobs, friends, adventures, etc…many times certain experiences from my past share six degrees, more or less, of separation and commonality with those of my present; its not deja vu per se, but more a commingling of the past with the present producing a lovely montage of images, of both past and present, and consequently some wonderful heartwarming feelings.
I started flying at the age of 15, my dad giving me my initial instruction; that was 48 years ago as of this writing. Since those early, tentative forays out of the nest from which I learned to fly, I’ve since flown around the world, many times, over many years, and in all kinds of aircraft. My longest flight has been from Shenzhen, China to Memphis, TN, a flight of 15 hours and 30 minutes, block to block, in a B-777. My shortest flight was a 10 minute repositioning flight, in a MD-11, from Oakland, CA to San Francisco; we never even raised the gear. While I’ve enjoyed so many of the flight’s I’ve flown over my years aloft and in so many different aircraft, without question the finest flight I’ve flown, so far, is also the shortest; even shorter than the MD-11 flight just mentioned, and in the least sophisticated and technologically advanced aircraft I’ve ever flown.
In 1969, when I was 11 years old, my father took me to an air show at McGuire AFB in New Jersey. It was my first airshow. While going there with my father may not seem too earth shatteringly special, particularly since he was a career, professional aviator, what was special is how I got there.
The very short story is McGuire was having huge airshow and the Thunderbirds were the star attraction. Flying the Phantom, those magnificent men in their flying machines certainly raised the bar at that time with regards to noise, aerial maneuvers, and “daring do”; it was always a treat to watch the Phantom perform.
My father, in 1969, was a Flight Operations Test Pilot with the FAA. He was based at Atlantic City International Airport, which at that time wasn’t so international, but it was the headquarters of the FAA’s National Aviation Facilities Experimental Center, NAFEC for short. I could write a book on all that they did there, but suffice it to say my father and his colleagues over the years have test flown, developed, and been involved with more “things” aviation, LORAN, OMEGA, GPS, TCAS, Approach Lights, Autoland, Windshear, etc, etc, etc, than you can shake a stick at.
I was always begging the old man to take me flying. Every time he flew a work related flight on the weekend, and when I was not in school, I asked him if I could go flying with him; Ninety nine, point nine, percent of the time the answer was no. So, it was with unbelievable excitement and anticipation when he asked me if I wanted to go to the air show at McGuire AFB with he and some of his colleagues. He asked me about a month before the actual event and I swear to god time slowed, agonizingly so, as I waited for the Saturday of the event. As I just said, while going to an air show with a bunch of pilots may not seem such a big deal, how we got there however, was… a DC-3; but, then adding even more diversity to this aviation themed day was that the flight coming back from McGuire to Atlantic City was to be flown on a Gulfstream 1; I just couldn’t believe my luck.
The FAA does not allow relatives to fly, willie nilly, on their aircraft, it’s against the rules, well at least back then it was. So, simply put, my dad asked his boss if I could go on the flights and Dutch Osterhaut, the boss, said yes, but, my Dad had to keep it on the QT.
On THAT Saturday, the day so etched in my synapses, I was smuggled out of the FAA’s Operations building and surrounded by my dad’s colleagues. They quickly ushered me to a DC-3 that was conveniently parked right in front of said building and sat me down in one of the seats in the back.
I swear to you….words cannot describe what it was like for me to fly in that DC-3 with my Dad as the pilot. Heaven may have the words, but down here on Earth none exist. My Dad started his airline career on DC-3s and flew many many hours in the Pacific in WW 2 on that venerable old bird. He loved that aircraft and I loved him because every time I was immersed in the world of aviation with him I could see the true man, the spirit which lived in him, come shinning out; if ever a man loved flying, it was my father, and his passion infected me with every flight we flew together.
The 20 minute flight to McGuire was not long enough, it seemed like 5 (minutes).
After deplaning, another FAA crew flew the DC-3 back from whence we came. We then walked over to a FAA Gulfstream 1 that was mingled in with an assortment of other aircraft, either military or civilian, and being used for static displays for the masses to inspect and gawk over. There were folding chairs arranged in a circle off to the side of the forward entry stairs to the aircraft and that’s where my dad and his colleagues spent the day. While sitting, or standing, the men would answer questions the airshow’s spectators might throw at them. But, the real treat for the lay public was to climb the ladder and enter the cockpit. Seeing a cockpit, the business end of an aircraft, with all its lights, dials, displays and what not, was always the best treat when going to an airshow; other than watching the aerial acrobatics of the aircraft or course. I am truly amazed not one of my dad’s colleagues had a beer on that hot August day; not that they could’ve, they were on duty and two of them had to the fly the G-1 back to Atlantic City, but, this was the late sixties and these Aviators were all veterans of WW2…
What was so cool for me that day was in hanging around the guys and being able to go in and out of the G-1 as if I flew it there. I was “behind the ropes” and was one of the boys. Kids my age would come up to me and say why are you allowed behind the ropes and I’d say because my dad was one of the pilots and I flew in with him.
Then the Phantoms flew and though I didn’t know it, one day too I’d be flying in the likes of them. The sights, the noise, the aerial acrobatics, sensory overload. I couldn’t believe what those jets and the fighter pilots in them could do while flying so close together, with the solo Thunderbird (The F-4E Thunderbirds flew with only one solo) highlighting the more radical performance capabilities of the Phantom.
My father’s favorite performer at that air show was Bob Hoover and his Aero Commander. Truly, my father said, that man is one of history’s most skilled aviators, a humble man, whose flying ability matched that of an angel. I didn’t know enough about pilots to disagree with him then, but now 48 years after earning wings of my own, I still can’t disagree with my Dad. Seeing Mr Hoover, the gentleman that he was, maneuver, dead stick, that Aero Commander through his routine was truly one of my more memorable moments at that, or any other, airshow where he performed.
The Thunderbirds land, all is quiet, and the crowds start to thin. Stragglers appear, asking to go into the cockpit as the boys fold up shop and take the chairs into the aircraft. We are one of the few aircraft leaving the static display line that late afternoon, so there was quite a bit of attention on us as we boarded the aircraft and my dad and his colleague started the engines. Oh my Lord, again, another unbelievable rush of aviation dopamine in my heart and head; I was addicted.
Given that the G 1 was quite a bit faster than the DC-3, the flight home was even more expeditious than the one up. I could have done orbits for three hours and still my excitement would never had died down that day, only increased.
After sequestering me out of the aircraft and into the operations building, my father and I then headed to his favorite watering hole whereupon more aviation themed conversation raged with me as the protagonist.
In 2007 that flight to McGuire occurred 38 years earlier. In the summer of 2007 my youngest son was 11 years old and had never been to an airshow.
By the grace of God in the summer of 2007 a very dear friend and colleague let me borrow his 90 horsepower Piper Cub Special for a month. That was such a wonderful month of flying with my youngest son flying as my copilot. On most of those flights we floated amongst the clouds, chased flocks of birds over the Mississippi river, explored oxbows long since abandoned by the river’s flow or examined from treetop level the deeply green and richly forested areas of Western Tennessee that give mother nature her breath.
But, the best was yet to come.
As that month with the Cub neared the end another wonderful friend and colleague of mine asked if I wanted to fly that Cub, with my son, into Millington Naval Air Station and sit static display for the upcoming Air Show. (My friend was the coordinator for civilian static displays that year). They were hosting not only the Blue Angels but, also the Canadian Snowbirds, plus a multitude of other amazingly gifted aviators. My friend said he wanted us to fly in on Saturday Morning, adding that we were to be the last aircraft to arrive before they closed the airport to transient and non airshow performing aircraft for the weekend.
Austin knew about the airshow and in fact he and I were going to drive up to Millington on Saturday and see it. But, oh my!!! What a blessing from both of my friends for the gift of being able to use the Cub in the first place and then for the wonderful opportunity to actually fly into and participate in the airshow with my son.
The morning of the flight into Millington dawned clear and cool as my son and I pulled the Cub out of a hanger at Charles Baker Airport. As the crow flies the distance between Charles Baker and Millington might be all of five miles, but, oh that five miles represented 39 years worth of a rush of memories. Wonderful aviation intoxicated memories of my father, his wonderfully talented and colorful colleagues, the aircraft they flew, and the sights and sounds of flying into and being at the airshow. All those memories were now mixing with the present, juxtaposing me, my father and my son. Such a beautiful quilt of images and feelings layered upon each other, or side by side, emulsified in a mix of the old and the new, being savored with each breath and with each newly formed visual rendition as the day unfolded.
With the Cub prepped to fly, I called Millington Tower and told them I’d be departing Charles Baker in about five minutes and to look for me coming from the south. The tower controller said to land on runway 4 and to look for a green light for landing clearance (The Cub didn’t have any radios or navigation equipment).
With Austin in the back, and with a smile so broad upon his face he looked like a smile emoji, I hand propped the engine. She started on the first swing of the prop blade. She always did. I then jumped in and we taxied to the approach end of Charlie Baker’s runway and after a quick three sixty of the aircraft to check for traffic while also checking the mags, we departed heading north.
The flight to Millington was so surreal its hard to describe. We departed at 7 AM, since they wanted to close the airport early and were waiting for us in that little’ ole Cub to arrive. The sky was clear which allowed radiation fog to blanket many low lying patches on the multitude fields and streams that surrounded the two airports. Misty white blankets, curtesy of mother nature, neatly tucked in horses and cows to their velvety green sheets of grass with birds overflying the white, highlighting their crossing.
The smoothness of the air manifested the magic of the flight, as if mother nature herself was paving the way for us through the atmosphere, through time, which was rich in a tapestry of colors. The golden rays of a newly risen sun were illuminating the greens of chlorophyll infused trees that dappled the farm fields below. In addition, brightly colored, or dull in sheen farm houses and their outlaying buildings were scattered all around us, while corn fields, which ranged outward from the farm houses, communicated their readiness for harvesting as their dark green corn stalks became festooned with yellowish tassels. Small roadways, like capillaries running through the body that was the earth below, sported the occasional lone vehicle as it drove in seclusion immersed in the still of the morning, being observed by only my son, me, and the birds.
While the visual input to my heart and head was prominent that morning, and most welcome, the sound as we flew, which could have been offensive, was much less of a nuisance than it could have been. My son and I wore earmuffs, and though designed to mute the sound of a shotgun blast, worked well at quieting the engine’s roar and that of the air rushing by. This muted roar was actually kind of narcotic in nature and somewhat soothing as we serenely cruised above a world that looked as if Thomas Kincade had painted it.
All too soon the magical world in which we had been immersed came to an end when I saw Millington Naval Air Station straight ahead and noticed a green light from the tower. I looked back at Austin as we began our shallow descent to the runway and pointed to it. Still smiling as I signaled the runway’s approach, Austin gave me a thumbs up.
Not having radios I turned off the active runway and taxied to where I thought the air show administrators wanted me to park. As Austin and I entered the main ramp all eyes were on us, from other pilots and early rising spectators, as we were marshaled to an area where all the smaller general aviation aircraft were parked. We felt like we were rock stars, arriving at the last minute, with swagger and an attitude. We shut down once near the other aircraft and then pushed and pulled the cub to its resting place for the next two days.
I’ll never, ever forget the magic of that oh so short flight, but one that was oh so steeped with nostalgia. That flight was one where I flew as both a father and a son, with a son, as the past and the present merged on that day, that time, that flight. I saw my father flying that DC-3 that morning, just as my son saw me flying a taildragger (albeit much smaller than a DC-3). We were flying to a big airshow, where high performance fighter aircraft celebrated power, agility, and speed and where other equally talented airshow pilots were to demonstrate their skill and daring. Seeing my son smiling continuously and looking in awe as the Blue Angels performed their death defying maneuvers that day is etched in my heart and reminded me of me as I watched the Thunderbirds roar. Each of those flights, in 1969 and then in 2007, forms a readily accessible memory as one the finest father/son bonding moments I’ve ever had with me being the connection between my father and the grandson he never got to meet.
COPYRIGHT NOVEMBER, 2021 Roger Blair Johnson
What a great story... well told. Brought tears to my eyes. My dad was a pilot as well, and I’ve had the pleasure of taking my sons flying. Thanks for writing and sharing your memories.