Nothing drives some men more than ego, which isn’t always bad, unless it’s inflated. Shortly after receiving my pilot’s license, my ego was super-inflated.
My friend Elliott, a student pilot, had ordered plans for an ultra-light, tube-and-fabric, homebuilt aircraft known as the N3 Pup. One day, after we’d flown awhile in my Piper Cub, he said that a friend of his owned a Pup, so we went to take a look.
From a distance, the Pup looked like my Cub, but close up I realized it was much smaller — indeed tiny. After discussing its construction, Elliott asked the owner about its flight characteristics.
“It’s a dream to fly,” the owner said, “especially on windless days like today.” Elliott mentioned that I was a licensed pilot.
“Take ’er up,” the owner said to me. “You’ll love flying the Pup.”
Right then I should have said that the ink on my pilot’s license wasn’t even dry, but my ego being what it was, I accepted the offer.
Getting into the cramped cockpit was difficult, and the instrument panel was right in my face. The throttle reminded me of a hypodermic needle. Two of the pilot’s fingers curled around hooks on its side and his thumb pushed inward on a button to gain more speed.
I knew I was in trouble when liftoff was instantaneous. Immediately, I had the sensation that I was in a kite being lifted rapidly by a strong wind. Pushing forward on the control stick did nothing to slow my ascent toward the troposphere. Rudder and aileron input were so different from the Cub’s that my first use of them initiated a near ninety-degree bank.
Frantic, I searched for the trim tab to gain straight-and-level flight, but there wasn’t one. As the airplane soared ever upward, I felt like a helpless butterfly caught in an updraft. Panic set in and I heard the prophetic words of my flight instructor: “If you’re going to get killed in an airplane, it will most likely be right after you become a licensed pilot.”
With no options but to reduce speed, I eased back on the throttle. To my utter relief, the nose stopped rising, and dropped gently toward the horizon.
I began a slow spiraling descent. Not knowing how much rollout the little plane required, I chose to land as closely as possible to the end of the runway.
The un-mowed grass on that end of the strip was about a foot tall, and when wheels met grass, the craft came to an abrupt stop. Had I not been strapped in with shoulder harnesses, my face and the instrument panel would have become one and the same. Thankful to be alive, I killed the engine and vowed never again to fly an ultra-light.
On the way home, Elliott asked if I’d be willing to take his completed kit on its maiden flight. My ego, now totally deflated, answered for me: “That honor belongs to you, my friend. You’ll love flying the Pup.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
