My Piper Cub was due for an airworthiness inspection at a large airport, but since it had no radio equipment, I had to call the control tower and get permission to fly from a crop duster’s strip to the airport.
The tower operator assigned me a time to enter the traffic pattern and said that, provided landing a non-radio aircraft posed no immediate problems, he would blink a green light, signaling clearance to land. What should have been a routine procedure turned out to be the most bizarre incident in my flying career.
The day was warm, so I locked the airplane’s right-side doors in the open position. When flown solo, Cub pilots sit in the rearmost of two tandem seats. Directly behind my head in the tiny cargo area, I had stuffed three large bundles of paper towels, the kind that overlap so that when one is pulled from a dispenser, the next one is available.
Entering the downwind leg parallel to the active runway, I looked for the control tower’s signal. Suddenly, I was in a kaleidoscopic blur, as thousands of paper towels swirled around me — sticking to my face, the windshield, and the instrument panel, while others were sucked into the slipstream, leaving an endless trail of fluttering flotsam floating behind.
Desperately, I clawed towels from my face, as others replaced them. Because the windshield and left window were papered over, I had to lean out of the aircraft to see. Panicking, I focused on landing with plane and pilot both in one piece.
Struggling to keep the aircraft straight and level, my only reference was the ground. Soon, I spotted a familiar landmark and entered the base leg. Aligning with the runway for final approach would be a wild guess.
As the little yellow bird descended, I leaned far out into the slipstream, searching for any indication that it was time to begin final approach. With no alternatives but seat-of-the-pants hopes and prayers, I turned, cut the throttle, and began gliding down to what I hoped would be a long concrete slab, not endless acres of pine trees.
With a sigh of relief, I looked down and saw the runway numbers. Gently, the wheels touched pavement and the Cub rolled to a stop clear of the active runway. Just as I killed the engine, a stern-faced man stepped out of an airport security vehicle and told me to report to the control tower. That’s it, I thought. My pilot’s license will be jerked.
Once in the tower, I noticed the controllers seemed to be struggling to maintain their composure. Finally, one of them asked, “What in tarnation was all that debris you jettisoned from your aircraft?”
After my explanation, a moment of restrained silence gave way to guffaws.
“Son, we thought we’d seen it all, but that performance takes the cake. We’ll let you off this time, but from now on, when you call to land at this airport, just identify yourself as the confetti flyboy.”
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)).
