From the Speed of Sound to the Speed of Smell

From the Speed of Sound

         To the Speed of a Falling Marshmallow

Naval Aviator  April 17, 1975, Kingsville Texas

T-2 Buckeye- Basic Jet Trainer VT-23 Kingsville Texas

TA-4J Skyhawk - Advanced Jet Trainer, VT 22  Kingsville Texas

A-6E Intruder  VA-196  Whidbey Island Washington

LT G.M. Bagby Attack Squatron 52 (VA-52) Whidbey Island Washington

Aboard USS Enterprise, Indoan Ocean 1978

USS Enterprise  CVN-65

USS Coral Sea CV-43

USS KItty Hawk  CV-63

In October of 1979, Attack Squadron 196 was aboard the USS Coral Sea. We were operating off the Southern Californian coast in preparation for a long deployment to the Indian Ocean. The last exercise for this particular training period was a 24-hour war-at-sea between the Coral Sea’s air wing and some “enemy” cruisers and frigates.

We had started this WASEX at 6:00 a.m. with a dawn strike against the enemy task force. I flew a mission that morning with my B/N Gary Sims. The next flight for us was that night—the 3:30 a.m. strike, which would be the final one of the WASEX. Gary and I were assigned to fly the KA-6D, the “Texaco” tanker. Our mission was to launch first, take up the “Low Station” overhead the ship at 3,000 feet and top off the F-4 Phantoms after their full afterburner catapult (cat) shot. These “full burner” cat shots are spectacular, especially at night, but they burn up about 400 gallons of fuel. Fighters need a lot of fuel to do their job. That’s why the A-6 tanker was one of the most important airplanes in the entire air wing.

Once all the fighters were full of gas, we were to climb to the “High Station” at 20,000 feet, orbiting overhead the ship until the strike force returned. Then we were to drop back to “Low Station” and be ready to refuel any aircraft low on fuel as they prepared to land.

Normally the “Texaco” mission was very routine and unexciting. A properly functioning auto pilot was a must for this mission. That hour at High Station driving the Intruder in a racetrack pattern around the ship was an excellent opportunity to let “George” (the auto pilot) practice his flying skills.

Flying at night at sea is always more challenging than daytime. The night catapult shot is the most dangerous event in the life of a carrier pilot. The sensation of being the “rock in the slingshot” was the same. But being launched at night was even more intense, and the feeling of helplessness is greater. It has been accurately de­scribed as “flying into a black hole with a bag over your head.”

First there is the lack of visual references except for the flashlight “wands” of the taxi directors and catapult officer. Once you are locked into the shuttle and go to full power, instead of saluting (since the cat officer can’t see you) to signal that you are ready, you turn on your wing and tail lights. Next, since you can’t see what’s happening on the deck, the initial acceleration usually comes as a surprise— eyeballs are jammed back into the sockets and the only thing visible outside the cockpit are the small lights marking the edge of the deck rushing toward you. As those deck lights disappear under you, you are looking at nothing but blackness in front of the Intruder, but your eyes are doing their best to focus on an artificial horizon on the screen directly in front. Knowing that the cold, deep ocean is only 60 feet below (or on the Coral Sea only 40 feet), it is mandatory to pull the nose up 8 degrees above the horizon. Assuming that your engines and instruments are still functioning after the 24 to 30 “G” acceleration, once you feel the aircraft climbing, and your eyes returning to their normal focused position, the rest is a piece of cake.

Sometimes things don’t go right, and men and machines are lost at sea.

Gary and I had almost bought it one night, even when every­thing and everybody had functioned properly.

That almost disastrous event occurred almost three months earlier—in July 1979. It was a launch I’ll never forget. That night we were also the scheduled “Texaco” for a night launch. The sky was broken to overcast, the seas heavy, and the deck was pitching. In conditions like these, when the bow is moving up and down during a launch, the cat officer waits until the bow has almost completed its downward motion before he touches the deck— the signal to fire the catapult. The idea is to get the aircraft going down the track as the bow begins its upward movement so that as the aircraft clears the deck, the bow is at the top of its arc, giving the aircraft a “kick” upward.

Most carriers cut through heavy seas with a rhythmic up and down motion. This is due to a special hull design. The Coral Sea moves through the water a little differently. She was designed and built at the end of World War II as a battleship, with more of a round bottom design. At the last minute they decided to put a flat deck on top and make her a carrier.

When the Coral Sea moves through heavy seas, she does a rhythmic up and down motion, but occasionally she stops the pitching movement and with a slight left and right roll, drops her nose and pitches even further down. All aircraft carriers are designed with the flight deck 60 feet above the water, but the almost-battleship Coral Sea has her flight deck only 40 feet above the water. These two factors came into play this particular night and made an already terrifying night launch just a little bit more exciting.

As we taxied into the shuttle on this July night, everything seemed as normal as it could be. The cat officer gave us the “turn up” signal, and I went to full power, and wiped out the controls. Gary gave me his usual grunt on the intercom indicating he was ready, and I turned on the lights.

The cat officer timed the movement of the bow, and touched the deck when the bow stopped its downward motion. In a second, my body felt the 28 plus “G” force, my eyeballs were slammed into the back of their sockets, and we were off. Unfortunately, the Coral Sea chose that moment to do its peculiar roll movement, and instead of the bow gently pitching upward, it buried its nose deeper into the oncoming swell. Unbeknown to us, our Intruder left the deck pointed down at the oncoming sea.

As the deck lights disappeared under us, I pulled the nose of the Intruder to the normal 8 degrees “climb” position above the horizon. I then moved my left hand off the catapult grip bar and moved it forward to the landing gear lever, slamming it up. As I did, I noticed through the side canopy window the moon breaking through the clouds just above the horizon. The reflecting moonlight danced off the waves below me, illuminating the white caps. I could even see the spray coming off the whitecaps as the wind hit them, and the individual droplets shooting off. It was such a remarkable scene—the rising moon, the dancing light, the whitecaps, the spray, the droplets flying off the top of the waves. Suddenly I had a disturbing thought: “I’ve never noticed the droplets off the top of the waves before. . . .”

It was less than two seconds since the deck lights had disappeared beneath us, and suddenly it all made sense. In a split second, I reacted with a hard pull back on the stick. At that same instant I heard Gary scream in no uncertain terms “ROTATE!” (the command to bring the nose of the aircraft up) as his hands latched on the yellow and black striped ejection seat handle between his legs and he straightened his back in preparation for the rocket motor to ignite. He was ready to get out! At that same instant, the Air Boss in the tower on the Coral Sea yelled into his microphone, “ROTATE!”—we had disappeared from his sight below the front of the now pitching-up flight deck.

I yanked the Intruder into a near stall to stop the descent, and then eased the nose down as we began to climb out. Gary relaxed slightly, but didn’t take his hand off the ejection seat handle. As we climbed through 200 feet, we both looked at each other. That had been close. We had bottomed out at less than 15 feet above the waves! That was too close for both of us.

The next day, I bought a Seiko diving watch that I had been looking at in the ship’s store, in celebration of life.  I still have and wear this same watch as a reminder.

After that night, Gary and I were sure to cover the emergency procedures for ejection off the cat before each flight. Now it was three months later, and this last flight of the WASEX was no exception.

Fortunately, our launch this October “morning” was uneventful but still a bit unusual. Something about a 3:30 a.m. catapult shot just doesn’t seem normal. Feeling the force of the catapult grab you and fling you off the ship in less than two seconds was a definite wake-up call, and the resulting adrenaline rush provided more stimulation than 10 cups of strong Navy coffee.

Soon we completed our tanking with the Phantoms and climbed to High Station. After leveling off at 20,000 feet, I turned the auto pilot on and sat back to enjoy the view. George was a good pilot—especially for moments like these.

The heavens were spectacular—clear unpolluted skies with no lights within hundreds of miles. The stars were so bright and close that you could almost reach up and touch them. Such sights always prompted in me the thought of the immense expanse of the universe and the finite smallness of man. What was out there past the most distant star that I could see? Surely something. Somebody was behind all this—it just didn’t happen by chance.

Soon we could see the pink threads of the approaching dawn peeking over the horizon. Slowly these tiny rays grew almost before our eyes into broad bands of brilliant color. Soon they filled the horizon—truly an amazing sight!

Gary and I were both lost in our thoughts inspired by this magnificent display of cosmic colors. Few words were exchanged during the  45 minutes of orbiting the ship, and soon it was time to descend and return to Low Station. The Phantoms, Corsairs, and Intruders returned from the strike and began landing. Soon, all aircraft were aboard except for us.

Approach Control then cleared us to leave Low Station and set up for a straight in approach.

The sun was now almost to the horizon, and the sky was a radiant pink with orange streaks. As we approached the Coral Sea, she was bathed in a sea of pink and orange reflected light. The normal chatter on the radio had long ceased. The only sound was the quiet roar of the jet engines and the gentle whisper of the passing air. There are moments of stark terror in Naval Aviation, but this was a moment of sheer delight.

I didn’t really want to land yet; neither did Gary. Since we were the only airplane airborne, and this was the last recovery of a 24-hour exercise, there didn’t seem to be any hurry about getting aboard. We both were enjoying this scene around us too much. I began making a series of gentle turns. The colors in front of us combined with the whispering sounds around us were almost too much. It was just the sea, the sky, the Coral Sea, and us. This was what Naval Aviation is all about—these four basic elements—and the combination this morning was truly inspiring.

Gary and I were thinking the same thought, which he finally spoke over the intercom: “And to think that they actually pay us to do this.”

We made a few more turns. Finally, when we could delay no longer, I dropped the landing gear and flaps and slowed down to approach speed. About a mile from the ship, I visually picked up the ball on the OLS and descended slightly to “center” it on the lens. The morning air was smooth, and so was the approach. We touched down just short of the no. 3 wire. The tail hook snagged it, and we rolled to a stop. The taxi director gave us the “fold wings” signal, and directed us to our parking spot. I opened the canopy, shut down the engines, and unstrapped from the ejection seat.

The normally noisy flight deck was silent. There were no sounds of jet engines, tractors, or men moving around the flight deck, just silence. The sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon. Gary and I sat in the Intruder a few moments just taking it all in. It was amazing! They actually did pay us to do this!

Although it wasn’t planned this way, this turned out to be my last flight in the Navy. Soon after I received my orders detaching me from active service. What a great way to end my Navy flying career!

Shortly after this flight, I returned to Whidbey Island, shed my uniform for the last time, met up with Joe, loaded my VW van, and took off for Vail. Little did I realize then that it would be seven years until I made my next flight in an airplane as the pilot-in-command. How that came about is an interesting story.

Srumlaya is a village south of Auka on the Kruta River. It sits in the middle of a swampy area that is about 3 miles from the Coco River. In 1987, Srumlaya was a village where the refugee population outnumbered the native Honduran Miskitos. Because of its close proximity to the border, it was a base for the Yatama—the Nicaragua Miskito Resistance. Because of this large refugee population, Srumlaya was also the village where Project Ezra had its largest school.

We frequently visited the Srumlaya school. During the dry season, it took about two hours to walk to Srumlaya. During the rainy season, we traveled by boat, and the trip on the winding Kruta took almost three hours. In between seasons we walked, but the muddy trail usually added an hour to the trip.

On one particular trip, it took us about three hours to hike the trail. After spending a few days there working with our students, we were ready to go home. . . back to Auka. Auka was a very primitive place, but the bugs, mud, lack of clean water, latrines, and sanitary conditions (caused mostly by the pigs that roamed the village) in Srumlaya made Auka look like civilization.

As we prepared to leave, we heard the sound of a helicopter. Within a few minutes, a camouflaged military UH-2 helicopter with no markings landed in the cleared area next to our school building. Out stepped three of the Miskito “contra” leaders, plus the pilot, who was an unknown white face. This was a big event—probably the first time that a helicopter had landed in this village.

We went over and struck up a conversation with the pilot, who turned out to be a very nice guy from Rhodesia (the country in Africa now called Zimbabwe). When we jokingly asked him if he could give us a ride back to Auka, he thought for a moment, smiled, and said “Where’s your gear?”

We quickly grabbed our packs and boarded the Huey. Our pilot powered up, and in a few minutes, we were airborne. As we climbed above the tree line and turned north, I could clearly see our house in Auka. In three minutes we were there. Three minutes by air to cover the same distance that had taken us three hours! “Yes,” I thought as we landed, “these flying machines are valuable tools.”

When we first came to Auka in 1984, I had taken a few moments to stand on the small airstrip and talk to the Boss. I sensed in my spirit that soon I would be doing many takeoffs and landings from this small strip. I wasn’t sure just how this was going to come about, but I was certain that He would provide. It seemed very likely that since we were working in such a remote area cut off from the “civilized” part of Honduras, and since the U.S. government had invested huge amounts of money teaching me how to fly, that sometime soon we would have to get an airplane to support the project.

God did provide an airplane. Immediately. About a month after that conversation on the Auka airstrip, I heard from Neil, and he volunteered the use of his Seneca. Neil kept his airplane in Honduras from February through August of 1985, making many flights for us.

God’s provision for us through Captain Neil was a real blessing, but there was to be more. . . .

Jack Dyer is another missionary who doesn’t fit the stereotype. Before he came to Honduras in the late ’70s, he owned a very successful engineering business in Louisiana. I met Jack in Puerto Lempira in 1985 where he was serving as the project engineer for World Relief and the United Nations refugee program.

As I got to know Jack, I realized that there was something very special about him. He was a focused man who, with little resources, could accomplish a lot. He had a Maule airplane which he used to support the refugee project, as well as various church related activities. He helped us in those early years with many flights. As I flew with Jack I saw another quality—he is a good pilot. Actually he is a lot better than good—his skill in getting in and out of a short muddy airstrip in foul weather is unsurpassed.

One day in 1987, Jack stopped by Auka with some friends from Louisiana—Charlie and Cathy Cole. Charlie was very interested in what we were doing and asked a lot of questions. When he asked us what we needed most, I replied, “A truck to drive back and forth to Puerto Lempira.”

A few weeks later, I found myself with Jack in Tegucigalpa. We were there on some business, and one of his “chores” was to renew his Honduran pilot’s license. For some reason which I can’t remember, I went with him to the Aeronautica Civil office, showed them my American license, took the physical, and received a Honduran license. That was significant.

Shortly after that, I saw Jack in Tegucigalpa again. He approached me and told me that he was selling his Maule and his other airplane so that he could buy a Cessna 185. He asked me “Would you be interested in buying my other airplane?”

I didn’t realize that he had another airplane. It was a 1953 Piper Pacer: A fabric covered, four-place, single-engine airplane. His price was $7,500. That’s cheap for an airplane.

Still I replied, “Jack, we don’t have that kind of money.” We didn’t. Things were tight in Salt & Light.

A few days later, I saw Jack again. He asked me if I had thought about the airplane. I replied, “Yes, but we don’t have the money.” He suggested that I think some more about it.

Another week passed and I saw Jack at the airport. He took me aside and said: “Look, you guys need that airplane. I want you to have it. It needs to be used doing the kind of work that you all are doing. I’m going to give it to you now and you pay me when you can.” I finally got the message. The light went on. Jack was probably right—we did need that airplane.

Two weeks later I was in La Ceiba, and received a call from Charlie Cole. I was surprised to hear from him. He told me “I have $2,500 for you toward a vehicle. Can you use it?” I almost dropped the phone. “Well, Charlie,” I replied “We are buying a vehicle, but it’s an airplane instead of a truck. Can we use the money for that?”

Of course Charlie agreed, and suddenly we had one third of the Pacer paid for.

This was definitely a sign!

Now the next task was to learn to fly this airplane which, because of my training and experience, I knew wouldn’t take too long. After all, how complicated could it be? The last airplane I had flown had over 100 switches and selector buttons in the cockpit. This Pacer had only nine. The A-6 flight manual is a big book almost three inches thick with over 300 pages of information. The manual I got with the Pacer was only 22 pages—small pages. The A-6’s minimum flying speed was about 105 knots. The maximum straight and level speed of the Pacer is just under 101 knots. This had to be a simple airplane to fly.

Jack flew the Pacer to La Ceiba, and the first thing I noticed was its color—bright yellow. It reminded me of the color of a ripe banana. I noticed a few other things—short wings, a short longitudinal axis (short nose-to-tail), and instead of a nosewheel, a tailwheel. The controls were very simple—there was a control yoke, a fuel selector lever, an ignition key, a battery switch, a starter button, two radio switches, a throttle, and a mixture control (which, unlike most mixture controls, had to be pulled out about an inch for the normal operating position).

That’s it. Very simple.

But somehow I sensed that learning to fly this “Banana” was going to be more challenging than I imagined. Sure, I had plenty of flight time and some of the most intense training available in the world. But practically all of my time was in jets and the Pacer was definitely a different type of flying machine. The short longitudinal axis, the stubby wings, and the tailwheel marked this to be an aircraft that is difficult to handle on the ground— especially while taking off and landing. The tail wheel itself requires a special technique for landing and takeoff. The engine is a four-cylinder, 150 horsepower model—sufficient for most maneuvers of normal flight, but not a lot of excess power to get you over some mountains or out of some difficult situations.

We picked Trujillo, a light traffic airport, to practice landings. On the first takeoff, I became acquainted with the Flying Banana’s desire to go in any direction but straight. Delicate rudder control was definitely required to keep the airplane on the runway. My first attempts at landing were hilarious. I discovered quickly how to bounce down the runway without actually coming to a stop. I felt like I was doing low level acrobatics! I’m sure that Jack was thinking, “And this guy landed on carriers?” But, he was patient and brave enough to sit beside me during landing practice sessions. After that day, and about 20 landings, he pronounced me “safe for solo.” I wasn’t so sure. I knew that it would take a while to get familiar enough with this machine to land at the narrow short airstrip in Auka.

My first solo flight came a few weeks later. (We had flown Jack’s Maule to the United States in the meantime). Since I had no checklists, I was very careful to check all that I thought I should on preflight, and then start the engine and taxi out. Once the tower cleared me for take off, I said a quick prayer and pushed the throttle all the way forward. The engine seemed to be running a little rough, but soon the tail wheel came off the ground, and a few seconds after that I was airborne.

I climbed to about 500 feet and turned out over the water. That’s when an urgent voice came over the radio and said, “Don Jack, hay humo saliendo de su motor.” In English that translates: “Mr. Jack, there is smoke coming out of your motor.” It was the tower operator calling who she thought was Jack. I answered and immediately turned to set up for a landing. I touched down, and after a few bounces, came to a stop. I taxied over to the hangar area and shut the engine down. One of the guys working came over to ask me what the problem was. He’d seen the smoke too—black smoke.

Jack’s mechanic Julio was not there—it was Sunday afternoon. With my very limited knowledge of piston engines, there was little I could do, except wait until Monday and get Julio to check it. In the meantime, I tried my best analysis as to what the problem might be. Smoke coming from an engine was a serious problem. . . .

When Monday dawned, I headed to the airport. I explained to Julio the problem and my concern. He is a gentle older man (over 72 years old at this point), and he knows airplanes. We cranked the engine and it was still running a little rough. Julio listened and told me to go to full power. I did, and the engine’s roughness became more apparent. I could see Julio looking under the engine (probably at the exhaust pipe). He then came to the door, opened it, reached in, grabbed the mixture control, and pulled it out about an inch.

Suddenly the engine smoothed out. The smoke disappeared. And it suddenly dawned on me that I had forgotten about this special setting for the mixture control, and had left it in the “full rich” position, which on this engine was too much.

Julio looked at me like I’m sure he often looks at his grandchildren. I felt like one of his “nietos” then, too. If there was any pride left over from my Naval Aviation career, it evaporated right then and there. I smiled sheepishly, and gave him a wave, shut the door, and taxied out for a landing practice session.

I was soon ready to make my first flight to Auka. Since there are few navigational aids, I would have to rely on my map, and my knowledge of the geography of Miskitia. The route was a simple one—follow the coast east for about 100 miles until you get past the last tall mountains on the coast, then turn southeast. Using rivers and lagoons as checkpoints, you could eventually find Auka. From La Ceiba, it took about two hours and 40 minutes to get there—longer if the easterly winds were stronger than normal.

Landing on the airstrip at Auka was almost as challenging as landing on the Coral Sea. The “runway” was only 30 feet wide, and there was always the danger that a cow, horse, or pig would run out on the airstrip just as you touched down. Add to that the frequent rain, the associated puddles and mud holes, and the normal cross wind conditions, and you had an environment for landing that was as “user unfriendly” as any aircraft carrier.

After a few months, I finally got comfortable operating the Pacer, now know as the “Flying Banana,” and she proved to indeed be a valuable tool. That 12-hour walk to Puerto Lempira now took only 15 minutes in the Banana. The flight from Puerto Lempira that used to cost $80 in a chartered airplane now only cost four gallons of car gasoline—about $12. Our “standard of living” and the whole school project took a turn upward by having this flying pickup truck available for hauling supplies and teams to Auka. By this time too, we had received enough donations from friends to pay Jack the entire $7,500. Charlie and Cathy were especially generous once again.

In July, Victoria Palacios and Tom Keogh came to Auka for a teacher’s conference. I flew to Puerto Lempira to pick them both up. The conference came off very well, and soon it was time to fly them both back. One problem however—there was a big puddle in the middle of the runway. We had had some heavy rains, and there was almost a foot of standing water right at the spot where I normally lifted off. I wasn’t sure if the puddle was going to be a factor, or what would happen if I hit that water at high speed loaded with passengers. But I felt pressed to make the flight to get these guys back to their homes, and I figured that I had a “sporting chance.”

However, as I taxied through the water to get down to the take off end, I noticed that it was a little deeper than I had thought—almost over the wheels. I quickly prayed: “Lord, if I am not going to make this take-off safely, please let me know before I get to the end of the runway.”

Do you think that God answers prayers like that?

As I neared the end of the runway, I pushed on the right brake pedal to turn the Banana around. I felt the normal pressure, but then the pedal suddenly went all the way to the floor. I realized that I had just lost my right brake. I shut the engine down, and got out.

Yes. My suspicions were confirmed—there was red hydraulic fluid leaking from the belly of the Banana.

I was dismayed at this rupture in the brake line until I remembered my prayer. God had given me His answer—and kept me on the ground.

I got out my tool bag, and took off the metal panel and took a look. The brake line had broken, and it was a big tear. We pushed the Banana back to our house, and began thinking. I didn’t have a replacement line, nor did I have anything to patch it. After looking around our tool room for something, I found some old marine underwater epoxy which a friend had brought down to repair holes in our dugout canoe.

This might work. I mixed some up, molded it around the brake line over the tear, and let it sit. It took 24 hours to really dry completely. In the meantime, I wondered what fluid I would use to fill the brake line and reservoir, since I didn’t have any hydraulic fluid or regular car brake fluid.

Later that day, I heard an airplane approach Auka. I ran down to the airstrip. It was a friend Barry Watson, who flew for SAMI airlines, the local charter service based in Puerto Lempira. I told Barry of my problem and asked him if he had any hydraulic fluid with him. He replied: “You don’t really need brakes to fly—this airplane has been without brakes for the last two months.”

This surprised me. I asked, “Are you sure? Have you had any problems?”

Barry said, “No problems . . . well . . . except for the time I ran into the fence at the end of the runway in Cauquira. I got a little bit of barbed wire wrapped around the propeller, but it was no big deal.”

I looked at the propeller. Sure enough there were some deep nicks and gouges in the spinner and on the prop.

Barry loaded his passengers, and took off. I thought about what he said, and we rolled the Banana down to the airstrip for a taxi test. I fired the engine up, and moved down the runway. After a hundred feet, a gust of wind came along and pushed the airplane to the left. I gave it full right rudder, but she didn’t straighten out. Since I had no right brake, I couldn’t do anything but go along for the ride. Soon I was off the runway and into the weeds. That’s when I killed the engine. So much for the taxi test. Maybe Barry didn’t need brakes to steer his airplane—after all, his had a nosewheel. That makes a big difference.

The next morning, the epoxy was as hard as a rock. I had decided to use outboard motor oil to fill the line and reservoir. But would she hold the pressure? Only one way to find out.

I had never “bled brakes” before, but had watched Julio do it once. I connected the line, loosened the bottom relief nut, and began pouring the oil into the brake cylinder mounted on the brake pedal under the dashboard in the Banana. I would pour and pump, then pour and pump, then pour and pump. . . .

After about an hour of this, oil finally began coming out of the bottom. I tightened the relief nut. Now it was more pour and pump— two more hours worth. Finally I sensed some pressure as I pumped. Then I realized that after three hours of pumping with my left arm, I could be confusing “pressure” with muscle fatigue. But after 15 more minutes, I was sure that there was pressure. Another 15 minutes and I was definitely feeling it. Soon it was starting to feel hard pressure! I called Ron out to pump the pedal while I slightly loosened the lower relief nut. Oil and bubbles of air came out. I tightened it all up, and we poured and pumped another 20 minutes until the cylinder was full.

I was excited, but wondered would if she hold the pressure. We did another taxi test. She held. I turned around and taxied down to the end of the runway. The puddle was drained off, and it was no longer a factor. I took off, flew around and landed. She held!

Later that day, I flew Tom and Victoria up to Puerto Lempira.

The next day I flew to La Ceiba to get the brake line fixed.

Julio seemed impressed that I had repaired the line so well.

I had a question for him:

“Julio, if I ever find myself with this problem again, what should I use if I don’t have any hydraulic fluid?”

He thought for a minute and said “Beer.”

“Beer?” I replied.

“Yes,” he said. “Cold beer.”

“Cold beer?” I asked.

I thought a few moments about the viscosity of beer and its ability to hold pressure. Being cold must increase the viscosity and give it better pressure holding capability. But beer?

Finally, I asked, “Beer will work instead of hydraulic fluid?”

“No,” Julio responded very seriously. “But, if you drink two cold beers and then get into the airplane, you won’t worry about the brakes.”

Then he again gave me that smile that I’m sure that he gives to his other grandchildren. . . .

Chapter 8

 A Matter Of Trust

 Some of us have had this experience: We are out for a drive when suddenly the car develops problems and stops running. We are without our tool box and far from home. We are out of ideas on how to fix the car. Just as we are getting desperate, a car passes and stops, then backs up. The driver gets out and asks us what the problem is. He takes a look under the hood, then returns to his car for his tool bag. After adjusting a few valves on the carburetor, the car starts. Our new friend gets into his car and drives off.

This is what David and Solomon spoke of in these verses: Trust. God will never leave us stranded. He will always be there for us. Now God’s eternal perspective on the events of our lives is different, and His solutions for our problems may be different from what we may expect. But He promises us that He will always be there . . . if we place our trust in Him.

If we place our trust in Him . . .

Airplanes are great tools to get you where you need to be, especially in remote areas where there are no roads. The Flying Banana served this purpose for us in Honduras. It was reliable, low cost transportation. But unbeknown to me, my Creator had other purposes for this airplane in my life as well. . . .

One day, we made a trip to Raya to visit some friends. Raya is in the extreme eastern corner of Honduras and is a very isolated village. When we started the take off roll down the Auka International runway, it seemed like the Banana was struggling to get off the ground. I aborted the takeoff. I then unloaded my passengers, and took off solo. She did seem a bit sluggish, but flyable. I landed, loaded the passengers, and took off for Raya.

Somewhere en route to Raya, one of the two bolts holding the tailwheel on came off. I had no way of knowing it until we landed, when the free swinging tailwheel came up and crushed the bottom of the rudder. I realized something was wrong when I couldn’t move either rudder pedal.

I got out and looked, and saw that the tailwheel had bent up the metal frame of the rudder, and crushed the fabric. Many villagers had gathered by this point, and I asked one for some wooden blocks to jack up the airplane. Next, I bent back into place the metal frame, and tried to smooth out the fabric as best as I could. Now all I needed was a bolt with a nut to reattach the forward part of the tailwheel leaf spring assembly to the bottom of the fuselage. Since the nearest hardware store was over 200 miles away, I asked if anybody had any bolts. People began bringing out rusty tin cans with rusty (and usually slightly bent) bolts. Unfortunately, nothing worked.

Then someone suggested that one of us go out to a shrimp boat that was anchored about a quarter mile off shore. Ron quickly left to find someone with a boat to take him there. About an hour later, he returned with two shiny stainless steel bolts (with matching nuts), just the right size. He said that the captain had taken them off an air compressor.

These worked, and within 20 minutes we were headed back to Auka. Thank God for those bolts.

The next day, I flew to La Ceiba to get the rudder repaired. Julio saw the damage and said that it would take a few days to weld a piece of metal and recover it with new fabric. As an afterthought, I told him that I thought that the engine was performing a bit sluggishly. He said he would check it.

A few days later, I returned to the airport. The rudder was back on the airplane, but still needed painting. But what bothered me was the green tarp that was draped over the engine.

As I walked into Julio’s office, I saw four engine cylinders sitting on the floor. “They are all bad,” Julio said. My stomach took a little turn. “What do you mean bad?” I replied.

Julio explained that he’d checked the compression on all four cylinders, and the pressure ranges were from 31 to 39 psi (pounds per square inch). Normal compression is 68 to 78 psi. Minimum safe limits are 55 and above. All of these were 39 and below. No wonder the Banana felt sluggish! The engine was operating on less than half its normal 150 horsepower! He said that they needed to go back to the United States for overhaul.

By coincidence, I was scheduled to return to Florida that week to meet Laura, who was coming from Hawaii on her prenuptial visit. I packed up the cylinders and boarded the airliner.

When I arrived in Florida, my friend Keith Larkin took me and the cylinders to a local engine shop for repair. When I asked for the estimate of cost, I was told “about $400 to $600 each.” I was good at math in high school, but any way I figured it, the repair bill was going to be a minimum of $1,600 more than I had at the moment.

This was a lot of money, and I began to think where I could come up with this amount.

After much thought, I finally realized that since the Lord had given us this airplane, He would also take care of this repair bill. I just needed to trust Him.

I told the shop owner, “Go ahead and repair them.” Then he told us that he needed a $500 deposit on the work. I must have had the look of financial embarrassment on my face, because without a word, Keith took out his checkbook and wrote the check!

That week, I had an opportunity to play racquetball with my good friend Buddy Tipton, pastor of Central Assembly in Vero Beach. During the course of our games, he asked me about the school project and the airplane. Buddy was always interested in the project.

Sunday morning, I was in church, in a seat near the aisle. During the worship time, we were all standing. Just as the last song was about to end, Buddy came up to me and said “Why don’t you come up and tell everybody about the airplane problem. I think that the Lord is going to do something today.”

I was surprised, but obedient. When he called me up, I shared for a few minutes about the Flying Banana and the engine problem. As I sat down, Buddy announced that they would immediately take up a special offering to help pay for the repair.

Now there were about 200 people that first service, and I thought that it would be nice if $200 or $300 came in. After the service, Buddy asked me to stay for the second service. I shared again about the Banana. Another offering was taken.

After the service, Buddy’s assistant pastor Larry Boan told me that the combined total for both services was $3,289.

$3,289! Amazing!

When the cylinders came back from the factory, the price was not $400 or $600, but closer to $800 each. Apparently the valves needed to be replaced. But, with God’s provision, I was able to pay the bill and give Keith back his $500 check. Laura and I took the cylinders back to Honduras where Julio reinstalled them. When the bill came for his work on the engine and the rudder, because of God’s provision, I was able to pay his bill. I was able to also buy some other needed parts for the Banana.

A few weeks later, I added up all the bills for the work done on the Banana. The total came out to $3,288.75. The Lord knew just how much we needed, and gave it to us that Sunday morning—with a $1.25 to spare.

God was showing me something—I could place my trust in Him. But there was more. . . .

July 4th is a special day for me. Besides being the day of Independence for my country, it was also the day I was baptized at Wailea Beach on Maui by Craig and Jason. It’s sort of my spiritual independence day. July 4, 1988 was a very significant day for these reasons, as well as another lesson in trust.

We had a team from California visiting to build a house in Auka. July 4th was the scheduled day to fly them all to Auka. We sent five of the team on a commercial flight to Puerto Lempira. I took Matt (one of the carpenters), plus all the excess luggage and some food with us in the Banana.

Two significant things happened while I was loading the cargo:

(1)  A bird flew over and deposited some “processed food” on my shoulder;

(2)  As I was trying to fit a backpack into the Banana, I felt something pop in my left wrist.

The bird poop was a sign of what was ahead for the day. My wrist was sore immediately, but not sore enough to prevent me from flying.

Matt and I made it to Auka in the usual 2 hours and 40 minutes, and unloaded. I immediately took off for Puerto Lempira, where the rest of the group was waiting. It’s only a fifteen minute flight from Auka to Puerto Lempira, and as I landed, I could see some dark thunder clouds approaching.

I parked the airplane and quickly walked to the house of a friend near the airport where I kept two drums of gasoline. I filled two 5-gallon jugs and walked back to the airplane. With my plastic hose, funnel, and chamois, I poured the gas into the two wing tanks. Then I began loading the baggage and my one passenger. As we took off, I could see dark clouds in the direction of Auka.

Sure enough, five minutes out of Puerto Lempira, we hit heavy rain. I descended to where I could still see the ground and pressed on. At the end of 15 minutes, when we should have been over the airstrip, all I could see were pine trees. I began circling, looking for something familiar. Finally, I caught a glimpse of the roof of our big house off to the east. We circled for another 5 minutes until the shower passed and finally landed. I quickly unloaded and took off.

I hit more rain on the return leg, and it seemed like the engine began running a little rough. After I got out of the rain and close to the airstrip at Lempira, I was sure the engine was running rough. I did a quick magneto check once I got lined up with the runway, and the engine began vibrating loudly. The magneto is the source of spark for an airplane—similar to the distributor in an automobile engine. There are two magnetos on an aircraft engine, and each cylinder has two spark plugs— each connected to a different magneto so that each cylinder has two separate sources of the needed spark.  Checking the magneto is done by disconnecting each magneto from the engine circuit while the engine is running, and ensure that the other magneto is providing the need spark to all the cylinders. A rough running engine on a mag check indicates a bad magneto, bad spark plug, or a broken wire.

I landed quickly and taxied up to our friends. They were waiting with two full jugs of gasoline.

I asked them the put the gas in the fuel tanks, as I opened the engine cowling to take a look. Nothing was obviously wrong, so I got out my wrench, and took off the spark plug wires. On the fourth wire, I found it—a broken spring connector at the end of the spark plug wire. How was I going to fix this? There are no mechanics in Puerto Lempira. The nearest one is about 60 miles away at the Mission Aviation Fellowship base in Ahuas.

While I was trying to figure this out, Vic, one of the carpenters, came to me and told me that the fuel was in, asked me for one of the fuel caps. I was puzzled. “I don’t have the fuel cap. Where did you put it when you took it off to pour the fuel in?” I asked.

“We didn’t take the left one off—it was already off. We assumed that you did.” Vic said.

I hadn’t taken the fuel caps off, and we looked around on the ground for the cap. After about five minutes of searching, it began to dawn on me where the cap was—probably somewhere between Puerto Lempira and Auka. It must have come off in flight after we had refueled on the first flight. Because of my sprained wrist, I probably didn’t tighten it down properly before I took off.

Now we had two major problems—a broken spark plug lead and a missing fuel cap. Both items were essential for flight.

“What now?” I asked myself. And then, “Where are you, Lord, when I need you?”

That’s when it started to rain very heavily.

Soon the heavy rain passed and, I began to walk down to the SAMI hangar at the end of the runway. SAMI is the local charter service with (at that time) one Cessna 206. They don’t have a full-time mechanic, but maybe they might have something. . . . I was starting to get desperate.

The guy that takes care of the plane is a boy from Auka named Derrick. I had brought many  bags of bananas from Derrick’s mother in Auka for her son. I told Derrick my problems. He motioned for me to come with him behind the hangar. There, lying next to the latrine, was the wing off a Cessna that had crashed a few years before. On one of the fuel tanks was a fuel cap!

As I took a close look, I realized that it was a completely different type than what was on our Piper Pacer. It didn’t even look to be the same size, much less a compatible design. I tried to twist it off with my good hand. It wouldn’t budge. I tried both hands. Then I asked Derrick to try. He couldn’t get it to move either.

Since it probably wouldn’t fit, there was no use wasting our time further. Besides, I had another pressing problem.

As I walked back to the Banana, I saw an airplane landing. It taxied right up next to ours and the engine died. Out stepped a good friend, Tom, who was a pilot for Mission Aviation Fellowship. He had just flown in with some passengers from their base in Ahuas!

Now, all MAF pilots are also mechanics, and I was very glad to see Tom. I explained to him our problems. He took a look at the spark plug lead and went to his airplane and grabbed his tool bag. From it he took out a new spring connector. He carried a few on all his flights for moments just like these.

With that, we went to work. In about ten minutes, he had it connected, and it was time to crank the engine and test it. As I turned around, I almost bumped into Derrick, who was standing behind me. He had a screwdriver in one hand, and a gas cap in the other. He had worked the cap loose with the screwdriver.

I took the cap, looked at it, and was now sure that it would not fit. It had a completely different type of design. I almost handed it back to Derrick with a “thanks, but no thanks,” but I realized that he must have worked more than a few minutes to get the cap off the wing. It wouldn’t hurt to try so I climbed up on the wing and held the cap over the fuel tank filler hole. I dropped it down, and the metal prongs on the cap fit through the notches in the filler neck perfectly! With a twist, it tightened securely into place. I was amazed. So much for my engineering expertise.

In fact, as I took it off again and again, it seemed like this Cessna gas cap fit better on the Banana than the Piper cap did.

I climbed down off the wing and into the cabin and started the engine. It ran very smoothly. Tom’s repair job was perfect.

There were still plenty of dark clouds on the horizon, and it was getting late in the day. I still had two flights to make to Auka. Tom saw my situation, and volunteered to make a flight to Auka, and then head back to Ahuas. We loaded up, and in 20 minutes, we both were on the ground in Auka.

As I walked up to the big house with my bags, I remembered what I had said in Puerto Lempira: “Where are you Lord when I need you?”

At that moment a still small voice said to my spirit, “Right here. Right where I said I would be.”