The Hot Air Club
I love FBO lounges. They represent infinite repositories of superfluous aviation trivia and the best venue for entertainment this side of a two-bit comedy club. Most know what the “Mile High Club” is but few can truly appreciate the “Hot Air Club”. Take a small room; a coffee machine, add a big table with lots of chairs, a box of stale krispy kreme donuts, and half a dozen old timers with nothing more to do on a Saturday morning then hang out at the airport; now, kick back and enjoy the show.
“When I was in the Air Force I saw a crew chief jump out of a burning B-29 and get his chute snagged on the tail of a another B-29 flying in formation and drug all the way back to Okinawa hanging off the tail feathers.” Everyone turns to look at the old man in disbelief – PAUSE – muffled laughter. “It happened just that way April 10, 1945 and it ain’t funny.” One old codger wearing a Piper Cub cap slams down a cup of coffee: “If your bull was water, we’d all be awash in a tidal wave.” The offended Air Force Veteran retorts: “Well at least I know a Tomahawk from a Skipper”, and then another quick reply, “Look, I had my trifocals on and from 100 yards they look the same to me.” An old fellow packing two hearing aids pipes up, “No, no, no, the best Beechcraft in my book was the Mite”, “Good Gawd’ Hank, that weren’t no Beechcraft. It was a Mooney and even at that, no peach of an airplane!” Hank seems nonplussed, “THAT’S what I said: It was a BEECH.” A 50’ish man wearing an EAA T-shirt waves a hand in futility. “Now, whoever tells you that you can’t get carb’ ice with an updraft carburetor is just plain full of it.” A short man scratches what little is left of a strand of blond gray hair. “Well I guess that would be me, cause I had a MiniMax with a Zenith Carb’ that never got ice and I don’t care what you say, I still think Jim Bede was a design genius.” – HAAAA!
A chair creaks as it is leaned forward and a cruller juts out. “Jim Bede was a scam artist and you ought to know, cause’ any man that flies a lawn chair with bed sheet wings and a bungee cord for a seatbelt ought have his head examined.” The austere looking gent dressed in an arrow shirt garroted by a red bow tie huffs, “And this coming from a tobacco shed aerodynamicist trying to coax a half knot more of airspeed from a lowly Tri-Pacer via eight coats of Aeroshell Flight Jacket.” The miffed Tri-Pacer pilot drops a donut on the floor, “Hey, Kelly Johnson go get your Garmin and I’ll prove to you how fast that short wing will go.” A low voice pipes up from next to the soda machine. “My Uncle once flew across the Okefenokee Swamp butt naked.” Silence falls like a lead balloon, and then the Air Force vet’ continues: “Anyhow, they painted the tires silver on the XB-70 to dissipate heat on landing.”
The Cub Hat gent shakes his head. “Nope, they were painted white and it landed as slow as 150 knots.” B-29 Boy: “SILVER”. Cub Hat: “NOPE, WHITE”. B-29 Boy: “I’m telling you as I’m sitting here SILVER, and I was out at Edwards and seen it.” The gent in the bow tie can’t resist. “Yes, and let’s see; you and Chuck Yeager drunk as skunks at Pancho’s Happy Bottom Riding Club racing horses across the lake bed.” A thumb goes up – “you betcha’ and he still sends me a Christmas card.”
A brief moment of quiet reigns until the coffee pot gurgles, “Worst flight surgeon ever.” Everyone pauses. “That would be Doc Trumbo. The man made Josef Mengele look like Mother Teresa”, says bow tie. Cub Hat shakes his head, “Nope, nope: has to be Gildersleve. The man’s thumb was the size of a Mack Truck and he never clipped his nails.” Even the Vet’ has to agree with Cub Hat. The guy with the crazy Uncle looks despondent. “Yeah, that lousy Doc’ grounded my Uncle. Told him he had stomach cancer and only 18 months to live – Probably why he flew that last trip naked.” Bow Tie nods solemnly. “That’s too bad about your Uncle. Probably miss him greatly.” The guy looks up, “Oh no, no. He’s still alive. Turns out it was just an ulcer, although he got his medical yanked anyway.
Yep, every year he makes me drive him out to the cemetery – You know the one Gildersleve is buried in”. The Veteran asks how come, seeing that the Flight Surgeon had died years earlier from a heart attack. The younger guy smiles, “Yeah, I drive him out there once a year and he gets out of the car; walks up to old Gildersleve’s plot, stands for a minute over the grave, takes his ball cap off; than relieves himself.” That’s when I spewed coffee all over the wall chart.
By Steve Bill Hanshew