When John Potter, long time Benicia resident, Naval Academy
graduate, retired Commander in the Naval Reserve, retired nuclear engineer,
asked me if I wanted to go along with him when he flew a sick boy from Harris
Ranch to Oakland, I jumped at the chance. Of course, I didn’t tell John that I
had never flown in a small aircraft before. Though I certainly look old enough
to be suspected of having had such an experience, I also have never ridden a
roller coaster that goes upside down, parachuted from a plane, or gone bungee
jumping.
Not that any of these things had anything to do with flying
with John.
Certainly not.
If anyone knew how to fly, I reasoned, John did. I told
myself the night before the flight, as I stared at the clock when I should have
been sleeping, that the probability was extremely small that John’s plane
would go upside down or that I would need to parachute from his plane or that
his plane would precipitously drop thousands of feet. It was unimportant to tell
John that I have difficulty walking up to a skyscraper window and looking down
or that I was terrified to go near the low wall at New York’s Guggenheim
Museum as I walked up the circular ramp higher and higher and higher….
But I digress.
Why bother John with such details, I thought, when he would
need to focus all his faculties on flying?
John stopped to pick me up in the morning and asked me if I
was going camping.
I carried a heavy coat and my backpack. I wasn’t sure if
small planes had heat, and you never know when you might need reading material
while sitting in a field waiting for help to arrive.
John drove his classic 1972 Volkswagen Bus, outfitted for
field-maintenance operations, to Buchanan Field in Concord. The day was foggy
and there was a threat of rain in the afternoon. John said everything should be
fine, since we’d be flying under Instrument Flight Rules, but that it could be
a bit dicey getting into Oakland in a storm because we would need to see a bit
to land.
I squirmed in the well-worn VW seat.
We drove onto the tarmac and parked next to a slick-looking,
single-engine, four-seater with N4887W emblazoned in blue on the side. The plane
looked fast and safe. I strapped myself in, my confidence rising, when John told
me that the battery was dead. My confidence tumbled over the Guggenheim wall.
Coolly, in a clammy, sweaty sort of way, not wanting
Commander Potter to feel my panic, I asked about the alternator. He assured me
it was fine.
John drove his VW bus next to the plane, hooked up his jumper
cables, and the airplane engine came to life. I asked what we’d do later if
the battery failed. Call AAA, he said. Great, I thought.
We headed first to Hanford to drop off a package that needed
to be returned to Lemoore Naval Air Station. The thirty-knot wind on our nose
meant we were only making 80-knots ground speed and the sky was hazy, but the
view from 5500 feet was fantastic. Unfortunately, our slow speed coupled with
the lack of a head – remember, I’m used to sailing – and the large amount
of water and coffee I had drunk – not a good idea, I realized too late – and
a heightened state of anxiety meant I was in distress.
John kept the engine running outside the airport office
because, of course, he was worried about the battery, while I ran in to drop off
the package and use the bathroom. Perhaps I looked suspicious or too anxious –
not sure – but the controller went out to talk to John about the package or
me, maybe both, after which we took off again heading for Harris Ranch.
We met Pedro and his mom at the restaurant along with two
other AirLifeLine pilots who had flown them up from San Ysidro.
AirLifeLine is a nonprofit group of over 1,000 private
pilots, John among them, who, at their own expense, transport patients who
cannot afford the cost of travel (see www.AirLifeLine.org). It’s terrific what
this group is doing for others who are much in need of help.
Pedro, a thin 14-year-old, was going to Oakland to be checked
for a liver transplant. He was on a waiting list and had flown the route a
couple times before, so when I looked at John apprehensively as he turned the
key, Pedro was already relaxing in the back seat, with his mom, listening to
CDs.
The battery worked – a big sigh - and we were off. The nose
wind on the flight down was now a little jet stream at 8,000 feet, and we made
excellent time up the Diablo Mountain Range toward Oakland. No rain. A beautiful
clear sky below the low clouds. It was fantastic.
When I got home, I called my wife - she had wanted me to
check in.
"You’re alive!" she said.
Perhaps fear of flying runs in the family.
- Dave Badtke is founder of the developing Carquinez Review literary
journal. Find him on the web at www.CarquinezReview.com.
Contact him at:
Dave@CarquinezReview.com or Dave@Badtke.com
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When John Potter, long time Benicia resident, Naval Academy
graduate, retired Commander in the Naval Reserve, retired nuclear engineer,
asked me if I wanted to go along with him when he flew a sick boy from Harris
Ranch to Oakland, I jumped at the chance. Of course, I didn’t tell John that I
had never flown in a small aircraft before. Though I certainly look old enough
to be suspected of having had such an experience, I also have never ridden a
roller coaster that goes upside down, parachuted from a plane, or gone bungee
jumping.
