Learning to Fly; BOS - DTW

Marcos, General Howe, Paul Revere and Grandpa.

I flew home to Detroit from Boston Monday, taking an Uber ride to the airport. The app is so easy to use now that even an old guy like me can order a cab.

My driver, Marcos, was a soft-spoken guy from the Cabo Verde Islands, located at the equator about 300 miles west of mainland Africa. He grew up there, speaking Creole Portuguese, but he also learned English and French before he immigrated with his mother to the United States at the age of twelve.

He navigated the heavy morning traffic smoothly and soon I was through security and enjoying breakfast near my departure gate.

We departed BOS on time. I scored a window seat, my view only partially obscured by the wing.

The Delta flight lifted off from Boston’s Logan Airport Runway 22L, then made a sharp left turn over Ft. William on Castle Island, shown above. It’s the oldest fortified military site in British North America.

The island was first fortified in the 1630’s to defend Boston from the French. it was renamed “Castle William” for King William II in 1701. After the Boston Massacre, 1770, the colonists insisted that the British troops stationed in Boston be removed to Castle William.

In March, 1776, the Continental Army fortified Dorchester Heights in the dead of night. British General William Howe ordered an attack on the heights by the 11,000 British troops under his command, but poor weather forced them to return to the fort. More details on the siege of Boston and the eviction of the British are set out in Chapter 13: 400 Years in America.

The British burned the fort before abandoning Boston, but the Continentals quickly rebuilt it into the star-shaped fort we see today.

Lt. Colonel Paul Revere, above, commanded the fort after the British retreat. Painting by John Singleton Copley, public domain, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Continuing our left turnout to the north, Long Island (lower) and Deer Island came into view.

Ft. Strong was located on the Long Island, and across the narrow channel you can see Ft. Dawes on Deer island, an important defense and observation point during WWII.

The weather in Boston was “CAVU,” clear and visibility unlimited, or “severe clear” as my old flying instructor used to say.

I took my first airplane ride when I was 19 years old. Though I’d been enthralled with air travel from an early age, my first chance to fly was when I was living with my Grandpa in Tiffin Ohio.

Grandpa had a bowling buddy with a pilot’s license, and scored us a free ride in a four seater. We took off from the old Tiffin Airport that used to be north of town, just east of the cemetery where he’s buried. I often wondered if he picked that spot because it overlooked the airport.

I was hooked.

I was working at a plastics factory in Sandusky that summer. I paid Grandpa $10 a week for room and board and drove from Tiffin to Sandusky and back every day on Ohio Rt. 101. The road twists northeast from Tiffin past Weiker Airstrip in Green Springs. A small hand lettered sign along the road read “Flying Lessons.”

I told Grandpa about the sign.

“Why the hell not? How much does it cost?” he barked in his rough way.

He loaned me the $200 for flight school and lessons, which I paid back weekly over the summer, and the next thing I knew I was learning to fly!

Grandpa had only one condition to the loan.

“I get the first ride,” he demanded.

Weiker Airport was a sweet little field with a 1700 foot grass strip on top of a bit of a hill. The power lines at one end of the runway and a big oak tree at the other required full flaps for take offs and landings.

The little Cessna 150 and I became best friends. Photo credit Creative Commons.

Finally the day came for my flying test. I had completed my solo flights, the longest from Tiffin to OSU airport, then Mansfield, a triangular cross country flight.

That Saturday was a bit foggy, but I knew my way around and soon had landed in Fremont, only ten miles or so away from Weiker.

I parked the plane and went into the little office.

“I’m here for my FAA test,” I announced.

“Are you David Zoll?” drawled a leather-jacketed old timer, looking up from his coffee and cigarette.

“Yes Sir.”

“Did you just land in that 150?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Well you’ll have to come back another day. I’m flunking you.”

“Why?” I asked in astonishment, “What did I do?”

“Come here, son,” he said in a slightly less authoritative voice. “Let me show you something.”

We walked outside and he studied the sky.

“Did you check the weather before you departed? Do you see how low these clouds are? We’re below minimums. All you have is a solo VFR license. The Visual Flight Rules require that you only fly when the conditions are suitable. The ceiling now is less than 1000 feet. These conditions require an instrument rating.”

I was devastated. What would Grandpa say?

It started to rain a bit.

“Let’s go inside,” he said.

He drilled me hard for an hour on my knowledge, patiently explaining some technical flying points I didn’t quite fully understand.

“Give me your log book,” he finally growled.

He thumbed through it for a bit. Then he scribbled something down and shoved it back at me.

“I will see you next Saturday morning at 10 a.m., CONDITIONS PERMITTING, do you understand what that means?”

“Yes Sir.”

“And don’t take off until I’ve left. I don’t want to see you flying in this weather.”

I looked at my log book. He had passed me on everything except the actual flying!

The clouds had lifted a bit. I waited until he had left, then fired up the Cessna and flew back to Weiker, staying just below the cloud deck.

The next Saturday dawned bright and clear. The old test pilot ran me through my paces, including 360 degree turns and emergency landings. Once we were back on the ground he said “Let’s go into the office.”

“Son, I’m sorry I had to flunk you last week, but the FAA is strict. I need to flunk someone every now and then to keep them happy. You aced the test. Give me your log book.”

He signed off and just like that, I was a private pilot!

One more important task lay ahead. I took a dime from my pocket and dropped it in the pay phone.

“Grandpa! Meet you at the Seneca County Airport in 30 minutes!”

Grandpa was waiting when I taxied up to the little terminal. I killed the engine and he climbed in to the little two-seater.

“I passed! Where to?”

For some reason we flew to Toledo, not realizing that I would be moving there a few years later, then spend the next 50 years attending law school, starting a family, and eventually founding my own law firm.

Nor did I realize that one of my biggest cases would involve a lawsuit against the Toledo Express airport operator on behalf of nearby residents disturbed by nighttime air cargo operations.

Sometimes it’s really good NOT to know the future, right?

We parked at the terminal, swaggered into the General Aviation lobby at Toledo Express, sipped our coffees, and talked about where to go next.

“Let’s fly over our fishing hole on Lake Erie off Turtle Creek,” suggested Grandpa.

We headed east and skirted the southern shore of Lake Erie. Grandpa couldn’t hide his excitement. I dropped down just over the water and we headed north from Turtle Creek, out to West Sister Island, then back towards the Davis Besse Nuclear Power Plant which was then under construction. We flew directly over the cooling tower and looked down inside it.

“It’s hollow!” exclaimed Grandpa. “Nothing in it yet!”

It was time to head home. Grandpa was glued to the window, tracing Mud Creek and the Sandusky River, recognizing more fishing spots.

I made a nice approach to Weiker airstrip, slipped around the oak tree and bounced us in on the little grass strip.

“Well we made it,” said Grandpa, as we rolled to a stop.

That was as close as he ever got to a compliment, and I was glad to get it.

Grandpa lived long enough to hold his first grandson. My dad said he was very proud that I went to law school and became a lawyer, though he never said anything to me. He was an ornery old guy who loved to fish and fly.

I’ll be thinking of him on Friday night when we race in the Mills from Toledo Harbor Light to Put-In-Bay, past West Sister Island and through our old fishing grounds. Last year we took a knock down right there while jibing in heavy air, but recovered and finished the race. (See The 100th Mills Race is in the Books!)

I’m wondering what the Lake has in store for us this year.

We’re descending to DTW. Though the sky is still clear of clouds, there’s a haze from Canadian forest fires in Manitoba and Saskatchewan. A lake freighter is steaming across Lake St. Clair towards the Detroit River.

The new Gordie Howe bridge glimmers through the haze, and I can just make out Lake Erie, West Sister, and, if I squint, Davis Besse and our old fishing grounds.

Cheers Grandpa! We made it!