By lex, on January 23rd, 2010
Three priorities are drilled into every fledgling naval aviator’s head from the day he starts flight school: Aviate, navigate, and communicate – in that order. The first and eternal priority is to maintain control of the aircraft and try to keep it in the middle of the sky, staying clear of all the edges.
This was posted by one of the Lexicans at the F/B page. Apparently the Russians have taken a liking to…..Spongebob Squarepants
By lex, on January 17th, 2010
‘Twas two hops yesterday down at the customary, the first being a multi-generational affair with pops paying for Grampa Art to fly against his very own son, Amon y-clept and an ostensible 8th grader, the whole passle of them but recently ridden in from Tuscon. I say “ostensible,” for just like the carnival we have certain age and height limitations that are in effect, and if Amon was an 8th grader his grampa may have been named Art but Bob was his uncle.
Or maybe they don’t feed ‘em, much, in Tuscon.
By lex, on January 10th, 2010
Just ran across an interesting anecdote in the November Pacific Flyer that I just had to share: It turns out that the last German plane to be officially shot down in the ETO was a Fieseler Storch.
By lex, on December 28th, 2009
One of the bennies promised by CFI Dave as he lured me into the world of tailwheel aviation was that, at the conclusion of my course of instruction in the mighty 7GCAA Citabria, I would be offered a flight free of charge in his 1947 Stearman.
By lex, on December 26th, 2009
Just the one flight today, a sixty-minute learn-to-fly. On the dogfights you pretty much know what you’ll be getting, an adventurer or someone buying a present for someone they believe to be an adventurer. But there’s no telling what you’ll get on one of the learn-to-fly hops.
It wasn’t until 1230, so I had the morning mostly to myself. We five are here at home, but only one of us could remotely qualify as an early riser. Toodled on down to the aerodrome at a leisurely pace, which was prolly just as well: You can tell that the state is getting serious about its budget crunch from the number of CHP hiding in any likely spot. Everywhere, pretty much.
Termites ain’t in it.
By lex, on December 19th, 2009
So, ’twas down to the aerodrome early-aye-o for to sign up with yet another flying club, one such as has a broader stable of unobtanium than does t’other. An hour’s worth of having to listen to one pilot intersperse flying stories with club by-laws followed by another pilot – the safety officer, as it turns out – telling tales over the course of the second hour of those who’ve balled up otherwise airworthy craft through one means or another. None of which were particularly edifying, your host being familiar with the requirement to maintain an adequate supply of go-juice in the machine and keep her more or less tracking down the prepared surface. The cruel hardship of which was, ourselves being aspirants, like, manners prevented us from one-upping.
Bitter beer indeed.