2 minute read
Denali - First Flight
from S12.01 2022
by nustobaydo
Aviators have a code of conduct which prevents them from inquiring about the number of hours, or types, that another pilot has logged. In the same way one businessman will never ask of another, “I say Frubshaw, how much money have you got?" It’s just not British is it?
Codes of conduct, like rules, are there to be broken, especially when you are having a couple of snorts with an old mate. And so it was with my ex-boss Zingi who wanted to tell me how many types he had flown. He eased the conversation round to the number of types in my logbook. This was a tactical error; he was talking to the original type-hog. Of course I had to concede that there were a few small gaps in my logbook where the words "Spitfire", "Hurricane", “Miles Master” and "Sopwith Pup", appeared in his. It’s a pity that I did not then have the experience that was now almost within my immediate grasp. I had just worked out how to put the words “Junkers JU52” in my logbook.
Advertisement
“Scully, slow down a bit man, and perhaps we can negotiate a ride-for-a-ride.” The Junkers seemed to stop in the air – it almost looked as if it has hit a brick wall. I had to yank on a handful of spoilers, otherwise I would have overshat. I knew we had struck a bargain.
That afternoon Scully and I had fun in my superb little German motor-glider. We took off on 18 and stopped the engine at 300’ to glide gently round a lowish circuit and land back on the same runway. Then we headed a couple of miles south and stopped the engine over Herald’s Bay. We feathered the prop, and taking advantage of a light onshore wind, spent half an hour playing in the rising air over the beach and the cliffs – in complete silence.
If I could have back just two of the aircraft I have sold over the years, they would be my Tiger Moth and my Grob. Two aircraft that could hardly be more different, but both have that wonderful ability to potter slowly over the morning countryside and smell herds of black and white cattle on their way to the milking shed. Or climb up high and make gentle patterns amongst the clouds.
My reward came the next day in the left hand seat of the aerial equivalent of a piece of rollingstock.
