JOUR DE SOUVENIR
“All animals, except man, know that the principal business of life is to enjoy it.”
After breakfast one Memorial Day, I sat on the porch pulling winter fur from the cat’s coat. To my astonishment, the wads of dander were drifting up from my open palm as if weightless, and disappearing overhead. Wind? No, this bright morning was perfectly calm. Clearly something special was in store.
It would become the single best soaring day any old-timer could remember in that region (which is known for lousy weather.) According to reports, a day never yet surpassed. In other words, the mythical best day ever. Before I got to the airport, robust cumulus were already widespread, and far higher than usual. In a landscape where thermals seldom rise above five thousand feet, by noon these beauties were roaring to ten! A thrill just to be there.
So why was I heartsick? I was booked for a full slate of short rides and lessons, in a 2-33, from first tow to last call. In five hours of flight time, I probably wouldn’t get five miles from the field — or ever have a chance to top out…
Buddies with their own ships were hyperventilating as they prepared for the day, but all I could do was gaze up and drool. I told myself that dragging a chain in the sweetest of weathers has to be better than doing so in... anything else. That’s what I told myself, but it didn’t help.
That same day, coincidentally, an assistant professor from MIT had trailered his Libelle up from the city, planning a silver distance badge flight back in that direction. In a run of ten thousand consecutive calendar days, he could not have chosen a more ideal occasion – he’d even have a light tailwind! But he was mad, and scrubbing the day because his electric vario was on the fritz. (And he had a pneumatic one.)
I’d already been up, and had to force my way down, and confirmed the most powerful and consistent thermals I’d ever seen. I promised he could begin directly over the runway after a short tow, and immediately climb high enough to glide to his goal without any more lift, and no need for any kind of variometer. He could as easily stay high and keep going, past Boston, on down to his home field at Plymouth (not silver distance, gold!). And good luck getting down when he arrived.
The prize was his to take, silver and gold, but he chose instead to be despondent. I said I’d gladly drive his trailer down to him the next day if he’d pay my bus fare home. Not this guy.
I had never flown a sailplane as nice as his. Despite the ‘technical’ problem, it was superior to anything else at our field that day., and his refusing to soar even locally in such special weather was for me, frankly, insulting. He was a new guest at our field, and I tried to remain polite, hoisting every appeal I could think of, warning he might never live to see a day this grand again. When he began peeling the speed tape from a wing root, my teapot whistled.
“Mighta been smart to preflight the cockpit before puttin’ the wings on, perfesser.” When he gave me the stink eye, I offered my most derisive passive-aggressive smirk and went on to a least try to make his experience of that Memorial Day, if not gratifying, at least memorable, and hopefully thought provoking.
Rather than help him stow his ship as I usually would, I stood close by, hands in pockets, and suggested that he the scholar displayed apparently none of the curiosity and imagination, or boldness before a challenge required for success in soaring — or academia for that matter. In denying the obvious and declining to partake in a rare (and for me, sacred) event, he made himself unworthy of the miracle. He should unhand that fine craft and let someone who really knew how to use it have a go. “Oh, not me,” I assured him, “I have several more students waiting.”
But there’s no point in letting someone else’s narrowness limit your own vision. Minutes later I was soaring again in Paradise, with the assistant professor’s socio-cultural opposite: a bulldozer operator. And on his first time up, that fine gentleman flew like a gleeful angel. (I’ve since learned that heavy equipment jockeys often seem naturally suited for glider guiding, standard paradox.)
So which would you rather be, a self-defeated technodude grumbling down the road under that sea of perfect energy, or a bear pawed cat skinner floating in the fairest air of a lifetime?
Viva la siège du pantalon.