ME AND MISTER FABULOUS
“When power leads toward arrogance,
poetry reminds us of our limitations.”
At that time, I’d never yet seen a Diamant sailplane for real. In photos it was the hottest bird of the era, its bullet-nosed outline easy to recognize even a thousand feet up and a mile away. All other personnel had gone for the evening, leaving only me to observe a tenacious struggle, the sexy bird edging ever closer to the airport as it surrendered height. If it lands I’d get a peek in the cockpit, but I’d rather stand here and watch it disappear!
It must have come from brand-X, silver distance to the south — or perhaps somewhere in Canada? Lift at our place was so weak that day, on three different rides hours apart, I never maintained an inch of altitude, and spent the bulk of the day mowing ten acres of grass.
Then from down around five hundred feet off the north end, the Diamant began to creep higher, twice in fact… with the same result. Third time was only half an hour before sunset, leaving no choice but to lower the gear and come on in.
After running alongside, catching a wingtip, and proudly helping the pilot push off, I was anxious to know how in the world he got this far on such a weak day, but first extended a smiling hand, “Hi, I’m Dale.” That’s when he chose to remove his parachute, staring beyond my ear for signs of human activity at our little terminal building. Crickets, as they say.
It was understandable he’d be peeved at coming down so far from home, but that’s no cause to rebuff eager assistance, even from a grimy longhair like me. Big letters on his tail declared who he was, a household name in that soaring region, that if I were anybody I’d know already. And I did, too, but his manner made the name irrelevant. Though I was still new to soaring, this was not my first encounter with a pilot more full of himself than necessary. Don’t they realize it diminishes only themselves? The way I saw it, someone had just finished TLC’ing the beautiful strip he landed on, someone gladly helped him pull clear without a tail dolly, and soon he’d be wishing someone would let him in the already locked office, to call home (this was long before cell phones). In each case that someone happened to be me.
When he then turned away to water the nearest bush, still without so much as a howdy, I had a sudden craving for better company, and to heck with a peek in his cockpit. Trotting quietly over to my bike, I saddled for home before Mr. Fabulous could finish zipping up, and while pedaling down the driveway, heard him over my shoulder, finally finding voice, “Hey! Hey uhh, Dale!”
Sorry pal, maybe next life.
Dear soaring friends, please don’t do this to yourself. No matter how slick your ride, or the number of badges on your hat, there’s never any point in going all Fabulous. Deep six your conceit, and hail the schmuck who helps you as a welcome ally, not an odious minion. Especially if you’ll be needing things soon, and there’s no one else around.
Full disclosure, the office key was in my pocket. Don’t tell, okay?