I was red lining it at tree-top level through the Straights of Gibraltar. Radio was tuned to the NDB broadcasting George Straight when I got the call. "We're pullin out. The last heathen has died of typhoid". Where the Sidewalk ends and the road begins...

So I was off the hook. With all of Christendom on a conversion freeze, i was a free agent--just waiting for orders. Any orders. Any cause. The tattered old Wright Flyer 5 i was in needed new fabric in a bad way, but I was a proud man back in those days because it was certified and I had an STC for the Briggs and Stratton sitting between my legs. It was much lighter than their cobbed together engine. I had thought about flying it directly to the Smithsonian after I saved up enough for a RANS flying surf-board, but let's face it. You can't rid the jungles of voodoo with an experimental trike--well i guess YOU can, but I just wouldn't feel right about it.

I plopped it onto the bamboo runway I had weaved together the previous rainy season and started ripping off the fabric when the missionaries hit me up with a telegraph to report to Eurasia ASAP to do some low level napalm dumps over hostile territory for the CIA. I wrapped my cotton sheets around the spars and dumped boiling water over it to get it taut.
After an entry in my logbook for weight and balance, three hail Maries, and a shot of rubbing alcohol, I headed over to get some napalm out of the shed. I pointed my sextant toward the sun and looked through it with welding goggles. It was only then that I pointed my trusty rig toward Eurasia and tugged on the rope. Airborne and cruising for miles.
I was cruising much faster than normal but it was time for a fuel stop.
While in ground effect in Prussia something didn't feel right. It felt like destiny-altitude, which is the square of barometric pressure times wing loading (figuring for perfect conditions) times my distance from the holy grail, was failing me. I hit the ground hard. Blew out my certified skids. Napalm everywhere. I gathered up the napalm and stuffed it into the dead water-buffalo's stomach I usually carry for drinking water. I called the CIA and told them I would be late. They weren't having it. They said I'm a dime a dozen. Do the drop on time or not at all. "Loud and clear". I really needed the money because my iTunes™ account was over-drafted.

Luckily I had an old Zip™ drive chock full of Prince and the New Power Generation (and even a few oldies before the NPG joined in). I piped it in to my leather headset fashioned out of a pair of red dead monkey asses. I wasn't far from the drop zone when Prince's "Pussy Control" came on (I had hit random-play since I like to live for the unexpected). My plane still didn't feel right and started shuddering as I traded airspeed for magic rubies. There were magic rubies everywhere. I was stealing them mostly from eagle's nests. But I was out of control. The plane was descending. I must have hit gross weight and knew I had better stop grabbing magic rubies, or drop the napalm. One thing was for sure. I did not want to trade altitude for rubies. F@*K that. And I wasn't going to abort mission. I was thinking about how bad I needed paid so I could buy new bed sheets and a six pack of spark plugs, when it hit me. Prince is a genius! I never understood why he was singing about cats, and that's because he speaks in metaphor! I bet he was a pilot. And a lightweight one at that! "Pussy Contol really means Camber Control". And that could mean only one thing. My bed linens were not really cotton! They were hemp! The hemp had shrunk and didn't have the give that the cotton yielded after cooling. It continued to shrink as it dried trading airspeed for more airspeed as the airfoil changed dynamically, so my camber control was off. I had no camber control! I expedited the napalm dump over the first village I found, sliced up the water-buffalo's stomach and zip-tied sections fore and aft of the CL of the wing. Then I let it rip. Reaching from the bottom, I sliced the wing open one foot at a time. First the right wing. Then the left wing. Back and forth as the flyer twisted through the night sky. After the final cut, and wing-walking back to my perch behind the Briggs & Stratton I would never make that mistake again. Camber control. If you don't have it, you are a passenger not a pilot.

Last night must have been "crazy dream" night. I dreamed I hired a custom corn harvester from Ohio to come to Iowa to harvest for me. He got here and started before I showed up and the more I thought about it, I couldn't remember ever working that field last summer when it dawned on me----it was the neighbors field. Luckily I woke up then.

Anyway, that was a good read and put me in a better mood after watching Meet the Press this morning and listening to the experts talk about how the USA is probably going to give arms to the friendliest bad guys (rebels) to fix the situation in Syria. It might backfire like so many times before, but we have to give it a try anyway.

Good story, Bro. Either a major coincidence... or maybe much much more. It was 1983 and I was operating out of a deep grey/green site in a continent on the other side of the Straits of Gibraltar. Im not saying it was in Kenya, but Im not saying it wasn't either. I didn't know what I was getting into, but I was just out of high school and they said I could fly. A lot. And there was the Somali Sensi. Anyway, I'd been working at Long John Silver's and spending all my fry station money on avgas and rental beaters, it was time for a positive proactive dynamic control movement.
After getting my bearings in the H-634 Helio Twin Stallion with the Allison C-250s, General Electric® XM-197 three-barrel 20 mm Gatling gun mounted in the left cargo door, (and 4 critical engine flame outs on takeoff), I got my orders. The job description was vague and the mission even vague-er, but it was a badass ride for a 17yr of fry cook, plus all that sweet juicy bud. I launched into the darkest night I had ever seen on the darkest continent on the globe, my instructions were on a cassette tape. I popped the cassette into the Onkyo™ and at first I thought I had made a big mistake. It wasn't instructions, but rather Toto's greatest album, Toto IV, with the hit song "Africa", that reached number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart in February 1983. At first disoriented and confused, I soon became mesmerized by the mellow stylings of the greatest soft rock band of all time. Suddenly I realized these were NOT just awesome lyrics about a place some white dudes had never been to, they WERE my instructions! I rose, "as sure as Kilamanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti"! "I seek to cure whats deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become"! (Yet, oddly soothed by the gentle rhythms and smooth instrumental break). Hours passed as I rewound the tape repeatedly, the big Allisons coughed and sputtered peacefully in the dark rainy night, but "I bless the rains down in Africa". Eventually the buzz begins to wane and I realize I better call Nairobi Center and see if I can figure where the hell I am. Center says they have been trying to call me all night and give me a vector for a strip in a village south of town. And a phone number to call. (Turns out the whole town was dry and they knew the kids flying the Helio were always hooked up.) Long story short I pick up my "package" in the village, a crazy stoner with dreads and a bunch of fake looking Hawaiian documents, and deliver him to my people, make a hot turn and deliver another "package' to the Tracon, and next thing I know Im back at Long John Silver's in Encino! Just like the dude who shot Bin Laden in the face!, no letter of recommendation, no healthcare benefits, and in retrospect, dollars to donuts it's my fault were all going to Hell in a Handbasket with socialized medicine.

Wowza...

And most of you Bozos all thought that I was bat-shit crazy talking about a more efficient way to control camber.

Wow. And well done.

Wyomingiswindy and S7Paco-I just read this. You guys are really creative. I've got to have you guys talk to my "Creative Writing Short Story" teacher. I took a class at my local community college to improve my war stories. He said working over war stories was not creative. Good job guys. I really enjoyed both stories.

Thanks Contact! That is extremely kind of you, and I gotta say huge respect for publicly risking your credibility by expressing your approval. However, as far as creativity goes, my story is completely true! I can't vouch for Wyomingwindbag. Thanks again!

edit

Well contactflying, like a young Dory once said, "you can't tell war stories unless you've gone to war." (or something to that effect).


I like the edit above! And speaking of edit, check out this dubstep-edit classic! S7Paco can shred it on guitar!
http://ohiobushplanes.com/1/?page_id=27
That's me dancing like a mom at a wedding reception. Paco sure can make up for his lack of camber-control with his tantalizing fret-control. Note the girl in the background hated me making flying videos, so she celebrated this to no end.

In a nutshell, that's what happens when worlds collide and both of us are on furlough in Morocco in between gigs in the Gibraltar area. Now, get back to tickling your keys and teach us how to fly! BTW, I personally can vouch for you on the dangers of the downwind turn. Nearly perished myself. It's the first thing I tell a newbie pilot cuz i had 1000 hours when i did it. --Maneuvering slow and low and turning the wrong way away from the wind. Scary sh!T captain!
The problem with teaching new people to fly is they don't have the vocabulary to listen to seasoned flyers. You have to put it into words that are digestible to common folk. For example. I thought "downwind" only referred to the leg of the pattern just before "base" for like a year...In actual flying around it means the wind is coming from your back--or pushing you. So when you tell someone not to turn downwind when near stall speed you gotta use charts and diagrams and arrows and stuff to show why (the windflow will make the plane stop flying). At least that's my feeling. --Not that you didn't do that. I just wanted to speak my mind because that's what I think is lacking in general flight lessons--speaking to the non-pilot instead of preaching to the choir.

The dancing was great but it hurt my back to watch. I had to avert my eyes strategically from time to time.

You are right about vocabulary. The book was more folksy, but Robert Reser nailed me on improper terminology. We try to put things into the terms the student is familiar with. Anyone who can run a backhoe, for instance, can learn to hover a helicopter in about twenty minutes. Rub your tummy, pat your head. The same with running a combine and crop dusting. We get on the net, however, and we want to sound professional.

My big problem, when I still did non ag students, was that I didn't understand the language, or lack thereof, of young people. I decided that my mission was to teach young instructors good stuff, and let them translate.

You guys be careful out there. Some of them boys down there look pretty rag tag. Some are pretty good shots, however. My low bird, loach, scout killed a guy who shot at him with a single shot Mauser. And hit him.

Teles are the tits.

[youtube]https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=0tvaUAPIinY[/youtube]

Just paste the last part of the URL:
[youtub]0tvaUAPIinY[/youtub]