"Patrick the Aviator"

This is a short article I wrote back in the mid 1990's about one of the many great characters encountered by me and "Ole Yeller" in our years of gypsie flying. It was published in several local aviation newsletters at the time, which I took as a huge compliment, as THOSE are the types of pilots I relate to the most.

I DID touch it up a bit to match the way I write now...not nearly as much worried about proper sentence-structure and such....with apologies to Mrs. Pratt, my High School English Teacher...

_____________________________"Patrick The Aviator"_____________________________

His name was Patrick, and he wanted a ride in my airplane. He didn't hem-haw around about it...but told me point-blank that, as soon I was ready, he'd be happy to climb into the front cockpit of my homebuilt Pietenpol and get going. He didn't look directly at me while he told me this, but it wasn't because of shyness...his eyes were just too busy surveying every inch of the yellow aircraft tied down in the grass next to my tent.

He had strong opinions about it's construction and the techniques involved in piloting it...a veteran in the world of old-style flying machines. He knew what he liked, and said so...even pointing out a couple of areas where I might make some improvement.

Patrick loved to fly. Patrick was five years old.

I had met him last year and not knowing his name, had nick-named him "The Radio Announcer". His voice, while not particularly loud, was very strong, and rather deep for such a young person. He pronounced his words clearly, and could get in what seemed to be about a dozen sentences in one breath. He'd wanted a ride back then, and I was hard-pressed to give him one...he was too large for me to strap him in with someone else, but too small to see over the cockpit sides without some effort. His young age intimidated me also. Kids that age can change their minds in the blink of an eye, and I didn't want a terrified youngster grabbing things in the front cockpit.

He was, however, so determined to get a ride that, with his Dad's enthusiastic permission, I finally piled some cushions in the front seat, and belted him down. He still sat low enough so as not need goggles, and had brought along his own set of plastic-cup ear muffs. Using his hands to augment their clamping action around his ears, he appeared to be braced and ready for a nearby nuclear explosion.



He waited patiently as I got Piet's engine cranked up and strapped myself in behind him. I decided to taxi around for a while, just to get a feel for the situation and see how he'd react...not wanting any airborne surprises. His father had entirely entrusted me with the life of his young son, and this point was not lost upon me. Patrick was completely casual about all the driving around, rocking with the airplane as we gently rolled over the few bumps on the grass taxiway.

Finally, I decided to give it a try, and Patrick and I turned out, onto the Brodhead's long grass runway. My plane happily jumped from the ground with it's light load, and we climbed to circle with the other Piets in the Pattern. The future aviator twisted from side-to-side in the front seat, watching the other planes, surveying the ground, and holding tight to his ear muffs.

Because of the number of flights I give at these get-togethers, I usually just make a lap out a ways from the airport, re-enter the pattern, and land to pick up another rider. On this flight though, we wandered out a ways, around Brodhead and the fields beyond. Patrick was obviously absorbing and storing information the whole time, and after a while, we returned to join the slow-motion whirlwind of Piets over the airport.

As we taxied back to our parking spot, Patrick critiqued the flight, and my performance appeared to have been adequate. Still pressing the plastic cups against his ears, he turned to talk over his shoulder...his words muffled by the prop and engine, and also by the fact that only his eyes were visible over the Piet's turtle deck. He continued his review of the flight as we unbuckled him, and then started from the beginning so his dad wouldn't miss any details.

"The Radio Announcer" interrupted his story just long enough to thank me, then walked away with his father, again restarting his story and still clutching his cherished ear muffs.

Our flight this year was a replay...just two old hands...cruising the pattern around a country airport. Early one morning, he stopped by with a young comrade, apparently to prove to the disbeliever that he was indeed an experienced flyer and valued aviation consultant. I sleepily confirmed his credentials over my cup of hot coffee, and with his friend properly awed, Patrick resumed his lecture on the basics of aerodynamics.

For the benefit of those who strive for excellence in their flying, I've listed some of the bits of knowledge related to me by this self-taught, aeronautical engineer:

Pointing at the aileron..."You can't start flying, 'till the wings start to flap."
Explaining a Piet's aborted take-off run..."He didn't go 'cause the wings didn't flap."
"This (motioning to the elevator) is what goes up and down."
"You got to start this by turning the capeller"

As usual, our Reunion was over in what seemed like the blink of an eye...three days of visiting with friends, sunset trips around the pattern, and afternoon naps in the shade of the Piet's wing. All of it was gone now, except for moments saved on some exposed film, video tape, and scribbles in a notebook. Patrick had long since departed for home by the time I pointed Piet's nose south, lifting it's wheels from the grass runway one last time.

A lot of folks have ridden with me in my little plane. I've carried young pilots, old pilots, fighter pilots and people whose log books measured their flight time more like months in a calendar rather than hours in a cockpit. But no one will ever sit in the front seat of my plane and appreciate it more than that miniature flyer.

Kim Stricker
September 1995