Miss Stress

I was stressing! How could I channel the poet J. Magee and "slip the surly bonds of earth," to dance "the skies on laughter-silvered wings" when my childhood aviator ambitions had crashed along with a faulty cardboard winged flight off the garden shed roof? I was definitely going to need a pilot. 

With over 25,000 flying hours and a "day job" piloting 777’s, Ross had earned his wings with an encyclopedic Air Force career flying airplanes just like this one. His passion to spiral in the vast freedom of the heavens, inspired a real appreciation for the machine that was going to take us there - his T-28 Trojan, Miss Stress.

 

Ross's intimate knowledge of every pin and every piston instilled confidence and soothed my nerves during his pre-flight brief in the operations room.

The word Trojan is synonymous with courage but I began to question the mettle of my moxie while I gripped Ross's arm as he explained we would be pulling two and half g’s in a 1954 war plane, the same vintage as himself. Climbing up into the cockpit, I admired the nose art painting of his flaxen floozie, reclining on her Caloundra cloud. Miss Stress had asserted her dominance over Ross's other aircraft (a Wirraway, left back in the hanger) and claimed the day as hers.

After completing all the preflight checks, Ross coaxed the nine radial cylinders of the Wright R-1820 engine into life and I began vibrating with the pulsing throb of the propellor.  As the smoky burn of oil curled into my nostrils, I sensed the power coiled behind the throttle.  The North American Aviation T-28 was produced as a basic trainer for the U.S. Airforce and Navy. It has over 1,425 horsepower, a top speed of 345mph (555kph) and a 37,000-foot (11,278-meter) ceiling.  Later versions of the T-28 were fitted with arrester hooks so they could land on aircraft carriers.

Another vintage warplane taxied past and I winged back in time, imagining all the young guns who had been trained for war in this plane -  young aviators, eager to spray ammunition in aerial dogfights.

Being in a trainer plane teaches you there is so much more to flying than flaps and wings. There were levers to mix the petrol, air brakes, an altitude gauge and of course the central control stick that sat between my legs begging for the caress of a novice palm. We taxied out to the runway which wasn't exactly the neatly edged tarmac variety and Ross slid the perspex canopy into place. Encapsulated in the bubble of viewing delight, I started to feel a tad warm in my olive green flight suit. Along with the snug fit of the harness, I had a momentary flash of claustrophobia before we sped towards takeoff.

Banking steeply, suddenly the beauty of this endless euphoric turquoise space rushed into my soul and the ultimate freedom of flight took its first bite into my addictive personality. 

Like a family of scattered mountain spirits, the Glass House peaks rose hard and gray from the emerald landscape. Draped in wisps of smoke from the back burning, I understood how they had reminded James Cook of the glass furnaces back home in Yorkshire, England, hence the name.

After being siphoned off to feed the thirsty houses on the canal, the wide ocean estuary snaked inland towards the mountains. How small their world appeared to me from my elevated perspective.  But, my lofty thoughts of topping "the wind-swept heights with easy grace" (J Magee) were soon over.

Bribie Island and the iridescent blue of the Coral Sea had flipped to where the sky should be. My stomach floated upward as my eyes raced to keep up with the topsy-turvy scenery of a precisely executed aileron roll. It did almost seem possible to touch "the face of God" (J Magee). Although I fervently hoped I wouldn't be meeting him in just a few inverted seconds.

The wings leveled out and the heavy flight helmet stopped pushing my neck into the collar of my flight suit like a turtle.

Was it nausea or was it a sudden wave of realization that I had been on plenty airplanes before but I hadn’t really been flying at all? I’d just been shuffling onto commercialized oversized tin cans with wings, more worried about securing overhead locker space than actually feeling the power of flight. There was no call button for another bread roll on this flight. Miss Stress had indeed become my mistress and she was demanding a physical price for every barrel roll, every wingover. Right there under that dome of perspex, I realized there was a whole other dimension to life that it had taken me 46 years to discover. I had spent all that time on earth living in a 2-dimensional plane.  This world was 3D and took me to the edge of everything, including my physical limits and I was very grateful Ross had kindly zipped a sick bag and handkerchief into the leg pocket of my jumpsuit. Yet, I was mortified that even the thought of barfing in his beautiful plane had entered my dizzy brain.

All too soon it was time to return to the chains of gravity and taxi back to where we had begun.  Ross slid the canopy back and the wind carried cool relief to my clammy brow.

With fading adrenalin, I sickly wondered how on earth I'd plucked up the Trojan courage to do this? Perhaps I'd been happy to hurtle into the sunlit adventure like Amelia Earhart in the belief that the "fun of it is worth the price."  Or perhaps a different mistress had seduced me. I would do well to remember that this beguiling iron-bellied beauty had trained men to deliver bombs, rockets and bullets. 

Wandering back through the museum, the ghosts of wars long forgotten swirled around with my nausea. I remembered the men like those in my family: Henry, Reuben and many other pilots past and I appreciated the windswept frontiers they had flown. Naturally I also thanked the present pilot for his friendship, the gift of flight and for my safe return to terra firma.

Oh and of course I had to remember to thank Greg for capturing those green moments in blue heaven!