Burlington to Portsmouth

 Training, Mentors, Practice, Proficiency, Planning, Maintenance and Vigilance.
-- Father's rules for becoming and remaining a good pilot.

 Dad got everything squared away with the scareplane and came back to the hotel in time to take me to dinner.  He was in excellent spirits, saying the plane flew like new.  He'd not only swapped out the carburetors but had a general tune-up done to the engines, new spark plugs and whatnot, and also had the whole plane washed and waxed.  He'd also gotten an offer to buy it from a bystander who said he'd pay $500,000.  Dad said not for sale at any price.  We chowed down at the Farmhouse Tap & Grill on Bank St., eating on the patio.  I had fish and chips.  It was really good.  But then I was hungry, relieved of the worry that the stupid airplane would  need some dumb part that was back-ordered for months or something. 

Dad had a burger with fries and onion rings and a Star Wayfinder beer, a Czech-style pilsner locally brewed, that he liked so much he ordered another.  He couldn't finish all his onion rings so I scored them.  Dee-lish. Onion rings! Onion rings! Eat 'em up! Yum! (Sing that to the tune of Barnes & Barnes' "Fish Heads." Heh.)

While we ate, dad talked about the need to update the cockpit of the Beech. Most of the instrumentation was original and even the radios, though updated, were pretty long in tooth.  If we were going to be doing a lot of long-distance flying we needed to get some top-quality avionics in the cockpit.  I thought who is this "we" you are talking about?  It sure don't include me. I've had my adventure and desire none more. But I just smiled and nodded.  He also talked about teaching my boys to fly, first in a J3 we had, the same one he had been taught to fly in by his father, my grandfather, then graduating them to a Cherokee, maybe get them some time in the Steerman, the old N2S I had seen in the ranch hanger but never noticed anyone fly, then get them into the Beech 18.  I was okay with all of that, though I wondered if, by the time they were old enough, the government would not have banned private aviation.

Dad also said that before heading for home he wanted to take a short hop somewhere to make sure everything was functioning properly and get it straightened out if it was not.  He asked me if I had any preferences. I thought for a minute and said why not let's go down to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, flying into Pease, now a civilian airport with good facilities. That would only be about an hour's flight.  Dad thought that was a great idea, especially as he knew a guy he had flown with in the service who had retired to Hampton, NH, lived in an ancient farmhouse with attached barn out towards Exeter, and maybe he could touch bases with him.

We walked over to the waterfront before heading back to the hotel, dad wanting to see it and stroll around a bit.  I would have avoided it, were it up to me, but I guess it did me good to make new memories of the place, listening to my dad reminisce about walking with my mom in San Francisco when they were dating, eating at Salmagundi's an inexpensive soup and salad cafeteria-style restaurant on, he wasn't sure, maybe Geary St., that played classical music softly in the background and gave you a free soup refill, then taking the cable car to Hyde St. Pier and walking from there along the waterfront over the hill to Ft. Mason, Marina Green, the yacht harbor, detouring over to the Palace of Fine Arts, then Crissy Field, Ft. Point, sitting there enjoying the view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, then cold, tired and happy, taking a trolley bus -- he thought it was the No. 34 -- back, sitting together, not talking, content with each other's company, looking out the window at the shops and houses, cars and people, all the lights coming on as evening fell.

He sighed.  He was afraid to visit San Francisco again, dismayed and uncomprehending what it had become. He wondered if the concrete bench above the Ft. Mason piers was still there, halfway down the steps from the road passing above.  He and mom had spent many hours there, just sitting together.  He said it was the same bench that his father and my grandmother had sat on when they were young.  I knew that bench. I had sat there, too. Was it still there?  If it wasn't, I didn't want to know.  At one point, dad stopped, looking out over the lake but I think not seeing it but seeing San Francisco Bay, and said to me, "Our country's gone, isn't it?  We're still here but our country is gone."

We were at the airport the next morning before dawn, both of us eager to get going.  The starting ritual to get the old bird fired up (the Beech, not my dad), was to pull the props through several turns on each engine to be sure there was no hydraulic lock.  If there was, we'd pull off the cowling and unscrew spark plugs until we got a gusher of oil, pull the prop through a couple of times to get it all out, replace the plugs and cowling and pour the oil we'd caught in a pan (well, most of it) back in the engine. We clamber into the cockpit and go through the starting ritual: cycle the props, verify feathering actuation, oil by-pass in, fuel selectors front, cross-feed off, mixture full rich, open the cowl flaps, close the oil shutters, select the fire extinguisher for the engine we're starting first, by habit the left one.  Then crack the throttle open slightly, shout “clear” out the window and energize the starter. Vreeeee! Slowly the big two-bladed propeller begins to revolve and after it completes two complete rotations turn on both magnetos. There's a cough or two and some gasps and barks as a couple of cylinders fire. If you've opened the throttle a tad too much, you may get a backfire. A few more cylinders fire and the engine begins to stutter and growl. Smoke streams back from the exhaust in an oily cloud and then the remaining cylinders burst into life, turning the propeller blades into a shimmering disk as the engine  settles into a steady rumble.  Then repeat the process for the right engine.

We let the engines idle while we do other piloty things. When the oil temperature reaches 20 degrees C and the cylinder head temperatures rise above 100 degrees C we throttle up to 800 rpm and taxi to the runway, mag checks, trim tabs set to neutral, cowl flaps set to trail, flaps 15 degrees, lock the tail wheel once we're lined up, throttle to 36 inches and props to 2300 rpm, leading with the left engine to keep her straight, and away we go, 80 knots, rotate, gear up, flaps up, cowl flaps closed,  adjust trim, at 500 feet reduce power and props to 33 inches and 2200 rpm, at 1,000 feet reduce again and climb out at 28 inches and 2000 rpm, 110 knots, 1400 fpm, turning on to our southeast heading. At cruising altitude mixture manual lean, throttles and props to 27 inches and 1800 rpm.

I left-seated for the take-off, dad monitoring the gauges and listening to the engines intently, then once we were at cruising altitude we switched seats and he took over as PIC and wrung the engines out, climbing, descending, pushing cruise up to 90gph burn, which saw us really boring a hole in the sky, then dropping it down to Lindbergh max range speed.  Everything checked out, the plane performing like Jack the Bear, as dad said. I knew who Smokey the Bear was but  I didn't ask who Jack the Bear was. 

I took the left seat for the landing at Pease. I really wanted to do that, considering all that I had thought about my grandfather flying B-47s out of there in the 1950s, as I've written.  It had surprised me to learn there was only one runway, but what a runway --11,300 feet long and 150 feet wide, elevation above sea level just 100 feet.  Wind was 140 degrees at five knots and I set the mighty Beech down on Runway 16 like a feather and paced it so that as we slowed to taxi speed I was just at the first turn-off and taxied to the ramp, opening the window, as did my dad on his side, to get some air because it was a most warm morning.

I tried to imagine what it would have been like to howl down on that runway at 200 knots, drogue deployed to slow you down, in the hottest airplane in the sky after a 10-hour mission to taunt the Soviets into launching interceptors after you, then out-running them and skedaddling home.  But I really couldn't.

I supervised refueling while dad went to arrange meeting his friend and rented cars for both of us. I was pleased he trusted me to do this, but, you know, it really was not a big deal, just make sure they put blue gas in her and top off the oil with the right grade.  I then taxied to the tie-down area, got everything secured and went to meet pop.  He had reserved a hotel for us to stay at since he wanted to visit with his friend whom he had arranged to meet.  He'd also set up a dinner with my cousin, whom he had visited with on the way to Britain and who was, dad said, looking forward to meeting me.  So, handing me the keys to my rental, he bid me a fond farewell, saying he would see me for dinner. Au revoir mon paternel!  

Hmm.  Now what to do?

My grandfather's B-47E at Pease. Photo by him.

 First, I wanted to look around Pease a little bit and absorb the fact that I was actually here, where my grandfather had flown B-47s during the height of the Cold War.  It was hard for me to believe I was actually here, that Pease AFB actually was a real place, not just something conjured in the mind from old letters, documents and photos.  Here it was. Or what was left of it, Mostly the runway, which is the heart of any air base anyway.  And here I was.  I had actually flown in as PIC of a pretty good-sized airplane myself, one that my grandfather would have been familiar with, perhaps even flown the C-45 Air Force version.  I tried to remember all I could about him, which wasn't much. I never had a chance to see him very often, as I've written, and each time only briefly.  He seemed like a contented and cheerful man, easy going and friendly,  not like my other grandfather, with whom I spent much more time. He was rather stern, never talked much and kind of scared me.

Harl Pease in high school 

Pease Air Force Base was named for Harl Pease who won the Medal of Honor piloting a B-17D, which he had flown from the states to the Philippines in an epic, ground-breaking trans-Pacific flight, as part of a squadron reinforcing the islands in anticipation of war with Japan.  Many of these planes were destroyed in the Japanese attack when it came, but not Pease's. He flew it on attacks against the Japanese invaders, then, when all was lost, he flew it to Australia, from where he bombed Japanese forces at Lae in New Guinea and Singapore.  He led a force of half-a-dozen war-weary B-17s

B-17Ds at Hickam Field, Hawaii, on their way to Clark Field,  PI.

from Townsend, Australia via Seven Mile Strip in New Guinea  to attack the Japanese stronghold at Rabaul in the Solomon Islands in support of the Marine landings on Guadalcanal, August 7, 1942.  On the way, his plane lost an engine, but instead of turning back, he continued on, trailing behind the other bombers.  Over Rabaul, his plane was pounced on by the defending Zeros of the Tainan Kokutai and was shot down and he was captured by the Japanese.  On October 8, 1942, he was forced to dig his own grave, then beheaded. As I've written, my grandfather fought against the Tainan Kokutai.  He would certainly have known very well who Harl Pease was.  Maybe their paths had crossed.

When I was digging around through boxes and suitcases full of old family memorabilia -- okay, junk -- I came across some photos of my grandfather's family life in New Hampshire, their pet cocker spaniel, their new 1956 Ford Crown Victoria, their kids dressed up in their finest for Easter, Christmas morning present-opening and so forth.  One photo I noticed was of a statue being unveiled at Hampton Beach, a woman holding a wreath as I recalled it that somehow I thought was a memorial to fishermen lost at sea. Anyway, since I was here, I thought I'd drive down and take a look at it.  While looking up how to get to where it was, I learned it represents a Gold Star mother mourning her lost child, and was actually a  memorial to sailors lost at sea during World War II who had no burial service or other remembrance. It was originally intended to be placed in Washington, D.C., but, for some reason, it was not allowed, so it came to New Hampshire, the man who initiated the project being a New Hampshire native and it was the loss of his son at sea in May, 1945, that prompted him to get the project started.  I'd seen the snapshot of my grandfather's family at the unveiling on Memorial Day (then always the 30th), 1957, so I felt both a desire and an obligation to go see the statue.  It was still there, a relic of the old America that had a sense of itself as a people and a nation, aware of and proud of its history, eager to memorialize it for future generations whom, it was naturally assumed, would spring from those who came before and who had roots in our country, their native land.

I walked the beach, full of vacationers from points south.  I listened to their talk.  It sounded alien to me, a westerner, used to the accents of California, career military (a kind of generic, mild southern accent) and the inter-mountain west.  I suppose a lot of the vacationers came from the Boston or New York City areas where lots of ethnic whites reside. In any case, I felt a stranger among them. I listened for the famous Yankee accent I had read so much about in old books and heard in old movies and radio plays but I never discovered it.

I drove back up to Portsmouth and walked around.  It was a lovely small city that charmed me. I took a boat ride along the harbor and the Piscataqua river and back into what was called the Great Bay.  It was all so different from where I lived or had lived in the States that I felt like I was not in America but in a foreign country -- not quite as foreign as England, more like the foreignness of Canada.  I guess that's to be expected in a land as large as ours.  But it did make me feel homesick and eager to get going.

While I was on the boat, I heard a familiar sound, the unmistakable rumble of big radial engines in the sky.  Looking up I saw a twin Beech and for a split second thought, huh, somebody has one here, too.  Then I realized it was ours and for another panicked split second I thought dad had taken off without me and was heading home alone.  Hey!  Dad!  Then I realized that, of course, he and his pal had taken the Beech up for a spin.  I waved and a man standing next to me waved, too, remarking, "Pretty airplane."  I agreed and almost said that was my dad up there and it was our airplane (well, his), but I didn't.  

The ice broken, we chatted a bit.  His wife was sitting in the stern with their kids, they had driven down from Concord to enjoy the sea breezes and eat some fresh-caught lobster.  I wondered if there was a lobster season and he said he didn't know.  He asked where I was from as I didn't sound like a local.  He guessed Tennessee and I said not even close.  I've never even been to Tennessee.  So where, he asked and I said California, which was true enough for conversational purposes, not wanting to get into an explanation of where a service brat is from -- nowhere, really.  And my new home on the range didn't yet quite feel like a place I truly belonged.  I hoped it would someday.  So California it was.  I could talk about Cali with familiarity.  He wanted to know what I thought about Newsom and one political thing or the other but I just uttered a few platitudes which was fine with him because he didn't really want to hear my opinion but tell me his.  I didn't want to listen to any political crap -- I hate politics -- and I wanted to enjoy the experience of being in this place where I was and savor it. I didn't pay for a boat ride so I could listen to some stranger's rant, so I pulled out my cell phone, excusing myself that I just got a call I had to take and moved away, praying he wouldn't follow me.  He didn't.

After the boat ride, although I wanted to do and see more -- Portsmouth had really captivated me with all its waterways, bridges and lovely old buildings -- I was tired and wanted to clean up so I went looking for our hotel. Dad had taken our luggage with him and checked into our digs, the Hotel Portsmouth right downtown on Court St.  We each had separate rooms and when I got there I found that the staff had put my bags in my room already.  The hotel was in a Victorian-era building with lots of wonderful wood work.  I cleaned up  and sat down to think what to do next.  I felt tired so I flopped down on the bed and dozed off.  My phone woke me.  It was my dad letting me know that we had dinner reservations at the Martingale Wharf restaurant on Bow St.  He and his friend and that cousin I had never met would meet me there.  I told him I had seen him flying over the harbor while I was taking a boat ride and he said if he had known I was on that garbage scow he would have buzzed me.

Looking at the time, I gave myself a half hour to do some souvenir shopping. So I headed out to Market Square, which the hotel staff told me was the best place to shop and nearby. I was mainly looking for something for my kids and mom but a square-neck, shirred-waist, ruffled-hem dress caught my eye and I immediately fell in love with it. It was like this dress on the left but the one I picked out after trying on several was a dark forest green. I knew el jefe would love me in it and I just had to have it.  I bought some matching bow-front cone heels to go with it and a tote bag.  By this time almost an hour had passed and I had to rush back to the hotel and change before heading to the restaurant. I had intended to wear my Vermont sundress and flats, which was more modest, but holding up my new dress and admiring it in the mirror I thought, oh, why not?  So I took a quick shower and as I dressed thought I should have bought some perfume and then said to myself you're not going out on a date, you dope, but somehow I felt I was and that I was getting ready to go have dinner with el jefe.  Isn't that stupid? I imagined dinner, then going to a show, maybe dancing, a nightcap, then back to the hotel and.... It's what I really wanted rather than chowing down with pop and a couple of strangers, making small talk -- how's your steak tartar?  A little underdone is it?

I thought about driving over but then figured either I would get lost or not be able to find a parking spot, so I shoved my heels in the tote back, put on my sneaks and set forth at a brisk trot for the waterfront after getting directions from the friendly hotel staff.  The desk clerk complimented me on my dress and the bell hop said, "Looking good!"  I was embarrassed to be wearing sneaks so I pulled out my heels to show them I had some fashion sense.  They asked me to try them on and I did, doing a little pirouette and curtsy, then thought, crap, I'm so late and I'm doing this, put my sneaks back on and darted into the evening.

I found the restaurant with no trouble and paused to put on my heels before going in. I freshened up in the little girl's room then asked the hostess if she had a party of three, two old geezers who probably called her honey or sweetie and a younger guy. She made a wry face and steered me towards the bar.  Hoo boy, I though, if those jaybirds have been knocking back the happy juice all this time....  My thought was interrupted by my dad, having spotted me, calling out, "Well,  look at that, the Queen of Sheba has arrived!" and the old coot next to him, who I assumed was his navy buddy, said, "Holy bazoombas! Honk! Honk!"  The other guy looked me over, smiled, and said, staring at my boobs, "Hey!" slurring the word a bit.  I thought, oh, great, just great.  I should have worn a burka.  But I had to admit that I had put the girls on display, so to speak, so what did I expect from a bunch of drunks?

The hostess, giving me a sympathetic glance, led us out to our outdoor table on the terrace overlooking the harbor.  There was an argument over who would sit next to me.  I thought about asking our waitress to seat me at a separate table.  But I said, "Dad, sit next to me!" in my naval officer command voice.  And he did so.  The others sat down, too, looking contrite. The dinner was okay.  I had baked halibut and I don't remember what the others had. I was famished and realized I hadn't eaten anything since we left Burlington. I had been feeling cranky but with some grub in my gut I mellowed and got the conversation, which had dried up, going again, asking my cousin, the younger man, about his family and the area, and bantering with dad's friend.  I could see that relieved and pleased pop and I wanted to make up for being so late so I let the conversation get a little risque.  When his friend, loosened up with another whiskey sour, told a raunchy farmer's daughter joke involving a mistaken milking episode and I offered an amused chuckle my dad patted me on the shoulder. He was saying thank you for indulging my crude, lewd old buddy.  Earlier, dad had told me that the guy had saved his life over North Viet Nam and my dad had saved his, so they were sort of like blood brothers.  So him ogling my cleavage and telling bawdy stories and me smiling was, I guess, my way of thanking him for keeping dad alive.

The time passed, neither my dad nor my cousin drank anything more, their conversation was normal and interesting, the view of the harbor lights and boats passing by was pleasant, and soon the restaurant was closing and we were shooed out.  We stood in the cool night, a hint of sea fog in the air, aromatic with salt and seaweed, still chatting. Dad's friend suggested we go to this great bar he knew nearby, the Thirsty Moose or something. Dad hesitated and looked at me.  If we went to a bar at this hour we were definitely not flying anywhere tomorrow. I wouldn't mind spending another day in Portsmouth.  But then I also wanted to get this trip over with.  I also worried how much more obnoxious dad's friend might get with more drinks in him.  I was getting a little tired of laughing at oafish jokes.  But I said, "It's up to you, dad.  Whatever you want to do."

 To be continued