Come Fly With Me
Hang On Sloopy, Hang On
By: Charles Giuliano - Apr 13, 2010
The e mail said in essence how about tomorrow there is something I want to show you. That was short notice so we settled on Monday at noon. It seemed so exotic. I had never before had anyone fly in for lunch.
Rushing through some work in the morning I drove off with time to spare. Perhaps he would arrive early, and I wanted to get some photographs of the flight.
It was my first visit to the North Adams airport which is visible down the road from the Stop and Shop. Though it had always aroused my curiosity, like a lot of things, years just rolled by. There is a sign promoting sight-seeing flights. Enticing, but one of those things you never get around to.
Arriving next to the fenced off air field I entered the wrong building. I was pointed down the road to another place. There were some guys hanging out and they asked if they could help me. I was excited and proud to state that I was awaiting a friend who was flying in. They asked where he was coming from. "Pittsfield" was my response. They looked at me kind of dumbfounded.
By then it was noon, and a guy said he hadn't heard anything on the radio. Settling in, I became absorbed in their chatter about charter flights and whether a certain commuter service should be grounded for violations of maintenance. That made me wonder about taking those flights. It was the kind of frank conversation most passengers are not privy to. I was a fly on the wall for their shop talk.
Time went by. It got to be quarter after. Calculating I wondered just when I should leave and where I might have lunch. Was there something wrong in the message? Perhaps this was not the right airport? Could there be another?
Then the squawk came over the radio. A plane was arriving. It was hard to recognize the voice.
Walking outside I looked up at the sky over the mountains. The small plane came closer, banked, turned, descended. I snapped away. It taxied ever closer. There was a wave from the cockpit. The canopy was pushed back and Jonas appeared.
The plane didn't seem a whole lot bigger than he was. It was small but sleek and stunning. I kept taking pictures and then, damn, the battery went dead.
As we got into my car and discussed options for lunch I asked what he had brought for me to see. It was a book of some 200 color photos of a project he has been working on in Afghanistan for several years. I have been following the progress for some time now. There was an earlier version of numerous black and white prints. That was for a larger and more general book. This was more focused on a specific unit. He had become embedded with The 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team. I was eager to see the book he had created on line. He made a small number of copies to take to Afghanistan this week. He will show it to the soldiers and they will get a better idea of what he is doing. There is more work to be done and he wants to present the book to potential publishers. It is easier for them to respond to the project in this form rather than presenting 200 or so prints or digital files. He sees the completed book as having 300 images. There are certain things he will be looking for over the next six weeks.
There is an interesting development as now anybody can self- publish. But it is expensive. The book he created costs $40 each with a slight discount for ten or more. While anyone can now produce a book, distributing and selling it is another matter. At such a costly unit price how can one charge enough to make a profit? On the other hand there is no excuse for an artist or photographer not to have a book. The trick is how to promote and sell them.
I was eager to see the book. Jonas apologized explaining that he had forgotten it and left it in the hangar back in Pittsfield. But the whole point of the meeting was to see and discuss the work. When I asked how long the flight took he told me just seven minutes. It had taken another twelve minutes to warm up the plane.
"Why don't we go get it" I suggested? Not quite realizing what I was getting into. "Sure" Jonas responded "Let's do that."
Approaching the small, two-seater I had qualms. Jonas assured me it is a superb plane and classic design. The only fatalities were due to pilot errors. Kind of like the argument that guns don't kill people. People kill people. It was very reassuring.
Jonas knows what he is doing so I just listened and followed his instructions. This was an exciting adventure and challenge. There was no way I would reveal the fear that rattled my bones. Good grief.
He asked if I had been in a small plane before. Well, actually, on Easter Sunday in the '60s, during the Mar y Sol rock festival in Puerto Rico, my friend Kenny Greenblatt and I escaped with a flight to Saint Thomas. It was a seven-seater as we flew low over the crystal clear green water of the Caribbean. That flight made me a bit nervous until the pilot reached under the seat and pulled out a bottle of rum. He handed it to us with the comment "Compliments of the airline."
No such luck this time. Although there was a small sign on the instrument board that said "If you want to smoke please step outside." It is typical of Jonas's dark humor.
There was the challenge of actually boarding the plane and scrunching down into the seat. There was a tiller between my legs.but Jonas called it a stick. Jonas helped to get me properly strapped in. We are both big guys so I tried to make myself as compact as possible. I kept reminding myself it was only seven minutes. Arguably, the longest and most exciting seven minutes of my life.
It seems that Jonas made, or assembled his plane in 1991. He has flown it coast to coast a couple of times. There are some great stories about those adventures on his web site. From time to time I have asked him to let me publish them. He is a wonderfully colorful writer and a terrific story teller. Link to Jonas stories.
Up in the air, Jonas was in his element. It was truly glorious as he pointed out details of the landscape as we flew low over Williamstown.
Reaching behind him Jonas grabbed his camera. Taking his hand off the stick he thrust it in front of himself and took some pictures of us together. The plane dipped and veered. I urged him to take control. He assured me it was not a problem and asked if I would like to fly? Not this time. God is my copilot.
We bounced about churning on. I was holding on for dear life. In my mind composing an obituary and eulogies from what is left of my friends.
Jonas related the details of the fatal mistake that resulted in the wreck of the plane that recently killed 95 people including the President of Poland and his family. While bouncing about in a fragile little plane it is not fun to discuss plane crashes. Again, it is a part of the dark side of Jonas. But I was so grateful to share this experience with a friend. To know him in a way that no conversation could ever reveal. Ain't nothing like the real thing baby.
Flying over a ridge of mountains he pointed with disdain at a row of windmills. It is one of his favorite topics. Given the magnificent beauty of the Berkshires below us for once I got his point. We had gone back and forth by e mail on that topic. Usually, I am his liberal whipping post as he pummels me with political views. Mostly I try to hold my ground but Jonas can be a ferocious debater. With one look from high above, on a truly glorious day, he made his point as words never could.
He extolled the beauty of the Berkshires stating it takes about an hour to loop around the county. Now and then a dip and bump disrupted the reverie.
"Are you OK" he asked. "Do you need a barf bag? Don't worry about it. This is nothing, not even mild turbulence. The wings won't come off."
That made me feel better I guess. "How much farther is it" I asked trying not to reveal the panic in my voice? "About four minutes" he said pointing ahead. We banked left over a mountain and then leveled off. "I think it's over there" he said. What?
We seemed to slow down. To me it was like we stopped. An amber warning light came on. "Why are we stopping" I asked? Jonas pointed to an instrument that indicated that we were flying about 100 mph. It seemed like standing still. He explained that it was a warning light to put down the landing gear. "A green light will come on" he said. There was a great feeling of relief when it did.
On the radio he informed the airport of our approach. We landed smoothly. "I need some gas" he said pointing to the gauge which was on red. "We have enough fuel for an hour but I'll get some." Good idea.
Leaving me strapped in Jonas went and got the book. We took off again. Somehow it seemed easier. I knew the route, time and what to expect. Looking down we followed Route 7 into Williamstown.
If there is an airport in Pittsfield why is there one in North Adams?
"That's what I love about America" he said. "There are so many airports all over the country. There are more airports in Massachusetts than in all of France. That's the difference between Europe and America. In France you have to file a flight plan, pay for a weather report, pay to take off, pay to land."
There was none of that in our little jaunt from North Adams to Pittsfield and back again. Free as a bird. It seemed so grounded, ordinary and mundane as we drove off to lunch.
Next time lunch on Nantucket. And I'll probably use that barf bag.