I Almost Died During A Job Interview
An oh-shit moment with a vintage airplane
The Summer of 1981 was one to remember for many reasons, but for this story, we will stick to one.
I had just returned to Florida from Alaska to establish residence in my birth state. After leaving in 1975 to enlist in the USAF and being stationed in Texas, Florida, and Alaska, I returned home to be with my then-wife of three years.
My tenure in Alaska earned me pilot wings and bush pilot experience. The prodigal son returned home with a whole lot of bravado and machismo.
Since I had different qualifications as a commercial pilot, I checked out numerous job opportunities. One was an instructor pilot, which I was. The other was a crop duster, which I wasn’t. I chose the latter.
Now, those that know a little about my aviation experience would say, “Whoa, you don’t have any crop dusting time.” You would be correct. But when you are full of vim and vigor and believe you are a legend in your own mind, what’s a minor detail like that?
The day of the “interview” began like this. I had heard from a friend of a friend that a certain crop dusting business was looking for a pilot. Cool. Who do I call?
On the phone with the potential new employer, he asked me a series of questions. “How many hours do you have?” “What crop dusting experience do you have?” “Where was your crop dusting gig?”
Looking to be gainfully employed and unafraid of a new challenge, along with the aforementioned chest-thumping, I fabricated a couple of falsehoods to the last two questions.
My confident air of bullshittery must have sold him on me, so this is what he told me next. “Hey, the airplane is at the local airstrip; the keys are in the so and so; take it up and tell me what you think.”
Ok, crunch time. Now, I’ve stepped into it. What are you going to do now, hot-shit Alaska bush-pilot/crop duster ego-tripping, is this the day I die, wannabe something I haven’t yet done, dude?
As I was driving over to the local single runway, grass “airport,” there was an argument between my head and my ass. You can imagine what both were saying, and they weren't the same thing.
As I pulled up next to the bird (airplane for you non-flyers), I parked and looked over at her. Wow! A Stearman. A Bi-plane. With a Radial engine. An open cockpit. Damn, I forgot my scarf and leather Snoopy hat. I was in lust!
So, I found the keys. I performed a walk-around and visual inspection. Then I climbed in. I sat down in the seat and looked around. Hey, it’s got all of the things I’m used to seeing in airplanes.
Stick, rudder pedals, gauges, throttle, switches, flap lever, windscreen, “Hey, I can do this.”
Now here is where the story becomes a bit dramatic. I’ve never flown an airplane with a radial engine. They are different, quite so.
Most of us are familiar with jet engines or turboprops (jet engines with props) or piston engines similar to your car (but air-cooled, not liquid).
Radial engines, without getting into the weeds about how they work, are unique animals.
Picture multiple jugs or cylinders arranged in a vertical circle with the propeller in the middle.
When you start them, each of those cylinders fires in a staged, timed fashion until all are firing together, and the prop is now turning.
To me, it’s a work of art with a unique sound to match. You will hear one if you watch the video above. I think it's cool to listen to.
After firing up the engine and letting it idle until all the gauges read normal, I taxied the airplane to the take-off end of the grass strip.
Because it was a tail-dragger, and I had flown that type of airplane before, all of the controls felt natural.
When I turned around and stopped at the end of the runway, I applied full throttle, held the brakes until max power was reached, and released the brakes. The airplane lifted off within a few hundred feet.
What a rush to be in the air, flying over the countryside in an open cockpit airplane. It was exhilarating.
That big engine on the nose of the plane was humming right along. As a pilot, all was good as I slipped the surly bonds. And no sign of the Red Baron.
After flying around the area for probably 30 minutes or so, feeling out the airplane, I turned and headed back to the airstrip.
Little did I know that trouble would soon join me.
Radial design engines have a characteristic that other engines don’t. Since I had not flown one, that unique operational feature would introduce itself shortly.
As a flew parallel to the runway looking at the airfield to make sure there was no other traffic, I slowly pulled the throttle back to slow the bird down.
I turned left to set up for my landing approach and retarded the throttle more. I also saw some trees at the approach end that I would have to navigate over.
Just as I lined up for the runway, and with the engine winding down, I realized that throttle setting, distance from the runway, and how quickly the ground was coming up to say hello, that I had misjudged all.
I immediately applied full power, and that’s when a giant “oh-shit” flew out of my mouth. Radial engines take a while to come back up to speed, and this airplane was now falling faster than I had anticipated.
At this point, I’m sure my ass was becoming one with the seat cushion. A mental flash occurred simultaneously; you are going to die, my friend.
I still had a stand of trees to clear before reaching the end of the runway, and they were now looming larger in my front view.
I guess it's time to make amends with my maker because things are not looking in my favor. And 26 is too young to be passing on.
Just before the previously mentioned trees filled up my view through the windscreen, the engine began slowly coming to life.
To say that this cowboy was not on the edge of his now half eaten by ass seat would be an understatement.
With trees ahead and power now returning agonizingly slow, I received just enough thrust to brush those leafy tree tops and settle in for a landing.
You can imagine my relief when wheels and terra firma became one. I again pulled the throttle back, finished my rollout and did a 180, and taxied back to parking.
I switched everything off and sat there for a few minutes, sharing many “Thank thee, God, for saving my foolish ass” prayers.
Though I survived and could have signed up for a new career as a crop duster that day, I thought maybe I had pushed my odds too far and should think about sticking to what I knew instead of pretending to do something I couldn’t.
Lesson reinforced that day, “There are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old bold pilots.” National Postal Museum
Thanks for reading.
If you want unlimited access to this story and many others like it, use this link to sign up for a premium membership: https://medium.com/@rhammond2448/membership
For just $5 per month, you will have unlimited access to Medium
