November 2005- Let me say up front that this isn’t one of those broken-heart stories that country singers like to warble about. Nothing like that. The breakup between me and my J-3 Cub was amicable in almost every respect, with a few exceptions.
But first, you need to know about the Cub. This wasn’t your humble, garden variety, plain yellow J-3 Cub. It was a vain, short-winged, tail-wagging, attention-demanding little animal with chubby wheel pants, a hundred-horse Continental engine and a bright yellow interior to match its yellow-white-black sunburst paint scheme. Nothing humble about this Cub.
Our relationship started back in the 1980s. That was when my teenage son decided he wanted to learn to fly, and so, coincidentally, did my girlfriend. After a search, we located this clipped-wing Cub, and for the next couple of years it performed its mission with aplomb.
Time went by. The son graduated and went on to greater things, and so did the girlfriend. I went through one of those phases when I decided to get rid of all the stuff I no longer needed. That was the first time I sold the Cub.
It took me a couple of years to recover from that particular madness, and one day, in a fit of nostalgia, I tracked the Cub down by telephone and bought it back unseen. When I picked it up, I was appalled. The Cub was a mess—hangar rash, faded paint, soft compression, faded fabric that suggested it had been left outside.
It took a year and something north of $20,000 to return the old airplane to its former glory. More years slipped by. The Cub got used to being pampered, like an overfed housecat. I attended to its every little complaint (after all, we were about the same age).
With no real mission, the Cub just wanted to play. Hey, Boss, want to do some loops and rolls? Want to go practice your showoff one-wheel landings? How about cruising down the beach and look for dolphins? Okay, I would usually say.
Much of this time was logged in the half hour or so before dark, my decompression time. Sometimes we’d just go puttering a few hundred feet over the darkening landscape, contemplating cows and crows and alligators. The Cub loved it, and so did I.
But these flights of fancy became more and more infrequent. I acquired other airplanes—a Pitts, and then a Siai-Marchetti. The Cub sat in the back of the hangar. We didn’t play together much anymore.
The notion had already flitted through my mind that I should sell the Cub. I had been thinking about another biplane, a Pitts or maybe a Bücker. And large as my hangar was, it wasn’t large enough to accommodate a third airplane. Nor was my wallet.
Something had to go. It was then that I began to get this distinct feeling, more like a subliminal whisper. I got it whenever I went to the hangar, and I soon figured out where it was coming from. The Cub. It was just sitting there, sulking. Laying a guilt trip on me.
Mind you, I’ve never been one of those metaphysical types, in the style of Richard Bach, who confers sensate qualities on inanimate objects like airplanes. No mysticism for me. But there it was. I could feel it. I ignored the whispers.
Life goes on, and the Cub was going on the block. After several false attempts, I forced myself to advertise it for sale. The inquiries came in.
I have to admit that I wasn’t especially cordial to all the callers. I was more like a father interviewing his daughter’s prospective husband. What are your intentions? What sort of hangar do you propose to keep the Cub in? Do you live in a Cub-friendly environment, which is to say, a place with real sod runways and zero requirement for radios?
After dismissing several unsuitables, I found the right buyers. They were a young couple in North Carolina, both student pilots. They loved taildraggers and seemed properly respectful of the Cub’s noble lineage. Best of all, they lived on a grass air park—Tusquittee Landing—in the Smoky Mountains. Piper Cub Valhalla.
Part of the deal—my stipulation—was that I deliver the Cub to its new home. This was to be sort of a sentimental journey, but in my secret heart I knew it gave me the chance to change my mind. At anytime before I reached the destination I could turn around and call it off.
The ferry flight—a journey of about 600 miles—was postponed three different times due to the semi-permanent thunderstorms that dwelled in upper Georgia in August. But finally the day came, clear and forecast to remain so until mid-afternoon.
Off we went, the Cub and I. The Cub was not its playful old self. At the first refueling stop in southern Georgia, it flatly refused to start again. This was maddening, because one of the Cub’s sweetest qualities was that it always started with one easy swing of the prop. Not today. The engine emitted not one cough, not a single chuff.
For 20 minutes a puzzled mechanic and I analyzed the problem. Was the engine flooded? Too dry? A bad magneto? Fouled plugs? We tried everything. Nothing worked. The sun rose higher, the temperature soared, and so did my temper. We kept trying. We flooded it. We unflooded it.
By now I had a good idea of what was really going on, but I knew better than to share it with the mechanic. The Cub was making a statement. This went on for a while longer. And then, having made its statement, the Cub abruptly started. No chuffs, pops, or coughs. It just purred like a healthy animal.
What are we waiting for, Boss? Let’s go. A while later, we were in cool air over central Georgia—and well behind schedule. I was staring at the gathering cumuli to the north when I heard a noise.
At first it was just an inflection, like a guitar string out of tune. Then it grew louder, more discordant, a clattering, tinny noise. There were no other indications—temps and pressures okay—and I was fairly sure what it was.
With a groan and a few rude remarks, I powered back and pointed the Cub’s nose toward the little airport at Madison, Georgia, just east of the Atlanta Class B airspace. An exterior inspection confirmed my suspicions. There was a half dollar-sized hole blown in the left exhaust stack. Another Cub statement.
By now this airplane was really getting on my nerves. The sentimental journey was turning into the trip from hell. I had an old friend in Madison who had mechanical skills far in excess of mine. He showed up with his tools, and two hours later we had a replacement exhaust stack installed on the Cub.
By then the afternoon was waning and the swelling cumuli in the north had matured to towering anvil heads. The Cub, showing a new spirit of cooperation, started on the first crank. No more statements. As if it knew we weren’t going to make it to North Carolina. Not today, Boss.
And so we didn’t. By the time we reached the high ridge that stood between us and our destination in the mountains, the sky had turned an evil shade of black. Lightning was flashing over the darkened terrain like a flickering neon light. A wall of cloud and rain obscured the entire length of the ridge. It was time to throw in the towel.
We backtracked a few miles to the Habersham County airport in north Georgia. It was only 36 miles from Tusquittee Landing, but might as well have been a thousand. I tied the Cub down, muttering rude remarks about the devious ways it had gotten us to this place.
By next morning the clouds had melted, and the mountains that seemed so foreboding now sparkled like jewels on the horizon. The Cub’s new owners, a bright young man named Tony Creasy and his wife, Deb, drove down to Habersham to inspect their new airplane.
In the spirit of getting acquainted, I put Tony in the back seat for the final leg. We made a long slow climb to 4,000 feet, cleared the wooded ridge, and then dropped down into a majestic valley of sparkling lakes and meadows. The Cub’s wheels floated onto the grass of the Tusquittee Landing runway. We taxied up to the hangar and shut down.
Neighbors came to congratulate the young couple on their gorgeous new airplane. We took photos, shook hands, and then it was time for me to leave. Someone was giving me a ride to Atlanta where I’d catch a Delta flight back home. I turned to take a last look.
The scene could have been one of those paintings from the 1930s—the Cub on a lush carpet of grass, green hills swelling in the background, azure sky looming above. The new owners looked happy, and so did the Cub.
Another subliminal message was whispering in my head. So long, Boss. I waved and walked away.
Robert Gandt is a former naval aviator, airline captain, and a fancier of old airplanes, especially Cubs. He is the author of a dozen books on aviation and military subjects. His novel, “The Killing Sky,” fifth in a military adventure series, was released by Penguin Putnam in November. You may visit his website at Gandt.com. Send questions or comments to editor@www.piperflyer.com.
