Flying Stories is a compilation of stories from the author’s real life experiences in aviation. This is the new 382-page edition, a re-publication of an earlier 324-page draft printed in limited release. Completely re-edited and condensed, the book is still somewhat biographical in nature and written in an eclectic tongue-in-cheek style of writing. So don’t overlook the author’s keen sense of humor.
The book is not a contiguous story, but a series of memoirs related to flying that lead to what happened next in the author’s life. The kind of stories pilots tell hanging around the hanger when not flying. Thus, with this book you would not be about to read the great American novel. Also, contained in the book are a couple hundred poor to average quality B&W photos related to the stories.
The book begins with some of the author’s boyhood experiences and what it was like growing up during World War II. It is a brief look at the external forces that might work on any young person to cause them to grow up wanting to be a pilot or an engineer.
Hopefully, the book will give the reader an insight into the American aerospace industries’ coming of age in the 60s and 70s.The author resists the temptation to burden the reader with a lot of techno-babble and tells stories of his learning to fly and his nearly half a century of flying experiences the way he remembers them.
Many of the stories mention the more mundane and less important side of the event being described. All of the stories in this book are true. Only some of the last names have been omitted to protect the guilty and those who might possibly still be alive.
Marvin E. Arnold grew up during World War II and although he was born in Oklahoma, he spent most of his younger years living wherever his Air Force father was stationed. The author attended the University of Oklahoma and Oklahoma City University. He served on active duty with the Naval Air Reserve as an aircrewman and became a civilian pilot at age nineteen, currently holding a commercial pilot license with instrument, multi-engine and seaplane ratings.
The author has owned and flown over a hundred different types of aircraft throughout his years of flying experience. He owned and operated the fixed base operation at Amon Carter Field in Fort Worth, was a qualified air taxi and charter pilot for Greater Southwest Aviation, managed Flight Dynamics aircraft flight training school, owned and operated Mid-Cities Aviation aircraft service and repair facility.
As a design engineer, he worked in cockpit and environmental design groups on aircraft like the C-142, F-8 Crusader, F-111 and C-5A, finally retiring as Chief of Avionics Engineering at Aerospatiale Helicopter. He and Suzie, his wife of forty-five years, have lived in Texas since 1960. A long time old car and airplane enthusiast, Marvin Arnold is imminently qualified to write on any aviation related subject.
My ground speed is probably in excess of 250 mph as I climb on top of the cloud layer headed for New Orleans. Inbound on New Orleans, the overcast sky is now broken, so I decide to descend and proceed into Lakefront Airport VFR rather than having to file IFR with New Orleans Approach Control. Slowing the Bellanca down, I begin my descent below the overcast and as it turns out I have only about a 1,500-foot ceiling.
As I level out and my eyes focus on the horizon, there is nothing except water as far as I can see in any direction. Darn it, I knew I had been clipping along at a good ground speed, but didn't realize I had already passed New Orleans. Here I am out over the Gulf of Mexico. Well, land is just to the north. I execute a one-eighty degree turn and in a couple of minutes I see land on the horizon. Here comes the shoreline.
You can't see very far cruising at 1,000 feet AGL or in this case, AWL, above water level. Most students who get lost are flying too low and if they would climb and get some altitude they might see a landmark that would orientate them.
As I come closer to land fall, I am looking right down the approach end of a real nice runway. Circling to see the tetrahedron, I enter the standard airport pattern and land. Taxiing up to the gas pump, a young fellow come out to fuel the aircraft.
Not wishing to appear lost, I utter the single corniest line I have ever spoken in my life, "Nice airport you got here. What do ya'all call it?" When the boy replies with the name of the airport, I suddenly realize that I had not been out over the Gulf at all, but only over Lake Pontchartrain. That's one heck of a big lake!
Checking the weather before takeoff, a large front to the north is starting to move south. I decide to see how far I can get before dark. Night flying in a single-engine over the Florida swamps is not my favorite thing to do and I am certainly not going to fly into night conditions and bad weather both in this part of the country.
Dropping down over the coastline after I pass Biloxi, I cruise at 1,000 feet AGL, staying off shore just enough to avoid any unexpected radio towers and yet close enough to shore so as not to accidentally violate any restricted areas. I radio my position to the ADAZ controller for that area south of Fort Walton Beach and the Air Force controller gives me positive radar identification.
Looking at the black wall of clouds ahead and above, I decide it is time to land. I ask for radar vectors to the nearest airport of any size. The controller steers me into Destin, Florida. It is now pitch black because the sun has set behind the oncoming storm. Circling the well-lighted airfield to read the tetrahedron, I enter base and turn final only to find myself looking down the landing lights of a cabin class twin making a straight-in approach for landing from offshore.
Verbalizing a few cuss words, I pull up and come in behind the twin. On this uncontrolled field, the locals consider the north approach the calm wind runway. Calm wind to them must mean anything less than 20 knots because the tetrahedron is pointing the other way. Oh well, when in Rome.
The next morning, after spending the night in a beach resort hotel across the street from the airport, I check the weather. The storm had gone soft, the tops are now only 4,000 feet, but it is still 300 miles wide and conditions are zero-zero under the clouds. The edge of the clouds end right at the shoreline and I watch as a Cessna 401 takes off ahead of me, heads out over the coast, climbs and circle back VFR on top.
Seems like a good idea to me, so I follow him out and on top. Climbing out, I set my VOR to Tallahassee and began monitoring approach control. It is a beautiful sunshiny day on top and the soft white clouds stretch far out over the horizon. Monitoring the radio, I listen as a Delta jet tries to shoot an approach at Tallahassee and pull up at minimums without ever having the field in sight.
The Delta pilot makes one more attempt to shoot the instrument approach and then heads for an alternate airport. It is at this time that I begin to consider what if I lose the engine,