Tale Spinner #1

By Steve Trofemuk [guy with funny name]

 Every good hobby also has good stories.  Consider fishing.  Who hasn't heard of the one that got away?  So, in an effort to share these stories, I'm writing Tale Spinner—a monthly column in our newsletter where I invite everyone in the club to share their R/C stories.  I promise, I won't check for authenticity.  If you have a good story, send it to me at stevetro@charter.net or talk to me at the club meetings.  I'll include your stories on a first come first serve basis.

The first story I'm going to share is one of my own.  When I first started in this hobby in 1989, I was stationed at Pease AFB in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.[I been there in 1973]  I built a simple trainer and, being on a budget, outfitted it with an old .25 I found in the trash at the dorms and a Futuba 3 channel AM radio.  It was a beautiful aircraft done in transparent yellow and baby blue monocote.  Well, beautiful is a relative term.  If you squinted your eyes a little and ignored the wrinkles, tears, folds, and other imperfections created by my inexperience and haste, it was beautiful.  It flew and that was all that mattered to me at the time.  After a number of flights with an instructor, I decided I was ready to solo.

 The flying field at Pease AFB was an old abandoned runway next to the base exchange.  It was paved and fairly close to my flight instructors house.  I thought for sure he would be around.  He wasn't.  I remember the sky was perfect—no wind, fluffy clouds.  Perfect.  I had to solo.  I started the little plane, checked all my surfaces, taxied onto the runway, and gave it full throttle.  The little trainer lifted into the air in about 10 feet.  So far so good.  I climbed to about 200 feet (3 mistakes high) and turned the plane into a clockwise pattern with the runway.  No problems.  This was easy. 

 On the downward leg, I started a turn to line up with the runway, but the plane kept  flying straight.  I gave it more rudder—no affect.  Okay, I thought to myself, don't panic.  Pull the throttle back and the plane will start coming down on it's own, I thought.  But the throttle wasn't answering either.  Something was seriously wrong.  Where was my instructor, he would help.  Oh yeah, I thought, I started without him.  I panicked.  I froze.  The airplane kept flying.  I lost site of it over the tree line.  I heard something like a backfire, the sound of my planes motor for a few more seconds, then silence.

 Suddenly, sirens went off.  Not just any siren either, but the alert pad sirens.  For those not familiar with Air Force bases, an alert pad is were aircraft are kept fully fueled and armed ready to go at a moments notice.  Security Police came rushing down the little runway, lights flashing.  They jumped from their car with guns drawn and told me to drop the transmitter.  I don't argue with superior fire power.  I did as I was told.  I was taken into custody without much ceremony.  Apparently my little plane had come down in the alert pad.  I received a letter of reprimand and three months later, my model was returned to me—or rather the major pieces of the model.  I never did find out whether the model crashed or someone had shot it down. 

 If you're new to this hobby, don't fly solo until the instructor says you're ready and don't do it alone.  True story.  Honest.