Scared! I'll tell you I was scared!

Hello everybody, my name is Joel Smith! If you're watching television or listening to the radio you may want to turn it down, or off, as I can't speak any louder then this. I suppose that's why most people call me 'Whispering Smith'. I used to have a stentorian voice and could shout down a lion, but now I'm reduced to saying my piece in a sort of quiet tone.

Anyway; the way I lost my voice may interest you. (At the time it happened it was most interesting to me.) It was one of those quiet, West Texas Sunday afternoons out at the Fabens airport, and I had dropped by to see if anything was happening. There was the usual crowd about, gabbing, and telling tall tales, so naturally I joined in. While one of the boys related an old war story I noticed a fellow taxiing up to the ramp in a beat-up old Cessna 172. It looked like it had been ridden hard and put away wet many times. Well, this fellow got out and came in, saying hello to most of the folks. It was apparent they knew him, but I was still a bit new in the area and he was a stranger to me. After grabbing a cup of coffee he sat down with us and soon was giving us the benefit of his views and such, on flying. When it came to chewing-the-fat it sure was plain he had chewed some in his day, because before long he was into how well he could fly; especially doing aerobatics in a 172.

Now; I'd never seen a 172 being put through the paces so I kind of perked up and listened. Seeing a new face in the crowd he directed most of his words to me. Before long he had me cornered into going up with him for a demonstration of his prowess. I'd been around the barn a time or two and knew when someone was blowing more than he should, and I suspected that he was into his second bag of oats. But I was trapped. Besides, it promised to be other then a routine Sunday morning.

So, there we were, strapping ourselves into the Cessna and him doing the aviating. I begin to get the measure of him when he rotated just before plowing into a sand dune alongside the runway. He muttered something about bad brakes and horsed the tired old bird into brush-top flying. The airplane knew it wasn't time for flying and refused to get out of ground effect. The only thing that saved the day was the ground fell away into a gully of sorts and the poor old plane finally picked up enough flying speed to climb out. About this time I wished I'd of stayed home in bed.

Anyway; I got my second dose of his measure when he decided that this was the time to do a mag check. Three hundred feet high and the left magneto doing nothing but coming along for the ride. But; he seemed satisfied and said something like, 'I suppose I should get that mag checked one of these days'. I muttered something like 'Might be a good idea' and let it go at that, though I was ready to ask him to land and let me use the bathroom. Before I got up the nerve to ask him, we were at about 1000' agl (above ground level), and he said to me, looking around at instruments and such; like he knew what he was doing, 'Well, this should be high enough!' and before I could yell out that I'd like a couple thousand more feet first, he hauled back on the yoke and we were going straight up.

The loop he was trying for didn't happen! Instead we did a tailslide. Ever see a 172 doing a tailslide? Sure is a daring maneuver, especially at 1000 feet above the ground Well; between trying to cinch up a couple of notches on my seat belt and making the sign-of-the-cross I was a bit busy for a moment or two. However; when it was obvious that this guy was about to make this my last Sunday at the airport I panicked and began to pound him about the shoulders and head. I figured that before we both died I'd get in a few licks on him.

It's amazing how time stands still at a moment like that, but after knocking this silly ass out cold I grabbed the wheel and sucked it into the backseat area. While cutting holes in my seat cushion I screamed as long and loud as I could. (Later, the guys on the ground said that the yelling drowned out the sound of the engine).

The ground was mighty close by now and the g-forces were beginning to pull right smart on my gut. Finally, the faithful old bird recognized someone other then a meat-head had control and responded. Wasn't quite fast enough though and the right gear clobbered the top of a sand-dune, knocking the wheel about 45 degrees cock-eyed. But, she shuddered and continued to fly. I still had my mouth wide open and was doing my best to make the country-side hear me; but nothing was coming out. I'd ruptured something in my voice-box, as well as making a mess in my seat. I was in shock, and just beginning to realize we weren't dead yet. Looking at the slumped-over figure next to me I relieved myself and thumped him a couple of more times. This seemed to calm me down somewhat, so I did it some more.

Now I felt better and started making plans on how to get this thing down on the ground. I figured the best thing to do was get it over to the side of the runway, in the soft sand, and nurse it down as slow as it would go; hoping that the rollout would be no worse than a groundloop. Well; as you can see, I'm still alive and did survive that flight, and the subsequent crash-landing. But that fellow with the 172 doesn't fly as much anymore. Every time I see him I get this uncontrolled urge to thump him a time or two. So, he keeps away from the airport a lot now. Well! As you must know by now, I lost my voice on that very flight, and tend to choose my flying companions more carefully now. I've got a few more tales to tell you, and I do like to pass on what I know, but you'll have to listen hard, because I can't talk above a whisper any more.




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Last Updated on April 29, 2002 by Ed Gravley

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Copyright 1975 1998 (c)

Disclaimer: This story, and the following stories of WHISPERING SMITH are solely from the imagination of Ed Gravley. Some of the ideas were suggested by accounts he had heard from various sources and were embellished for your amusement. The names have been changed so as not to embarrass any particular individual, except perhaps the author. Any, or all of these stories may be copied for personal use; but not for the purpose/s of commercial profit.

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