One hundred and ten hours as pilot-in-command have been logged since beginning this RE/MAX gig four months ago. As flying seasons in the heartland go, it’s been a beauty, more than making up for the previous year when the Great Flood literally swamped all ballooning activity.
It’s a cool crisp September morning east of Des Moines, Iowa and the real estate agent who’s contracted the flight is running late. Since agents supply the crew and passengers, my preflight decision-making is limited to weather reports and terrain study from county topo maps. With a summer’s worth of experience under this arrangement, I had learned not to expect more than a few warm bodies, some willing, others not. Today’s flight would prove no exception.
By the time everyone had assembled, the sun was up and the forecast was holding true: surface wind five to ten knots directly out of the west. With the help of the agent, we located a treeline and began inflation on the leeward side. Since none of the three crew members had prior ballooning experience, and two of the three were a spry eighty-one year old grandmother and her daughter, it took longer than usual to cold pack the 65,000 cubic foot envelope. The sun had already been up for an hour and the wind showed no sign of abating. If I was going to get grandma’s birthday flight off, we needed to go hot soon.
The opportunity to second guess in hindsight is a wonderful exercise. At the time, two events combined to offer a hint of what was to transpire later. The first occurred as I turned on my tanks and hit the blast valve. In spite of a thorough walk-through of what to expect and how to conduct themselves, as soon as the burner let loose a roar of flame, the two handlers on the throat immediately let go of the cables. Simultaneously a very large burn hole appeared in my brand new red, white and blue logo skirt.
The second event occurred after the balloon was standing up and ready for the passengers to board. One might say the spirit was willing but the body was not; grandma just couldn’t get into the basket no matter how hard she tried. Normally, a few extra strong arms would have been enough to overcome this last obstacle. But today the one capable crew member was hanging on the crown line for dear life as the inconsistent eight knot wind buffeted him around. The only other crew member, her daughter, was just not strong enough. Besides, she was necessary ballast, keeping the whole rig from swinging back and forth on its tie-off line, threatening to bowl over our birthday girl. Meanwhile vain efforts to get grandma into the basket had distracted me sufficiently and the envelope caved in. I had to rip out and start over.
Some pilots are paid per year, some per day, some per flight. If you haven’t guessed by now, I was sorted into the latter. Critics might argue the preflight events pointed to scrubbing this flight. Perhaps some of you subscribe to more pragmatic decision-making. Because in spite of the signs presenting themselves, nothing was really wrong except an inexperienced crew and my own haste to get airborne. The plan I hit upon to overcome the difficulties seemed ingenious at the moment, but as bright ideas go, it was plagiarism at best. Using grandma as ballast, I put her in the basket Apollo rocket launch style, that is, lying down with her feet up in the air and her back against the wicker on the ground. Except for some ruffled vanities, this worked flawlessly. With her weight as ballast, I went hot again and enjoyed an uneventful liftoff.
We were moving at a good clip over rolling farmland, the sun warming our faces. An hour later, high aloft, with no sign or intuition the winds were doing anything but holding strong, I initiated a series of descending steps and leveled off about twenty feet above the ground. One’s airspeed always seems more brisk when contour flying, but both my passengers were engaged, looking backward at the speck of dust following us in the distance; it was obvious the chase crew would not be part of the landing committee. Ahead lay a harvested hayfield with large round bales scattered all around; it beckoned as an ideal runway for the upcoming drag landing. Preparing my senior passenger for what lay ahead, I had her assume the astronaut position that had worked so well before. Her daughter cast about the basket, trying to figure out what position to assume. She settled on hugging an upright.
The top of a hay bale is not as forgiving for slowing forward motion as are treetops. We “grazed” the first bale and commenced a violent pendulum action. I ripped out on the ensuing backswing and came to rest within thirty feet of touchdown. Her daughter and I crawled out unscathed. Grandma was very still, feet splayed up in the air with her back on the horizontal down side. Her well being was of course my first concern. Bending down over her, I wrapped both my arms around her chest and began to lift her free.
“Oh stop!” she gasped, clutching at her head.
‘Please God, say it isn’t so’ and other silent prayers flew up to heaven as I tried to comprehend her reproach. After a brief pause and with her reserved approval, I began to lift again.
“Oh wait - stop!” she repeated forcefully. By now I’m not just worried, but lawyers and the proverbial cup of McDonald’s coffee are fleeting before my eyes. All the omens from the prelaunch are at once frighteningly clear. Having ignored the early warnings, my callous desire to give her a memorable birthday has cost this dear old woman her last days of health. What could possibly be wrong? Broken hip? Dislocated shoulder? Concussion? Given her age, it could be almost anything. My undershirt was soaked. The calm which descends during a crisis seemed to make time stand still. At last she took a deep breath and looked up at me with unwavering clear blue eyes. In a very dignified but hushed voice she said, “Young man, you’ll have to do better! My wig is caught. Please try and be more careful.”