Judi Stephenson - Grace and the Secrets of the Beech 18

By

Judi Stephenson

Published by Lavender Sky Publishing LLC atSmashwords

Copyright 2013 Judi Stephenson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoymentonly. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.If you would like to share this ebook with another person, pleasepurchase an additional copy for each recipient. If youre readingthis ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased foryour use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchaseyour own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of thisauthor.

This book is dedicated to my spectacular mother, incelebration of all that she is and the extraordinary women whoraised her. And to my dear father, who supported and provided forhis family, no matter how difficult.

Thank you Jeff and Scott for encouraging me to tryharder and reach higher to stand where you stood. And to JudyBallard, Jeff, and Callie for creating such a beautiful coverpage.

I would like to acknowledge Kit Campbell for herproofreading and editing skills, as well as Torrey and Emmett fortheir wise contributions.

Thank you John, for your patience, support andlove.

As for Laura, Suzanne, Casey, Jill, Liz, Suzi, and myaviation pals, I greatly appreciate your backing andfriendship.

In remembrance of those incredible Women AirforceService Pilots from WWII!

Tableof Contents

I leaned forward to peer over the metal noseof the airplane between the blur of the propeller blades. I couldsee where the white centerline met the horizon, but I was strainingto see the painted pavement just three feet ahead.

My fathers voice resonated through theheadset hanging loosely around my ears. I tried to ignore thesounds of the engine and the propeller swirling air around thecockpit in order to focus upon Dads instructions, but it wasimpossible. I nodded intently anyway, which seemed good enough forhim.

Flushed with adrenaline, I watched Dads handpoint toward the dashed white line and then motion to the far endof the freshly paved runway. Everything outside the airplane wasmoving in slow motion. Even the morning sun heating the pavementstirred slow patterns in the air, waving them lazily over the deepgreen grass lining either side of the path ahead.

The world was in stark contrast to mypounding heart. I took a deep breath and attempted to calm myanxious nerves. Then I raised my eyes to meet the polished, deepblue sky. It welcomed me.

My right palm was moist with perspiration asI gripped the throttle in my palm and tightened the muscles in myright leg to lessen its trembling. Though the belt across my lapwas taut, the silver knob fastening it to my shoulder strap keptcoming undone and scorching the bare skin on my arm. Dad reachedover and calmly reconnected the metal hinge and then smiled, givingme a thumbs-up signal.

Even though I was taller than most of thestudents in my class, it was a struggle to see over the instrumentpanel and reach the rudder pedals at the same time. I had arguedadamantly against using the vinyl cushion sticking to the back ofmy t-shirt, but it did shorten the distance between my heels andthe rudder pedals. And since the pedals actually steer theairplane, I acknowledged the awkward cushion as a necessaryevil.

Dad had a duplicate set of controls on hisside of the plane, so I found some comfort in the fact that if hereacted quickly enough, he could save us from skidding off the sideof the pavement and nosing over a perfectly good airplane. But Ihad been practicing this, right? It was time for me to manipulatethe controls without anyone helping me.

I was suddenly aware of Dads hand cupping myown, forcing me to slide the orange-handled throttle forward. Theplane turned a bit to the left and I quickly remembered to step onthe right pedal. My actions were too forceful and the nose jerkedback to the right and I had to ease the pressure. I had to get afeel for it.

My father shifted his own pedals slightlyuntil we were pointed straight again. We gathered speed and thetrees began to blur out of focus. Then Dads hand pulled away,entrusting me to hold the throttle as far forward as it could be.All of a sudden, the pedals were moving against my own weight. Itwas all up to me.

The world moved by faster and faster and anysudden footwork would send us careening toward the edge of thepavement. For the first time since we turned onto the runway, Iactually heeded my fathers instructions.

Ease it off gently, Dad said.

I pulled lightly against the yoke and theground began to fall away. The end of the runway was soon beneathus and all I could see was blue ahead. I was flying!

We climbed and climbed into the sky. Inoticed lakes and rivers I had never seen before when my feet werebound to the Earth. It was like I was flying for the first time.Though Dad had let me fly with him before, that day was different.The foothills looked like green, carpeted anthills and I was surewe were level with the stony peaks to the west.

Dad taught me how to turn, how to climbtoward the sun and then glide toward the cornfields below. Heshowed me how to trace invisible circles over the ground with theairplane and then point the nose back to the sky.

After spending the better part of theafternoon in the air, Dad said it was time to turn back to theairfield. He told me to pull the throttle out and begin a descent.As I pulled the handle, the nose dropped toward the Earth and Ipanicked for a moment, pulling back on the controls. Dad motionedfor me to let go of the yoke. I released my grip and the noselifted slightly, and then lowered to begin a shallow descent on itsown.

Grace, Dad said, smiling at me withunderstanding, the airplane is like the birds soaring above theairfield. It already knows how to fly.

Its funny how a place can hold onto amemory, I think to myself as Dad and I bounce along in the frontseat of his red pickup truck. The day Dad let me perform thetakeoff in his Cessna without his assistance was the true beginningof my love of flight. I always think of it when we drive this routetogether. And it is the only thought that can possibly bring asmile to my face right now.

We are heading down the familiar stretch ofroad, which leads to the towns oldest airfield for what feels likethe millionth time this summer. Dad has an airplane repair shop onthe field and, though its a Sunday, he has some projects to finishand I have to tag along.

At fourteen, Im too old for a babysitter,but Mom refuses to leave me home alone all day if she has to work.So, if Im not quick to make plans with one of my few friends sheapproves of, I have to go to Dads house, which means I have to goto the airport because thats where Dad spends most of his wakinghours.

My mood lightens as we reach the corner witha faded stop sign. Its the only intersection on the drive to theairport that sits right beneath the departure path of one of therunways. Some days, people will be parked in the ditch off the sideof the road, watching bellies of airplanes pass overhead. Myparents did the same thing with my brothers and me years ago.

Dad rolls the steering wheel through a wideleft turn and I look to see if any airplanes are taking off.

Any other morning, it would be routine to goto Dads shop with him. But today happens to be the very last dayof summer vacation; the same day my friends and I take our annualtrip to the water park in Denver. Its the most memorable event ofthe summer, a final celebration of freedom from fluorescent lights,early sunsets, and homework. Unfortunately, I got in trouble withmy mom last night, so Im stuck spending the day at the airfield.Again.

Im still pretty upset about the whole thing.Not because Ill be starting high school tomorrow, which isintimidating in itself, but because I have whittled away myfavorite months of the year out here, pacifying myself by thethought of the water park trip. While Dad fixes airplanes, I figureout how to pass the time out here by myself.