Standing next to the sun-bleached yellow wings he stared across the concrete ramp covered with painted tin flies.
Hardly a thing about aviation shown except for oil stains.
The sounds they make so smooth and predictable it gives the pilot who knows every open space to land contempt for the confidence of the fledglings who caress the radio mike.
Khaki pants and shirts washed until the cotton floats across the skin and a leather jacket and helmet worn solely for warmth.
Another two sets of pants and shirts for the travel bag and a bedroll with toiletries, dried beef-jerky, and a coffee pot.
All these served him well and give him consistency in life.
Still waiting for the fuel truck and leaning against the wooden wing hearing the hum and predicted pitch of a taut flying wire, As he strikes each one in turn simply for the music of inspection.
His turn is coming next as the twin squats under its load of fuel.
Those white-shirted, gold banded, narrow black tie and shiny black shoed gentlemen walk over and bring an unlikely smile.
The talk of J-3 cubs, grass fields, and biplanes bonds these men.
The fueler fed the hose up to him as he filled the large single tank and paid with cash not wanting to get any closer to progress.
A cold chill trembled his legs as he sped across the hard surface.
Lifting quickly and holding altitude for speed he chandelles to the downwind leg and departs with his dreams intact.