Richard Bach - Nothing by Chance

“What’s the matter?” Paul called. “Couldn’t you hold the thing?”

“Well, I thought I’d just as soon not cut your lines all up on the fence, there. Save you some repair work.”

I unsnapped the harness, quickly. “Stu, I don’t think you’d better jump today. This wind’s up a little too high. Of course you want to jump anyway, but it’s wiser for you just to stay down this afternoon. I think it’s a lot wiser.”

We rounded up the giant canopy and bundled it into the calm of the hangar.

“You really ought to jump sometime, Richard,” Paul said. “There’s nothing like it. That’s real flying. Man, you get up there, no engine or nothing. Just… you. Dig? You really ought to do it.”

I have never had any intention of jumping out of an airplane and Paul’s pitch did not make me eager to start now.

“Sometime,” I said. “I’ll give it a whirl, when the wings fall off my airplane. I want to start right out with a free-fall, and not go through all those static-line things they make you do in the jump schools. At the moment, let us say that I’m not quite ready to begin my jumping career.”

Al’s Sinclair pickup truck arrived, and with him in the cab was a tall distinguished fellow we met as Lauren Gilbert, who owned the airport. Lauren couldn’t do enough to make us welcome. He had learned to fly when he was fifty years old, was completely caught up in the fun of flying, and had just yesterday passed the tests to earn his instrument-flight license.

Our policy insisted that he have a free ride, since he owned the field, and the biplane was airborne ten minutes later on its first flight of the afternoon. This was our advertising flight; the first one up, to tell the town that we were in business and already flying happy passengers and why weren’t they up in the sky with us, looking down at the city?

We had to work a flight pattern over each town, and the pattern over Rio was takeoff west, climb south and east in a shallow left turn, level at 1,000 feet, turn back and circle the town in a right turn all the way to the airstrip, steep turns north, slip down over the telephone wires, land. This came to a twelve-minute ride, gave our passengers a view of their home, the feeling of the freedom of flying, and an adventure to talk about and paste into scrapbooks.

“That’s pretty nice,” Lauren said as Stu opened the door for him. “You know that’s the first time I’ve ever been up in an open-cockpit airplane? That’s really flying. That’s wonderful. The wind, you know, and that big old engine up there…”

A pair of boys appeared, Holly and Blackie by name, wheeling their bicycles, and we all walked together to the office after Lauren’s ride.

“Boys, you want to go for a ride?” he asked down at them.

“We don’t have any money,” Holly said. He was perhaps thirteen years old, of bright and inquisitive eye.

“Tell you what. You come out here and wash down my Cessna, polish it all up, and I’ll pay for your rides. How’s that sound?”

There was an uncomfortable silence from the boys.

“Ah… no thanks, Mister Gilbert.”

“What do you mean? Boys, this is probably the last of these old biplanes you’ll ever see! You’ll be able to say that you’ve flown in a biplane! And there’s not many people left, even grown-ups, anymore, that can say that they’ve flown in a real biplane.”

Silence again, and I was surprised. I would have worked on that Cessna for a year, when I was thirteen, to get a ride in an airplane. Any airplane.

“Blackie, how about you? You help get my airplane all clean and there’s a ride for you in the old biplane.”

“No… thanks…”

Lauren was selling them hard. I was astonished at their fears. But the boys looked down at the floor and said nothing.

At last, very reluctantly, Holly agreed to the deal, and all of Lauren’s firepower turned on Blackie.

“Blackie, why don’t you go on up with Holly, you boys can fly together.”

“I don’t think so…”

“What? Why, if little Holly here flies and you don’t, you’re a sissy!”

“Yeah,” Blackie said quietly. “But it doesn’t matter, ’cause I’m bigger than him.”

At last, however, all resistance fell to Lauren’s enthusiasm and the boys climbed aboard the biplane, expecting the worst. The engine burst into life, fanning their sober faces with exhaust wind; a moment later we were lifting up into the sky. A thousand feet higher, they were peering down over the leather edge of the front cockpit, pointing down once in a while and occasionally shouting to one another above the noise. By the end of the flight, they were veterans of the air, laughing through the steep turns, looking fearlessly straight down the wing to the ground.

When they stepped down out of the cockpit, back safely on the earth, they maintained a dignified calm.

“That was fine, Mr. Gilbert. It was fun. We’ll come work this Saturday, if you want.”

It was hard to tell. Would they remember the flight? Would it ever be a meaningful thing to them? I’ll have to come back in twenty years, I thought, and ask if they remember.

The first of the automobiles arrived, but they arrived to watch, not to fly.

“When’s the parachute jump?” The man got out of his car to ask. “Pretty soon now?”

“It’s too windy today,” Stu told him. “I don’t think we’re going to do the jump today.”

“What do you mean? I came all the way out here to see the parachute jump and here I am and you say it’s too windy. Look, the wind isn’t hardly blowing at all! What’s the matter? You scared to jump, you going to chicken out?”

His voice had just enough fire to burn.

“Boy, I am glad you came out!” I turned on him in genuine heartiness, protecting young MacPherson. “Am I glad to see you! Gee, we were afraid that we’d have to scrub the jump today because the wind, but heck, here you are. Wonderful! You can make the jump for Stu, here. I always thought the boy was a little chicken anyway, aren’t you, Stu?” The more I talked, the more annoyed I got with the guy. “Hey, Paul! We got a jumper! Bring the chute over and we’ll get him all suited up!”

“Well, just a minute…” the man said.

“Do you want to go out at three thousand, or four? Whatever you say is OK with us. Stu’s been using the windsock for a target, but if you want to come in a little closer to the wires…”

“Hey, friend, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that I…”

“No, that’s fine. We’re really glad to find you. We wouldn’t have had the jump at all today without you. We sure appreciate your coming up and making it for us…”

Paul caught the idea and hurried our way, carrying Stu’s parachute and helmet.

“I don’t think I better. I understand about the wind,” the man said, and waved and walked quickly to his car. The whole scene could have been from a screenplay, it worked so well, and I put the method down on my list to use again with unhappy jump-expecters.

“What would you have done if he didn’t back out?” Stu said. “What if he said he wanted to jump?”

“I woulda said fine, and popped him into that chute like nothin’ flat. I was darn ready to take him up and throw him over the side.”

For a while the people sat in their cars and watched, and wouldn’t budge when Stu walked to their windows.

“Come on up and fly!” he said at one window. “Rio from the air!”

The figure inside shook its head. “I like to see it from the ground.”

If this was typical modern barnstorming, I thought, we were dead; the good old days were truly gone.

At last, about 5:30 in the afternoon, a fearless old farmer drove in. “I got a place about two miles down the road. Fly me over and see it?”