When I was in Cleveland at the air races a couple of years ago four
so-called flyers asked me to fly with them in their Bellanca to the Sky
Harbor airport near Chicago. I agreed. We took off after the last race
with just enough gas to make the field nicely. We hit a head wind, but I
still figured we were okay. I didn't know where the field was, but one
of the girls in the plane had been taking instruction at Sky Harbor and
the other three claimed that they had lived in Chicago all their lives
and knew Sky Harbor as well as their own mother.
When we got to Chicago it was already dark. I followed instructions. We
flew north. Someone yelled I should turn east. I turned east. Someone
else shouted that was all wrong, we were already too far east. I turned
west. The next fifteen minutes were bedlam. "_East, north, west, and
south,"_ they yelled. I lost my temper. "_Do you or do you not know
where this field is?"_ I exploded. "_There it is!"_ they chorused. I
heaved a sigh of relief and got ready to land. It wasn't the field. I
looked at my gas, and my gas was too low. I took matters into my own
hands and flew back to the municipal airport and gassed up. We started
out again. The situation started to strike me as funny as soon as the
tanks were full. I let them have their fun, and eventually they did find
the field. I called back to the girl who had been taking instruction and
asked if there were any obstructions around the field. "Absolutely not!"
she vowed. I looked the field over as carefully as I could. There were
no floodlights (they had also told me the field was well lighted). I cut
the gun and glided in for a landing. A high-tension post whizzed by my
left ear. We had missed the wires by just two inches. And there were no
obstructions around the field!