Awoke with a hangover at 4:30am, realizing that I was dreaming of a plane crashing into a crowded big city street. Was this an omen? I figured not, because it was a big jet airliner in the dream, not a Waco, and I wasn't flying in the dream, I was watching. What I did figure was that I probably shouldn't have so many pints o' Guinness the night before. Took two aspirin, changed the channel in my head to the one where I am swinging ever-so-gently in my hammock, by the pool, at Mikie's Fun House in the desert, and went back to sleep.
Woke again at 8:30 and still had the headache. Looked out the window and saw the same old stuff: Fog. Only this morning there was no rain. Maybe a good sign. Breakfast. Pick up the laundry. Drive to the airport and hope that the low ceilings will lift long enough to get out of here. Where? ANYWHERE! Please?
Around noon, there appears to be a blue-ness to patches of the sky. But the blue-ness is very vague, it is almost solid gray. Maybe I'm just wishing so hard to see blue that I just think I see it. Around 1pm I am sure that I am not dreaming. Other people notice it too. There is definitely a blue tone to the gray.
We spring into action. The bags are loaded into the planes, the rental car is returned, the planes are fueled, the bills paid, calls to Flight Service, and talks with arriving pilots to get actual reports of weather. This last one is the most important. If we listened to Flight Service, we never would have bothered with even thinking about flying, but an arriving pilot told us he just came from where we wanted to go (South) and it was clear over our destination, broken clouds at 2500 feet enroute, and there was a hole big enough for him to let down in, just about 30 miles from the Bar Harbor airport. That meant that all we had to do was fly at about 800 off the deck for a couple dozen miles then climb out to clear skies over the ceiling. Piece of cake.
By the time we were ready, the hole was nearing the airport. We could easily see that we could climb out to clear skies. By the time we were taxiing to the runway, the hole was closing in fast with a low level fog bank that was threatening to close us out and leave us stranded in Bar Harbor, maybe forever it seemed. There was just no stopping us now, we firewalled the throttle and took off easily into a straight-down-the-runway headwind of 8 knots, and climbed like homesick angels for the hole in the sky.
To me, this is one of the most exciting things in flying. Climbing up through a hole in the overcast, skirting the edges of the clouds as you go, turning and dodging the cumulus towers in front of the plane (will I make it over this cloud, or should I turn to the right.... or left, or should I circle and climb?). It is suspenseful, thrilling, and never the same twice. And always beautiful. Today it is even more spectacular because there are several layers of clouds. Almost immediately we pass through the first layer at 1300 feet to find another broken layer at 2500 feet, and we get up past that to find another layer at about 4500 feet and more at about 8 and 12 thousand. The sky is alive with clouds of every imaginable description.
Best of all the air is sweetly calm. The Waco is perfectly still, and the engine sings with joy. Even the Waco is happy to be flying again after 4 days on the ground, cooped up in the hangar.
The coastline of Maine, with its hundreds of small wooded islands, slips by underneath my wings. I catch glimpses of "America's Vacationland" popping through the breaks in the clouds layers below me.
Farther to the south, the skies open up even more. The undercast now becomes scattered, visibility improves and we drop down to warmer altitudes.
Contact Air Traffic Control for Portland ME, for clearance to transition their Class C airspace, and fly directly over the center of the airport at only 2800 feet MSL. This is another thrill. To look down at a major airport from directly overhead and watch the big jets take off and land directly under my puny Waco. I've done this many times directly over Los Angeles International airport, and it's always a major kick.
During our flight, Art loses his moving map completely. This is the brand new device he had installed at the Waco factory just a couple of weeks ago. I have one exactly like it in my plane, so I guide him through the intricate airspace. Another glitch: Art's second radio decides to quit, so now it's impossible for him to monitor the Controller on one frequency and me on another. It seems that his plane is coming apart, but that's what makes flying so.... interesting.
Nothing more breaks on his plane and we arrive at Sanford airport, just outside of Kennebunk, ME (just outside of Kennebunkport, George Bush's summer home). Art gets the radio repair guy to check out his gear while we take a courtesy car to get some lunch (at 4:30 pm) before we press on to Boston.
By the time we get back from lunch/dinner, the skies have again turned nasty. The ceiling is now at 1000 feet, but a call to Flight Service indicates that Boston is clear, if we stay to the west side. The coastal fog is closing in fast. We figure that we've had some good luck with getting out today, so we jump in and go for it. As I'm strapping in, the first few drops of rain hit the windshield. What the heck, it's only a light rain. Still going to go for it. During the runup checklist, the rain gets more persistent. I radio to Art: "Are you sure we want to do this?" He replies: "Not really, but let's just check it out. If we don't like it we can always turn around."
I take off first, into the rain. At 800 feet, and about a mile from the end of the runway, the visibility is going to zero in a hurry. Another minute and I will be engulfed in the goop. The rain is starting to come harder. I trigger the radio: "Hey Art, I'm turning around." The immediate reply: "Good call. I'm right with you."
I circle the airport to the right, and enter on an improper right downwind, but there is no way I'm going to go to the left and drag this out any longer. I radio my position and intentions to the empty airspace, and squeeze on a perfect landing into a now brisk crosswind blowing across the wet runway.
As soon as we are on the ground, the rain stops. Visibility seems to be vastly improved. Even the low ceiling breaks. For a minute we just stand there in wonderment. Should we jump back in and try it again? Nah. Forget it. There's always tomorrow. And besides, we aren't in Bar Harbor any more. We have much to celebrate.
God, I love this flying stuff!