Melville Passmore was one of my favourite student pilots. What the grubby little round guy lacked in book smarts he made up in farmer savvy.
He was currently working on the instrument flying part of the Night Rating Course. We were pre-flighting a Cherokee 140 together one afternoon.
"I was lookin' at an airplane for sale," Melville said.
The comment came from nowhere. There had been no mention of him buying an airplane before and no explanation followed. He was beating around the bush like a true farmer.
"Oh?" I replied.
"I've been saving my money."
"Looking as in `looking to buy'?" I asked.
"The farm's big enough for a landing strip."
"What kind of airplane, Melville?"
"TriPacer." He glanced at me sideways, measuring my reaction.
"They're rugged," I replied. It was true.
"It’s for sale at Derry," he offered.
I remembered a TriPacer for sale at Derry. It was the world's ugliest airplane. The previous owner had a near mid-air collision. After that flight he had the airplane repainted in bright yellow with red diagonal stripes. It looked like a school bus that had been sunburned through venetian blinds. The registration, C-LOWN, topped off the aircraft's laughing-stock image.
The TriPacer had been parked in the tie-down area at the back of the Derry Air ramp for over a year. It sat dirt-streaked and lopsided with a faded "For Sale" sign hanging on its propeller. The same aircraft salesman that sold Dave Michelin his Lake owned the airplane.
"Skid Sicamore is selling that airplane, Melville. He has a bad reputation," I said. "I don't think you should be dealing with him."
"I know. I've already talked to him," Melville said. He blushed and looked down. He scuffed the asphalt with his work boot.
"What’d he say?" I asked.
"He told me to get lost."
I could picture it. The grubby little farm boy approaches the big-time aircraft salesman. Melville probably has the price of the airplane saved in cash but Skid takes one look at him and tells him to take a hike.
"Melville, let me talk to Darcy, the mechanic at Derry Air. There could be a lot of hidden things wrong with that airplane. I'll find out what he knows."
"Can you talk to him today?" he asked shyly. "We could fly to Derry now. You could teach me instrument flyin' on the way. We could talk to Mr. Darcy, see the TriPacer and fly back."
He was having trouble suppressing the excitement in his voice.
"I'll call and see if he's there."
"I did already," Melville offered. "He's there. I called before I left home."
"Okay," I said with a shrug, "let's go."
The lesson on the way to Derry was an example of why it was interesting to teach Melville. He was a good pilot. He handled the Cherokee with the light touch of a machinery operator. He understood the airplane mechanics and systems but his brain seized when faced with traditional mathematics. He couldn't read a shop manual but he could field-strip and repair a Ford 8N tractor in the dark. Our first lessons together had dragged on until I learned to stop teaching him the traditional piloting theory. Melville learned by figuring things out for himself.
Our lesson on the way to Derry was an introduction to instrument flying with a limited panel. Melville flew the Cherokee with a hood restricting his vision. I covered the attitude indicator and heading indicator with suction cup soap dishes to simulate instrument failures. Melville flew on the remaining instruments without difficulty until he needed to establish a new heading. The compass was unreliable in a turn. The trick was to set the airplane at a bank angle that gave a turn of three degrees per second on the turn coordinator, figure the number of degrees of the turn, divide it by three and turn for that many seconds.
I knew this wouldn't compute for Melville so I just explained that the compass didn't work in turns. He changed heading by turning, straightening out, checking the compass and making a correction. It was a crude method at first, but by the time we reached Derry, Melville had caught the turning rhythm of a fixed bank angle. He knew how long it would take him to complete any turn without using mathematics. He could nail a new heading within five degrees.
We landed and taxied to the Derry Air ramp. Melville ran over to the TriPacer and peered through the pilot's side window.
Illustration by Francois Bogie
"What do you think?" he asked excitedly.
The airplane looked worse than I remembered. The layer of dirt covering it was deeper and the tires were flatter.
"Let's talk to Darcy," I said.
We went into the Derry Air shop.
"Well if it isn't Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum," Darcy said. "What did you guys break today?"
"Nothing," I replied. "Melville is interested in buying Sicamore's TriPacer. We came to see if the horse's mouth could offer any advice on the airplane."
I was using all the body language I could muster: raised eyebrows, cocked head, crooked grin, winks and a big shrug. I was trying to indicate to Darcy that a sarcastic negative answer was welcome. I wanted the Derry Air mechanic to talk straight with Melville and tell him exactly what he thought of the airplane. I hoped that would be the end of it.
"The electric zebra? How much does he want for it now?" Darcy asked. He directed the question to Melville.
"Twenty thousand," Melville replied.
"Offer him ten," Darcy said.
I jumped right in.
"Darcy, if the airplane is only worth ten thousand dollars, wouldn't Melville be better off looking for another one?"
I nodded my head up and down in a big affirmative motion.
"At ten thousand, it's a dynamite buy," Darcy replied. "I maintained that airplane for the former owner. We recovered it before the paint shop laid the clown job on it. It was kept in good shape but when the guy wanted to move up, he couldn't sell it. Skid gave him next to nothing for it as a trade-in. Offer him ten thousand, Melville, maybe go as high as 12. Nobody else is going to buy it."
"But its been sitting there for over a year," I pleaded. "There could be all kinds of things wrong with it."
Darcy ignored me.
"Melville, it needs tires and an inspection but I've run the engine regularly. I'll have you flying for less than $1,000," he said and then laughed. "And you'll never have to worry about a mid-air collision."
"Is Mr. Sicamore here?" Melville asked excitedly. Before Darcy could answer, he pulled out a roll of money that would have choked an elephant.
"He's in the lounge," Darcy said. "Go get him, tiger."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" I yelped. I covered the monster roll of money with my hand. "If you two guys are so stuck on this airplane, let me talk to Skid first."
Melville was leaning toward the lounge. He looked like he was ready to hand Skid twenty thousand in a roll of cash.
"Before you start waving money," I said, "let me see what I can negotiate with Sicamore."
Melville frowned at the delay. I held up my hand forcefully.
"I'll just be a minute. You stay here!"
