Do you remember your first flight? I know I do. That image of a 12-year-old me climbing into the right seat of an old Bell 47 helicopter at Greater Rockford Airport in 1963 is indelibly etched into my brain. I even remember the pilot’s name, Rick. Actually, he called himself Captain Rick.
The other night on the Airplane Geeks podcast I listened as my co-host and master storyteller Micah Engber told us about his first trip aloft, as only Micah can. He said he was 13 at the time.
Micah shared his story in two forms. Read the copy below or click on the podcast player above to listen to the audio of his story. Readers along the eastern seaboard may recognize Micah from the stories he’s presented through Maine Public Radio, the area’s NPR outlet as well as the Airplane Geeks.
But don’t be too hard on Micah for that snappy picture of himself in the tux, ready to head out to a high school prom. It was all he had from that era. I’ll bet most of us guys have one similar.
And BTW, If you have a first flight story of your own, why not share it with us in the comments below or e-mail it to me at rob@jetwhine.com
Rob Mark, publisher
Remembering My First Flight
By Micah Engber
As we record today, on August 26, 2024, it’s the 55th anniversary of my first flight ever. Now back in 2013 on Episode 238, this story was the very first piece I ever submitted to the Airplane Geeks, but based on this emerald anniversary, I thought it might be time for a retelling, live this time, and with a few updates and revisions based on a little research I’ve been able to do over the 11 years since its first airing. So here it is, warts and all.
But before we go any further, I need to tell you a little bit about my family. Many listeners know of my mother, Harriet, who left us a bit over a dozen years ago as an octogenarian Airplane Geek, but this story involves my paternal grandfather.
My Grandpa Max lied about his age to join the Navy. The Navy believed he was born in 1896. Being that his government birth records were destroyed in a fire many years before his death, and he lied about his birth year for so long, even he wasn’t sure of the truth. No one ever knew if he was really born in 1896, 1897, or 1898.
We don’t know what year he joined the Navy but we do know he was so small and skinny at the time, that the recruiting NCO weighed him in, turned him down, and then sent him away with a nickel telling him to go down the street and buy a quart of milk and a hand of bananas. He was instructed to eat and drink it all, and come back to be weighed again. Grandpa Max dutifully followed his first orders.
He said that part of his Navy training included sailing the square rigged USS Constellation, built in 1854, to her final resting point in Baltimore. He was part of the Mexican Campaign in 1914 serving on board the USS Celtic off the coast of Vera Cruz. In 1916 as a water tender on board the Armored Cruiser USS Tennessee, later rechristened Memphis, he sailed down the east coast of South America, through the Straights of Magellan, up the West Coast and through the then new Panama Canal. During World War I he was assigned to four piper destroyers in the North Atlantic.
While not a submariner at one point he was onboard a submarine during a test dive (probably an O, R or S class boat, he couldn’t remember). He said he wasn’t bothered by the close quarters, as he always served in an engine room, but it was one of the only times he was really worried while on board a Naval vessel, he just wanted to know they would definitely be able to surface.
After leaving the Navy Grandpa Max joined the Merchant Marine but came shore-side permanently when he married Grandma Sadie. He worked for the US Customs Service until he retired a bit less than a year before I was born. As I hope you can see my Grandpa Max was one tough old salt.
Time Marches On
In 1966 he developed an inguinal hernia and needed surgery. This was a much more difficult procedure back then. While he was recovering in the hospital my father found the newly published book “The Wreck of the Memphis” and gave it to him as a get-well gift. The Armored Cruiser Memphis, formerly the USS Tennessee, was picked up by a rogue wave on August 29, 1916, and cast ashore onto rocks in Santo Domingo. For many years, maybe up until this day, it was the greatest peacetime naval disaster in US history. Although Grandpa Max was not onboard at the time, he did serve on her during her previous cruise, just before her rechristening.
While an educated man, Grandpa Max was not an avid reader but he tore though that book and found that there was an organization of former shipmates called the Survivors of the USS Memphis. He contacted them and attended their next reunion which was in Chicago in August of 1967.
Now Grandpa Max had always enjoyed traveling by bus. The Greyhound Lines were almost luxurious at the time. He had taken Greyhounds from New York to California to visit his brother, to Chicago for the Survivors of the USS Memphis reunion in August of 1967, and with me, to the next reunion in August 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee.
The reunion in Memphis was a wonderful experience but the bus trip itself was beleaguering. In 1968 civil rights had not yet spread much below the Mason/Dixon line and Grandpa Max could not abide the segregation instituted by the bus lines. After that trip he vowed to never patronize them again. Based on that he decided that for next year’s reunion, in New Orleans, we would fly.
FLY!?!?!!! We would fly!!! I would fly!!! I was a thirteen-year-old boy who grew up loving airplanes. I had never flown before. I wanted to fly more than anything else. I was never more excited in my life and that excitement lasted for a whole year.
Grandpa Max had talked to friends and heard that the best seat on an airplane in Coach, was the first row behind the bulkhead to First Class. I knew this had to be right as Grandpa Max knew everything.
I had prepped for the flight too. My father, who had served in the US Army in World War II, and was what he called a re-tread when he was recalled to duty as an Officer in the US Air Force Medical Corp during Korea, had told me that I may need to clear my ears, and taught me the Valsalva maneuver.
I Met a Douglas DC-8
It was about 8:00 in the morning on August 26, 1969 when we left for the then recently renamed John F. Kennedy airport for our 10:30 flight. I don’t even remember checking in but I do recall climbing aboard a Delta DC-8. We took our seats on the port side and we had the whole row to ourselves. We were ready for take off.
The stewardess (remember, this was 1969) gave the safety demonstration and Grandpa Max watched closely. He noticed that there was no place above our heads for oxygen masks and asked the stewardess where they were. She pointed to a small panel in the bulkhead and Grandpa Max seemed satisfied.
We taxied, made our take-off roll, and were soon airborne. I was looking out the window the whole time. I was flying!! I must have had an ear to ear grin on my face. When we leveled off I cleared my ears just as my father taught me.
Grandpa Max, who had been rather quiet since the take-off roll, looked at me, and with an urgent tone in his voice, almost shouting said “Do you need the oxygen!?!?!?” At the same time he wedged his fingernails under the oxygen mask panel in the bulkhead and pried it open. He was reaching for a mask when I told him that I was just clearing my ears. Grandpa Max slammed the panel closed and looked at me with clear relief on his face.
A few minutes later the stewardess came by and asked if we wanted anything. I remember being quite startled when Grandpa ordered a double Jack Daniels. I knew he occasionally enjoyed a drink but never at 11:00 in the morning. This was another first.
The only other specifics of the flight I remember was changing planes in Atlanta. We got on a Pan Am aircraft that although was in Pan Am colors, was being operated by a Delta crew. I remember asking about it and the crew saying something about a lease.
Reflecting On The Flight
Now, 55 years later, when I reflect back on that day I realize a couple of things that never really occurred to me at the time. In hindsight I should have recognized them and you may already know to what I am referring.
I got to share the experience of Grandpa Max’s first flight. Here was a man who served in the US Navy when they still had sailing vessels, a man who had witnessed powered flight become a reality, and I had the chance to fly with him at 30,000 feet. I was so wrapped up in my own first time flying that I didn’t realize the significance of what I was sharing with him.
The second thing and something that I never saw in him before or anytime after, even when he knew he was dying of cancer, Grandpa Max was scared. Of course, it makes sense now. But think about it, my Grandpa Max, 71 years old, maybe 73, was able to overcome his fears, and fly for the first time in his life to take his grandson to New Orleans and meet with old shipmates. For the first time ever, at 11:00 AM, on Thursday, August 26, 1969, with the help of two little bottles of Jack Daniels on his tray table, and the power of a Douglas DC-8, Grandpa Max and I were flying.
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good story. heard it on the geeks. thanks!