Unusual Attitudes: Nondestructive Testing

Way back when the Mead Paper Co. installed a potty in its shiny new Beech 18, the chairman’s wife gushed to company pilot Lloyd Fuller about how pleased she was that “facilities” were available on their airplane. Obsessed with keeping the airplane as pristine as the day he took delivery in Wichita, Kansas, Lloyd considered this honey bucket retrofit an obscenity. Of course he agreed with Mrs. Mead, but he went on to explain that the device involved, well, fallout. Since they were always “on radar,” anything deposited in the little commode was ejected overboard and therefore clearly visible to air traffic controllers. The toilet was rarely if ever used.

After recently reading about a guy charged with a fourth-degree misdemeanor for “knowingly and purposefully flying over a densely populated area and dropping objects, specifically toilet paper, in violation of state statute,” I’m hugely relieved I don’t live in or often fly over the state of New Jersey. His target was the play field of a middle school with kids playing nearby, and the pilot was practicing to toss out streamers at an upcoming football game. For some reason, the offending rolls were water-soaked (well, I assume it was water) so I suppose getting beaned with a soggy roll of toilet paper could be damaging to a kid’s ego.

As I write, the alleged crime is being exhaustively, extensively (and expensively) investigated by local and state authorities as well as the FAA and probably the Department of Homeland Security and Environmental Protection Agency. The “perp,” blessedly, remains free and flying. I’d say it’s proof that the more human beings you pack into a square mile the more statutes and other rules are formulated to protect people from each other.

Out here in the hinterlands of southern Ohio, I’ve been tossing and chasing toilet paper from airplanes for more than 40 years with — to my knowledge — no rap sheet. A fiercely loyal Scott girl, I was gratified when this opinion was validated by a genuine toilet-paper czar I met at Oshkosh last summer. I guess toilet paper’s a pretty lucrative business because Marc Wolf is also the guy responsible for rescuing, restoring and putting that magnificent Eastern Airlines DC-7 back in the air. At dinner with Marc and his crew one night, I was mostly too choked with laughter to eat but finally corralled him for a semiserious discussion of toilet paper, specifically comparative tensile strength and furl-ability. Marc gives Scott high marks in unrollability, which is key for scoring the maximum number of cuts. My personal best, which may be a world record, is 11 from 6,500 feet in a Cub. But sometimes I exaggerate. ...

OK, here’s how, but stay away from “highly congested areas” and, for heaven’s sake, make sure the rolls are dry (a wet roll won’t stream anyway). Clear the area, unwind a couple of feet and hold the whole mess in one hand while you reduce power and slow up (flaps are optional) to just above stall. Then heave it out, lower the nose, add power and dump the flaps as you roll into a tight 180 searching for the target. You should spot it unrolling in a glorious long stream of white, but be prepared for an occasional dud — in which case be glad it wasn’t wet. When you have it in your sights, go for the kill, jaw set in steely resolve and aviating with deadly precision. Don’t sit there basking in glory or sulking in defeat but make an immediate 180 until it’s in your sights for another pass. Mind maneuvering speed and stay under 60 degrees of bank and pitch or you have to buy a parachute and an aerobatic airplane. Gauging this in the heat of battle is difficult, but graying out usually means you’re getting a little aggressive. Remember to keep clearing the area and have an absolute hard altitude where you promise to stop all this foolishness. Most important, don’t do this over New Jersey.

If it’s a rental aircraft remember that paper shreds stay glued to leading edges and cowling throughout landing and taxi. So shut down behind a hangar somewhere until all the little pieces of white stuff have fluttered to the ground. And check the intakes and openings and around the baffling and cylinders before you return it to the FBO. ... It’ll be hard enough to explain why all the gyros are spilled.

If you’ve been flying for any time and haven’t been asked to scatter somebody’s ashes, another “nondestructive testing” maneuver, you probably will be. I think it’s illegal but nobody seems to care (except maybe in New Jersey). Besides, the evidence is pretty hard to collect.

See, while “ashes to ashes and dust to dust” sounds perfectly reasonable, actual remains are more, well, substantial. After a practice run with the fireplace variety, I learned the real stuff is chunkier — like nuggets embedded in a fine ash. And while you might assume air whizzes by the cockpit toward the rear of the airplane in flight ... it doesn’t. Real pilots know that Daniel Bernoulli’s “faster speed equals lower pressure” theory is a fairy tale and have long accepted the truth, which is that airplanes fly purely by magic. But whatever laws of physics or magic are at play here, blithely flinging a bunch of remains out an open window means you and your airplane interior will be wearing them. On the other hand, if they’re pieces of a friend, I wouldn’t worry about it because he would surely understand — like Jim.

My neighbor loved to fly with me in the 180, and when he lost a 10-year battle with brain cancer, his widow, Holly, asked if I’d scatter Jim’s ashes over the Ohio River. Since Kentucky and Ohio have forever been at odds about who owns the river, it’s a great place to break the law. I’d borrowed a long section of 2-inch flexible tubing from Signature Engine across the ramp, but I’d strongly advise going for 3-inch. Over the middle of the river I told Holly to stick one end of the tubing in the container while I fed the other end out to what I figured seemed like a good distance. On a scale of one to 10 — 10 being best — I guess it was only about a five. We were both teary (from ashes and emotion) but I was relieved to see Holly smiling, quite sure that Jim was happy being part of this airplane he loved. And I was happy to have him along.

I’d forgotten about the fine coating of dust when, a few weeks later, one of the airport kids wanted to wash and wax the 180. We made the deal but I forgot to tell him to skip the interior. He did a great job, too great. I included a considerable bonus after his comment, “Dude, your interior was full of dust or something. ... You been flying through volcanic ash or sandstorms?”

So here’s my best take for a successful ashes run. Put them in a flimsy paper sack with the top lightly folded over and a length of string attached to one corner of the bag. Slow the airplane and launch it out the window, releasing the string when it’s well clear. To be safe, avoid low altitudes or densely populated areas — and New Jersey.

Having been unfairly disqualified for cheating in the Flying Angels bomb drop (me ... 200 feet ... ridiculous!), I brightened upon spying unbroken flour sacks out near the runway. With some arm twisting, my sister Mary helped me collect a bunch and held them on her lap in the back of the AT-6/SNJ; I was relishing the thought of the havoc and mayhem we could wreak at friends’ strips on this pretty Sunday afternoon. We took off as usual with the canopy open, but in this case that was a big mistake. The flour sacks weren’t as intact as they looked, and when we came up on the mains with the slipstream roaring through and swirling around inside the cockpit, flour erupted in great clouds of blinding white dust. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t even get my eyes open. Somehow we staggered into the air, noses and throats clogged and strange noises emanating from my sister in back. Damn, we were going to die with the remains, our ashes, all mixed up with fuel, oil, blood and cheap, non-organic, all-purpose Gold Medal flour.

I blindly yanked the canopy closed and somehow communicated to Mary to dump the sacks on the floor. Then we flew around, choking and wheezing and snorting until I got my eyes squinted open and could see through the blur of flour. In the mirror Mary looked like an Alaskan malamute with floury eyelashes and brows; she was still making funny noises. Blessedly, the wind was right down the pipe at Piqua, and we got the “J” down in one piece.

Mark Runge, who maintains all the airplanes at Hartzell (and also flies the “J”), still gets a funny look in his eye whenever this story comes up. Well, Mary and I really did try to clean it up, but do you have any idea how deep down and far back the bottom of a “J” extends? We gave up and sneaked off in the 180 with fervent prayers that whoever “de-floured” the “J” wouldn’t end up with white lung disease.