Savoring Your Airfield’s Parade of Eccentricity

But if you’re like me, fortune has smiled upon you, and you’ve found yourself at airports with active communities of personalities that are unique enough to make any reality show producer salivate.

For me, the parade of eccentricity began back in high school when I worked the line at a small but bustling airfield near Detroit. Like any small FBO, my workplace became a meeting spot for individuals we called "airport bums," or APBs for short. Every Saturday morning, like clockwork, they would file in to complain about life, talk about flying, and solve the world’s problems while swilling 10W-30 coffee and plowing through the donuts. 

Observing their weekly antics and listening in to their wild conversations, I developed a healthy sense of self-preservation. Whereas once I might have hopped into literally any airplane just to get a ride, these individuals gave me pause. Perhaps, I mused, it was best to perform a cursory evaluation of a pilot's mental stability before entrusting my life to them. 

If a brief evaluation of their mental state could be conducted on a random Saturday morning, a formal thesis could be developed at the annual holiday party. Every year, one random attendee would delay their drinking just long enough to take a few others up for a rip around the pattern and a few “missed approaches” before landing and settling into their own routine of aviation-themed debauchery. 

While working at that airport, I learned that the maintenance crew could never get more than 12 months out of the motor that turned the rotating beacon. Like clockwork, the beacon would stop spinning after precisely 12 months of use.

Theories abounded. Perhaps it was the unique local winds that swirled through the hangars, or maybe the building upon which it was mounted was particularly susceptible to lightning strikes. Nobody could figure it out.

In exasperation, the airport conducted a study that concluded an entirely new beacon was warranted. Rather than continuing to resurrect the old one mounted on a building, it installed a modern, stand-alone beacon elsewhere on the airport property. This solved the problem entirely.

Had airport management attended one of the FBO’s holiday bashes, it would have learned the reason for the original beacon’s 12-month lifespan.

Invariably, at some point during the party, a troupe of motivated revelers would make their way up into the attic, clamber through the rafters, and climb out onto the roof. There, they would see who could ride the beacon for the longest time before being thrown off. The beacon, as it turned out, was not rated for knuckleheads of their size and weight, and mechanical failure eventually resulted. This occurred every year.  

Things are different at my current airfield. A private grass strip, it’s far more peaceful, and the hangar tenants are not nearly as wild. There is, however, some colorful variety, as I learned when chatting with my hangar mate, Dan.

As we were wrapping up a project in our hangar, my eyes fell upon an odd-looking electronic box mounted far up in the rafters that I’d never noticed until then. It was mounted well out of reach and had several large analog needle gauges visible on the side.

“Hey, Dan, what the hell is that weird electronic box mounted way up in the rafters,” I asked.

“Oh, that thing? That’s from a crazy old guy who used to hangar a 172 where your plane is now. He had a ton of money and was big into the search for extraterrestrial life. He also abandoned a couple of research vehicles out in the woods north of the runway. They’re still out there. I think one of them is lying on its side.”

“You know, Dan, guys like that are exactly the kinds of guys who hide all of their money in ammo boxes in abandoned alien research vehicles,” I said. We considered that possibility together in silence for a few moments.

A few weeks later, when our schedules aligned and with his golden retriever along for the ride, we conducted an expedition out to the alien trucks in a thicket of trees near the airfield perimeter. Sure enough, there they were. One had a massive extendable antenna tower mounted to its roof and several weathered extraterrestrial research association decals on the side. The other was, as predicted, lying on its side. Everything was overgrown and appeared to have been untouched for decades.

I’m sorry to report that while we did find evidence of alien research, we were unable to locate any boxes of cash. But although we might not be financially rich, we’re certainly rich when it comes to the variety of fellow hangar tenants.

From Mike, who just bought a classic triple-tail Bellanca Cruisair, to Dave, the Alaskan bush pilot who winters in Antarctica, to Paul, the friendly, outgoing owner of a bustling paramotor school on the field, variety abounds. Our little airfield strikes a perfect balance. It’s active enough to be fun and interesting but small enough to foster an environment where we all know each other and get along well.

Best of all, we manage to embrace eccentricity without placing others at risk. And if we had an airport beacon, we probably wouldn’t attempt to ride it.