AOPA Pilot Magazine - November 2018 - 39

was thought that taking afflicted people
up to an altitude of 10,000 feet for about
an hour could cure whooping cough. The
theory was that the reduction in oxygen
at this altitude killed the whooping cough
bacillus.
Mom was the adventurous type and
had flown with this pilot on several occasions, so it didn't take long for the two of
them to cook up a rescue flight. But the
hard part would be getting it past my
grandmother. She was a child of the previous century when folks admired a man
that could plow 20 acres a day with a team
of mules. So, airplanes to her were dangerous and terrible threats, and she certainly

airplane seemed huge. My eyes were about
level with the bottom of the instrument
panel when I was seated on the bench seat,
so all I could see was the maze of mysterious wires, tubes, and contraptions under
the panel, and nothing but sky through the
windscreen as the airplane was continuously climbing to get to the magic height.
I watched the pilot work the pedals with
his feet, and I remember being warm and
comfortable.
Mom told this story dozens of times
through the years, and she said we reached
about 13,200 feet, which was about all the
little airplane could do. She described the
little cruiser as whirring around with its

They placed me on the seat between them, and
I recall seeing nothing but sky as I tried to see
over the instrument panel of the taildragger.
wouldn't be in favor of letting the life of
her grandson be risked in one.
Nevertheless, my mother prevailed,
and the pilot picked us up for the drive to
the airport. I'll never forget the worry in
my grandmother's voice as she said goodbye, and the bear hug she gave me, as
she could hardly let me go for what she
thought could be the last time she would
ever see me.
I think the airplane was a Cessna 140,
because I remember the bench seat in the
tiny cabin, and a small storage shelf behind
our heads where Mom stowed an empty
ice cream container. In those days, ice
cream came from the store in a round carton and Mom figured it would be perfect
to catch any vomit while we were airborne.
They placed me on the seat between them,
and I recall seeing nothing but sky as I
tried to see over the instrument panel of
the taildragger.
Without delay the pilot had us airborne. We climbed for what seemed like
hours to a small child as the pilot circled
over the city to reach the high altitude. The

nose up but unable to get any higher. While
we circled, she let me slip into her lap for a
peek out the side window. I never have forgotten the fascinating sight of the tiny city
below. My stomach fluttered a little as I
grew accustomed to the high vantage point.
The flight itself was smooth. I vomited once on the way up. After that I never
coughed or showed symptoms again. To
this day we don't know if the altitude cure
worked, or whether the disease had coincidentally run its course that day. Most of
us think it was the airplane ride.
So that's the curious story of my first
airplane ride. I would fly more times with
the engineer-pilot during my youth, and
there's little doubt in my mind that these
trips were the first sparks of my desire to
be a pilot. A few years later, my grandmother and I even took a surprise trip
together in a Bonanza with our pilot friend,
but that's a comical story of her bravery for
another day.
FRANK E. CAHILL is a flight instructor with

3,000 hours in close to 50 years of flying.

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AOPA Pilot Magazine - November 2018

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of AOPA Pilot Magazine - November 2018
