There are four brothers in my family, and we all grew up building, and trying to fly, balsa-wood model aircraft.
My early efforts, as I remember them, were mostly glue and fingerprints. Rough, heavy, and warped, they neither “climbed” nor “soared.” My brothers and I had fun building them and playing with them, but I remember clearly the moment when my lifelong fascination with flight really took hold.
My dad was reluctant to make large financial investments in a continual supply of fragile models, but on one rare trek to the hobby shop, while I puzzled over which tiny balsa-and-tissue model I would savage this time, my dad’s attention was absorbed by a kit on the higher shelves.
“What do you think of this?” he asked. I wasn’t impressed, actually. It was a simple-profile, delta catapult-launch glider. A kind of scaled-up version of the five-cent glider from the candy store. I didn’t want it because it looked simplistic. I thought I was more advanced.
My dad thought I should try it. He pointed out that the model required a lot of work: the parts were printed, not die cut. It would require patience and sanding to make the wings into airfoils. More importantly, it could be fitted with a Jetex rocket engine. He made me a deal: if I did a good job with the glider, and got it flying, we’d get the Jetex engine and fly it under power.
Talk about a kid consumed. I thought of nothing else. I spent that summer carving the fuselage to specifications, sanding the wings to perfection, and aligning all the surfaces with precision. Laser beams cannot carve a straighter line than an eight-year-old’s hand and eyes, given the proper motivation. I studied the set-up and trimming instructions meticulously. I carried out flight testing in scientifically planned stages, finally culminating in a glorious seventeen-second maiden voyage.
True to the deal, my dad and I picked up the Jetex engine. There was no need to study the instructions. Somehow, in those pre-internet years, my eight-year-old brain managed to master the physics of rocket propulsion and had accumulated an intimate knowledge of the engineering and safe operation of all the models in the Jetex line. After some simple heat-proofing modifications, I attached the engine. My newly rocket-powered glider was ready for testing.
For those who aren’t familiar with the Jetex engine, allow me a moment to explain the basics. It’s a small tin cylinder with a hole in one end for thrust gases to escape. You insert fuel tablets that look like compressed clay, coil a wick against the fuel pellets, and lead it out through the exhaust pinhole. The idea is to cut the length of fuse to equal the delay time required to a) light the fuse, b) catapult-launch the aircraft, and c) allow the aircraft to reach the apex of rubber-powered flight. If everything goes right, your rocket thrust engages at just the right time and up you go.
Jetex fuel comes in a package with fuel tablets, special screens, gaskets for six flights, and precisely enough of the incredibly fragile igniter wick for two flights. The problem is further compounded by the fact that the igniter works only once every eighteen tries, and the flame is readily extinguished upon reaching the exhaust hole. The first day, I think I actually had about eighteen or twenty “failures to ignite,” two ground burns (launched, landed, then ignited), and one burn where I held on to the plane until it was burning, then chucked it just as it was running down. Dad and I got to the hobby store just as they were closing, to get more wick.
The next morning I was ready and anxious to try again. Waiting for full daylight was not a big priority. I remember the dew on the grass. I guess the sky was a beautiful colour, and lazy morning clouds were glowing in the rising light. I guess I was surrounded by the quiet that accompanies the start of a summer day. I don’t remember. All I was concerned about was whether the dew would get that darned wick wet and cause me problems.
I had prepared the night before, winding a precision coil of igniter fuse on a lightly sanded fuel pellet, installing the cover carefully so the fuse was perfectly sized and placed. The frustration and haste of the day before had been replaced with quiet certainty. My muscle memory was prepared for the much-practised routine. Dad had loaned me his Zippo, which proved more reliable than the paper matches I’d struggled with in the breeze. I prepared myself—light the fuse, wait for a steady burn, stand, string the catapult on the hook, stretch, wait … wait. A hot spark landed on my forearm. I held my breath waiting for the wick to sputter through the little exhaust hole. When it reached the hole there were about four seconds till it would ignite, about six seconds to begin burning. Wait …
You know it right away when it happens. Flight, I mean. A clever engineer once won a paper airplane distance competition by wrapping a rock with paper and throwing it. But that was a loophole in the rules, not flight. This was really something new to me.
The little dart flew beautifully, arcing up straight and true in the still air as it had done so many times before, but this time, just as the flight began to level out, the little jet engine sputtered and puffed, a thin stream appeared, and the plane began to rise again, coaxing lift from the meagre thrust of the jet. It soared to three times the height it had ever gone. I began to wonder if it would get away!
I began my leggy pursuit, stumbling along as I struggled to keep my bird in view. Looking back momentarily, I saw my dad watching from the steps by our old house.
Burlington, Ontario