There used to be a Grumman Albatross — a 2,800 hp, 28,000-pound flying boat — at the airport where I keep my airplane. Its occasional takeoffs began with a growl echoing among the hangars and swelling to a smooth, leonine roar. I would gaze after the straining sound as it faded eastward. Nothing. I would always think, “There, finally, it’s happened; he put it down in the gravel pits.” And then at last the tip of the fin would appear, and the wing and finally the hull would rise slowly above the buildings in the middle distance. I never saw so much noise yield so little vertical motion.
Last week, when I was at the airport working on my airplane, I heard the sound of an airplane taking off and I turned to watch, as I always do, partly from curiosity and partly just in case. This time it was a Long-EZ that was taking off, and it was well above the trees and the hangars when I first saw it. But then its engine seemed to lose power, then regain it, then lose it again. The airplane was about 300 feet above the ground, I think, and not far past the departure end, when the pilot made the decision to turn back. He did a good job, banking steeply, keeping the nose down, rolling smoothly from a 230-degree right turn to a 50-degree left one. When he disappeared behind the hangars, it was evident that he would make the runway comfortably.
