Frumba waved the end of the stick over toward the road across the runway and out to the east, where, about a hundred yards away, about six cars were lined up in a tiny parking lot, open to the public and to families, and at any other time the closest I could get to watching practice landings. “These are the fans all watching your man.” My man. I bridled a little at the cheeseball wife-line, but I also felt a hot surge of pride. Other people got what Ross did and were interested enough to pull over and watch. I was instantly embarrassed at the rush and tangle of my thoughts and refocused on what Frumba was saying about where the planes would touch down before taking off again.
He pointed to a rubber-blackened area about eight feet square on the runway just outside the sliding door. “We’re imagining the wires, so I want to see his wheels hit right about there. Too far that way”—he pointed south down to the start of the runway—“and he’s low. He could risk hitting the back of the boat or catching a one or two wire. Too much that way”—he pointed north back over our shoulders—“and he’s too high. He might catch a four wire or miss the wires entirely and go flying again.” On the boat, every trap is graded and every grade is posted in the ready room—everyone knows who has the highest average and who’s struggling.
The planes were lining up in a racetrack formation out in the sky. The sun was patchy and I could see clouds breaking to the south and shadows licking over the hills off to the west. Rain hit the closed glass door of the shack and the rumbling noise outside got deeper.
“Earplugs in?” Frumba asked, as the first plane passed the western door, getting ready to turn again and approach the runway on our east side. The radio came alive.
“Two zero five abeam, gear, flaps full, RADALT to the HUD.”
Ross was first up. He sounded like a little old man on the radio, or a robot with low batteries, and he talked fast and serious and low pitched, not at all like his voice in person. Frumba responded in a quiet, melodic FM voice that shocked me.
“Welcome abeam, two zero five. Wind is east at fourteen knots. Charlie.” Off the radio he told me, “Now, if I’m a betting man, I say we’re going to see him pushed way out east now . . . but that’s a pretty aggressive turn he’s making. Good. He knows what I’m telling him.” The plane approached and I was struck by how inelegant it looked grappling with the wind, its control surfaces fluttering like big metal feathers. It came in slightly flaring its nose high at us, trying to catch the push of the wind to find the perfect angle and speed, and then just outside the doors the tires smashed against the concrete and the engines roared as the plane took off again, its wheels only a hard smudge on the ground before lifting off again. The engine roar rattled in my chest and shook the glass in the shack’s windows. I felt washed over with noise and momentum, exhilarated, and a little terrified, and I noticed I was gripping my pencil hard enough to risk snapping it. Frumba recorded a series of letters and parentheses in slots under which he’d written each pilot’s last name. I wondered what they meant. Good or bad?
The next plane came around, and I could distinguish the radio call a little better. The pass was low and neat and in the engine roar this time I noticed Frumba was talking again in that quiet soothing voice, critiquing the pass while he recorded the codes. I watched about fifty passes. After ten, I started to see what Frumba meant when he’d mutter, off the radio, “Don’t settle,” meaning don’t let the plane sink, or “Work it down, work it down.” The more I watched, the more the landings seemed to vary, some coming in high and then drifting low at the last minute, some coming in too low and farting out little clouds of exhaust as the pilot tried to compensate by adding power. I pushed at the planes with my mind—come down, come up, stay steady—which was about the closest thing I’d done to praying in a long time.
“He’s got the monkey skills down,” Frumba remarked. “He just needs to relax, get his confidence back.” I’d heard Ross use this term before. It referred to the physical movements of hands on stick and throttle.