The jet
demonstration team roared and twisted through the hot sky of a
Houston October within sight of the nation's Manned Spaceflight
Centre. People gaped and speakers blared while crowds surged around
and through the impressive airplanes that studded the ramps. The
Wings over Houston airshow was another huge success. Amid the
sophisticated hubbub, under a small tent sandwiched between vendors
of overpriced airshow articles, children sat in cardboard cockpits,
mounted paint speckled ladders, worked plastic tools over wooden
airplanes, and shivered with delight in aviation simplified just for
them.
The Space City 99s
had, months earlier, undertaken the challenge of adapting the
school-based Air Bear program to something that would be appropriate
to an airshow. Without the enforced attention of the classroom,
children had to be guided individually from station to station as
they sampled some of what aviation could offer their future.
Many an airshow goer
walked past the tent with dazed child stumbling numbly along.
Although the child may have walked through a C-5, come nose- to-nose
with a Stealth fighter, or been hoisted to peer into the cockpit of
a T- 38, the three-foot long red Pitts outside the Air Bear tent or
the sign with the scarf and goggle wearing Teddy Bear would grab her
attention.
"How much does it
cost?" a pretty Hispanic girl asked shyly, clearly dreading the
prospect of having to plead with her parents for the price of
admission.
"It's free," the 99
said gently. "Would you like to come in and learn something about
aviation?"
The girl's eyes
opened wide. She ran off and in a few moments dragged her mother
back by the hand.
"It's free!" she
said as her mother read the sign.
"We're trying to
teach children a little about aviation," the 99 explained to the
mother. "We'd be happy to show your daughter through. It takes about
15 minutes. There are some chairs over there," she waved to the
shadow of the open-sided tent, "where you can watch."
As the mother
settled gratefully into the shaded chair, the 99 showed the girl a
sign that had three "flights" listed on it.
"First we're going
to start by pretending to be a ticket agent." She handed the girl a
paper boarding pass. The girl selected Flight 99 to Florida, then
stamped her boarding pass. From a seating plan, she chose herself a
window seat up front, a popular choice, and marked the number on her
boarding pass. She entered the Air Bear tent through a pair of
wooden "security gates" while the 99 showed her how a hand held
scanner, actually an old curling iron, might also be used to check
passengers.
The 99 led her to
two brightly painted wooden airplanes about two feet long. Another
child, under the guidance of another 99, was already busy with one.
The girl settled onto her knees in front of the other.
"Next, we're going
to pretend to be a mechanic," the 99 explained. "Mechanics are the
people who take care of the airplanes and make sure they're safe to
fly. Because airplanes have so many things to check, we made a list
of everything that has to be done." She pointed to a checklist
poster mounted on the plastic construction fence that edged the
tent. Following the checklist, and assisted by the 99 and her own
fertile imagination, the girl chocked the airplane, checked the oil
with a straw dipstick and decided more was needed. With the plastic
tools that were strewn about the toy tool box and work bench, she
tightened certain bolts her imagination told her needed it, checked
the air pressure in the tires, and fueled the airplane. When the
plane was ready to go, she unchocked it and hung up the chocks, then
gave the Teddy Bear pilot the thumbs up signal that his airplane was
safe to fly.
The 99 led the girl
to the base of a step ladder. "Next we're going to be air traffic
controllers. Do you see that tall building over there?" She pointed
to the control tower. "That's where a controller works. This ladder
is going to be your control tower, so climb on up." The girl mounted
the ladder as her mother, sitting in the shade nearby, beamed with
delight.
"The job of an air
traffic controller," the 99 explained, "is to keep airplanes from
bumping into each other. From up here in the control tower, we can
see what's happening all over the airport." Sitting on the tray of
the step ladder were drawings of an airport and airplanes. On the
top of the ladder was a list of standard phrases that controllers
use, and on the face of the ladder were pictures of radios and a
radar, cut out of an advertising poster. On the side of the ladder
hung an old microphone. The 99 put the microphone in the girl's hand
and showed her how to push the button to talk.
"Now you see in this
picture," the 99 said, "that Flight 35 wants to taxi on the same
taxiway as Flight 11. Should we let them do that?"
"No!" the girl said
earnestly.
"Right!" the 99
said. "They could bump into each other. So what should we tell
them?"
"Flight 35, don't
go!" "That's right, but traffic controllers have a special way of
saying 'don't go'." She pointed to the phrases on the top of the
ladder. "What should we say?"
The girl tensely
brought the microphone to her mouth and squeezed the button: "Flight
35, hold short!" she shouted.
"Great!" the 99
said. The girl squirmed with delight and her mother laughed. Through
the take-off and landing clearances, conflict avoidance, and simple
weather routing, the girl quickly embraced the ideas and vocabulary
of an air traffic controller. She descended the ladder, proud of her
triumph.
The 99 sat the girl
in front of a cardboard cockpit. The inside was painted black and
hung with a poster of a Cessna 172's instrument panel. An old
control yoke jutted through a slanted shelf in front of her knees,
and on her right hand, a stick protruded through a ] shaped opening.
At the bottom of the opening, a label said "Taxi, land" and at the
top, a label said "Take-off, fly."
"Now you're going to
be the pilot of Flight 99 to Florida," the 99 said, "and I'm going
to be your air traffic controller. Flight 99, you are cleared to
taxi for take-off. Turn right at the taxiway. When you taxi, you
only need your feet, so press your right foot to turn right." The
girl pressed a foam rudder pedal under her right foot. "Flight 99,
you are cleared for take-off. Push the throttle into the take-off
position. When you're going fast enough, pull back on the yoke."
The girl piloted
Flight 99 through the sky on the wings of imagination, co-ordinating
turns, climbing over thunderstorms, deviating for traffic, and
finally landing in a Florida which looked a lot like the Houston
airshow she had left, but was more familiar and comfortable now that
she had learned something about the airplanes that were the centre
of all the excitement around her.
"Congratulations!"
the 99 said as she led the girl away from the cockpit. "You've
earned your Air Bear wings." She peeled off a mailing label with a
winged bear head, and pasted it on the girl's puffed out chest.
"It's so good you do
this for the children," said the girl's mother. "I don't know
anything about airplanes, but you can teach her. Otherwise, she
would never learn. Thank you so very much."
The 99 accepted the
gratitude with a quiet smile. In the two days of the airshow, three
hundred sets of Air Bear wings were pasted on proud little chests.
By the time the tents were being struck and the equipment put back
into chests, the 99s who had ushered the children through their
first taste of aviation were hoarse and exhausted, but gratified to
be able to share their joy in flying with the next generation of
aviators.
