By Rit Carter

It is Wednesday night, 7:31 p.m., and near the main terminal at Robertson Airport, I just unlatched the handle to Gate 2 and began a routine walk past hangar 4 to the ramp and a waiting airplane.

The airplane, a single-engine Cessna which goes by the call sign November 5 2 9 8 kilo, is being readied by its pilot, my son Adam. 

Because it is a non-hangared airplane, it’s anchored to the ground (tied down), so he has unfastened the ropes from the tie-down rings and is inspecting the rest of the aircraft as part of the preflight inspection. His mother, my wife Laura, is testing her camera in preparation for our trip. As for me, I have no responsibility other than to observe. 

The occasional breeze whips through the airfield, allowing us to forget the uncomfortable summer heat, albeit briefly. And, but for the Piper Cheyenne flying overhead, which I deem a bogy, it is quiet. That soon changes.

My watch shows 7:44 p.m.; we have boarded and begun taxing. Adam tunes the radio to the Red Sox game for my entertainment. 

Sitting at the north end of the airport, we completed the engine runup (engine check) and the magnetos check (ignition check). Lastly, because it is a non-towered airport, Adam keys the radio transmitter and advises approaching aircraft and anyone listening on this frequency that we are departing. 

It is 7:46 p.m., he gives a knowing look and engages the throttle, and we begin streaking down the runway; once the airspeed indicator gauge reaches 55 knots (63 mph) he pulls back on the yoke, and we have lift. We are airborne and climbing. Gazing out my window, I observe the sun has started its descent while the airport below disappears from view.

Immediately, we are over Route 72 and banking right to our destination: Bristol.

The purpose of this flight, or “joie de vivre,” if you will, is to see our hometown from 1,500 ft. Tonight, it all came together rather quickly. We ran into scheduling and weather issues for weeks, and up until an hour ago, it was almost another scrub due to a passing shower. But the rain found someone else to bother, and here we are.  

One item that will nag the flight, or rather the imagery, is the haze. It is a hazy evening, which impacts the photography and visibility in terms of distance.

After a few bumps, we are at our desired altitude. However, one matter of annoyance is this aluminum tube is hot because it’s been sitting on the ramp for several hours, baking.   

The plane does not have air conditioning, so our remedies are limited. We could fly to a higher altitude, which would cool the aircraft due to the thin air, but the height will affect the intimacy of the photos, so Adam instructs his mother, who’s been snapping away, to vent the window to her immediate right. In a single-engine aircraft, this is a standard procedure. 

It’s just a matter of unlocking the latch and pushing the window outward which she accomplishes under some duress because it is counterintuitive.

The rush of wind is immediate and a welcome relief despite my notes being sucked up and swirling in the fuselage.  

With the window vented, a cool breeze envelops the airplane. We accelerate and are at our top speed of 120 mph (104 knots); I am as comfortable as one can be. It reminds me of racing through the Nevada desert one night via US 93 almost 20 years to the day of this flight, listening to the Eagles Hotel California in a convertible with the top down. Admittedly, this is more intense. 

For the photographer in front, however, the jury is still out regarding the window. 

There is no time to digest all this because we are rapidly approaching the West End, Rockwell Park and Muzzy Field. If only it took two minutes to drive across town.

The lights of Muzzy Field are easily visible from a mile away, an indicator of a ballgame. Judging by the outfielder’s depth, it’s probably a Pony League game (13-16-year-olds). We circle the stadium a few times while I wonder: What inning is it? What is the score? And why hasn’t that runner on first stolen second yet?

While Laura is taking photos, I can see folks busying themselves in the park and the streets below. The layout of the surrounding neighborhood is neat and orderly. The houses are close together, which creates a sense of camaraderie.

We then make a B line to the northwest corner of the city to Chippens Hill while the outline of the Berkshires catches my eye. A great deal of ink from many a quill has chronicled its opulence and vistas, but the swimming pools and roomy yards do not garner my attention; it’s the solar farm.   

 

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Driving along James P. Casey Rd., you get no sense of size, unlike the air where you see the contour of the panels to the land, and you get an appreciation of its scope. It reminds me of the windmills I saw in Amarillo, which were part of the landscape. 

Over to my right is the former New Departure site, now known for being Firestone. This is the first time I have ever seen a train in the yard. 

We pirouette the area multiple times, so it is not hard to be in a time capsule and imagine the meadows and farms that represented this area in the 1700s and 1800s.

Satisfied, we depart Chippens Hill, and head to Edgewood Little League (The A. Bartlett Giamatti Leadership Training Center). It comes into view quickly at my 2 o’clock.

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Since at least 1970, maybe sooner, I’ve been going to that facility. First with my father, who coached there for 40 years, and then as a coach myself for nearly the last 20 years. I have walked those fields and seen them from every conceivable angle except 1,500 ft., so I’m grateful for this unique perspective.

The lush green grass on Breen Field was not always that way, and I see the brook behind the field where I have fished out numerous baseballs. In the twilight and under the lights, the area looks grand.

The Little League regional tournament teams are in town, there are no games this night, but with the lights on at Breen and with no games being played, I feel my father’s handiwork from beyond. 

The haze and the hour are beginning to take their toll, so we need to wrap this up. 

The plan is to quickly run out to Lake Compounce, fly over downtown, Route 6, and then head back to base.

By car, it’s roughly a 10-minute drive to Lake Compounce; we do it in a minute.

First, here comes Page Park, and there goes Page Park. There was no time to notice if anyone was playing tennis or basketball. 

We approach Lake Compounce from the east, and it is everything you think it would be from above: bright, bold and striking. It comes upon you like it was dropped out of the sky. 

We find ourselves cutting across Bristol to Federal Hill, where I text a friend who misses our flyby and tip of the wing due to our speed. 

While the plane makes a series of maneuvers to line up Route 6, I sneak a peek of downtown, where the work in progress remains a work in progress. The possibilities are endless, and you can see the pieces coming together. It reminds me of a giant chessboard. 

From this altitude, it is easy to appreciate the vastness of Bristol’s portfolio and the diversity of its portfolio. Ballfields, amusement parks, museums, parks, pools, vistas, farms, and more.

Route 6 is now at our 12 o’clock, and it does not disappoint. Brightly illuminated with drivers going from one place to the next. My attention focuses on one car that seems to be just merrily rolling along the state road, so I cannot help but wonder, where is it going and what has it been doing?  Before I can even consider an answer, I lose sight of it and don’t consider it again until I wrote this sentence.

Although not part of the flight plan, we take a slight detour and circle my mother’s home before making our final approach to runway 2 0. 

With Robertson Airport in the crosshairs, Adam levels off the airplane, and we begin our descent. He pulls back on the throttle and lowers the flaps to decrease our speed. At 8:20 p.m., I hear the tires touchdown and the brakes applied.

As we make our way down the taxiway, I reflect on our journey. At 1,500 ft., there are no issues; there are no differences. They temporarily disappear and are forgotten. Unfortunately, I fully realize that when I return home and fire up the internet machine, all the petty bickering will be there waiting for me. Still, for nearly 40 minutes anyway, it was a welcome reprieve.