...from “I’ve Got To Write a Book!”
by Ira Wiggins
Flying Days (part 4)
Nargana was another San Blas island with an airstrip. This one started at the reed hut of a native indian family, made a slight dog-leg as it followed the shore and ended at the far shore. The runway consisted of a set of tire tracks through the sand and grass. One day I flew two friends there for some snorkeling and made a hard landing just past the hut with the left wheel in a soft, sandy spot. The plane squatted on its landing gear, sprang back to normal height and sped at 50 m.p.h. to a suddenly changed heading which angled toward the shoreline a few feet away. No amount of right brake or right rudder would change our course. Forward progress ceased as the left wheel came to rest in about six inches of water near the shore. The right wheel remained dry, I was perspiring. This particular airstrip has since been closed and another built on a neighboring island.
*****
The country of Panama is only 40 miles wide in the area crossed by the Panama canal. It was always a thrill to be able to climb to three or four thousand feet altitude and to see the Atlantic ocean out of one window and the Pacific out the other.
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Nov. 29, 1969 - Cessna 170-B. Flight to Porvenir. Remarks: “Took Patricia Graham.” Her younger blonde, tanned husband (Robin) was the teenage sailor who, under the auspices of the National Geographic, was making a solo sailing voyage around the world. He met Patty while he was on the voyage and they married but she could not accompany him if the voyage were to continue as a solo trip. Therefore she contrived to meet him at most of his stopping points. His next predicted landfall had been “Porvenir, Panama - Nov. 29.” He arrived at this small island in his sailboat, the “Dove”, three hours after I left Betty there. Before resuming the voyage he spent several weeks in Panama, for there was no special time limit on his endeavor. We visited with them in our home in Coco Solo in the Canal Zone and found him to be shy and reluctant to talk of his adventures. They spent some time visiting the indians of the San Blas island group and took us for a sail in those same islands in his amazingly well-organized “Dove” with self-furling jib and automatic steering device. He was to later author stories in three different issues of National Geographic and a book, “The Dove”, about his voyage. They also made forays into the jungle on the mainland of Panama. On one occasion, Patty, knowing my propensity for collecting unusual insects, brought to me a small “electric caterpillar” (a type of stinging caterpillar with a green, saddle-like marking on its back) which had stung her on the rear when she squatted in the jungle. It is now encased in plastic, a part of my collection.
As we were eating dinner with them one evening I interrupted the conversation with, “By the way, Patty, you owe me a dollar.”
“Really?” she said, with a knowing look and a smile.
“Yes, really.”
She handed me a dollar bill as Robin remained silent.
“What’s that all about?” Betty asked.
“Never mind,” I replied.
Later I explained to her how Patty had asked me about her recent bouts of mild nausea and I had ventured the opinion to her that she was probably pregnant. She thought otherwise and bet me a dollar she wasn’t. I had received the results of the urine test that day.
In the subsequent story in the National Geographic I came as close to getting my name in that famous publication as I ever will. To quote the article: “While in Panama a doctor informed Patty that she was pregnant.”
*****
Ted Paine was a close personal friend for the fifteen and a half years we were in Panama. He enjoyed flying with me just for the sake of flying and would return with exaggerated tales of our exploits. As we were approaching for a landing at the small, short airstrip of Nombre de Dios one day I didn’t like the way the landing was progressing (too fast, too much turbulence and gusts) so pushed in the throttle and climbed to go around for another and, hopefully, better controlled attempt. As we were climbing I turned to Ted to impart a bit of serious wisdom, “You can always tell a good pilot; he doesn’t try to save a bad landing.” He thought it was the funniest thing he had ever heard and still, to my embarrassment, loves to tell the story to anyone who will listen.
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It was Ted who christened the place where we landed in Las Tables, Panama as “Wiggins’ Airport”. Ted and I were in the front seats and our wives rode in back flying to the tiny village of Las Tablas, where we intended to spend two days celebrating the carnival festivities. We had never been there but had been told the location of the airport by someone who had flown there a year or more previously. From the air we searched for the airport but could not find it. Then we spotted a newly graded strip leading outward from the edge of town. There were no fences, telephone poles, ditches or structures of any kind adjacent to it. We could find no wind sock, but that was not unusual. Apparently they had abandoned the old airport and made a new runway close to town. Noting the direction of blowing smoke, we chose to land in the direction heading away from town. The dirt runway was a bit rough. At the end of the strip we turned around to taxi back to the end closest to town. As we approached the end a crowd of laughing, animated, waving natives came toward us. Our landing seemed to be an unusually festive event. As I shut off the engine and alighted from the airplane the crowd dispersed around us with laughter and gay chattering. Then, as doubt descended on me, the glimmer of truth began to appear. I approached one of the men and, hoping my fears were unfounded, hesitantly asked, “No was aeropuerto?” (“Isn’t this an airport?”)
He laughed and shook his head, “No, was nueve calle!” (“No, it is a new street!”)
“Aye, carambe!” I exclaimed, as I clasped my hand over my face. The assembled group roared with laughter.
Seeing my acute embarrassment and concern, he hastened to reassure me, “Esta bien. Esta bien. No was nada malo.” (“It’s okay. It’s nothing bad.”)
A guardia (local police) who had arrived smiled broadly and agreed.
I explained the situation to my passengers. They had already suspected the truth. My suggestion was that, since we were already here and had the blessings of the guardia, we might as well tie the plane down and walk in to town to find a place to stay. Betty, in her usual common-sense way, added her thought.
“If we thought this was an air-strip, think how sure a pilot would be of it if he flew over and saw a plane parked here.”
That logic left no room for argument.
All the passengers alighted. While they picked up the luggage I acquired directions to the real airport and hastened into the air. The “airport” looked much less like one than did the place where we had landed. It was a piece of pasture-land mostly clear of trees and with faint markings in the short, dry grass to indicate where planes had landed. No planes were in evidence. The “hangar” was a dilapidated, barn-like structure with many boards missing on the roof and on the sides. Inside was what remained of an old, wrecked aircraft. The wind-sock was represented by a rusty iron ring from which hung a few shreds of sun-bleached fabric of doubtful color.
As I taxied up to the barn (oops! I mean hangar) a small, brown, wrinkled individual appeared and, with a toothless smile, indicated that I might park anywhere I wished. I judged that local air traffic was not exactly overwhelming. After tying the plane down (in Panama we learned to always carry tie-downs) I started walking toward town in the burning sun and was soon given a lift by a passing car. Everyone is even more friendly at carnival time.
... And that was how “Wiggins’ Airport” was born.
*****
Carnival was fun, to say the least. During such times of celebration in these tiny villages, new friends are made quickly and strangers are often taken in like long lost relatives. A local family was playing guitars and singing (Spanish) songs on the porch of their adobe house as we walked by. We paused to listen and exchanged smiles. They invited us to join them, informing us that the man of the house had recently killed a deer and insisted that we return in the evening and join them for venison dinner. The parents, SeÂor&SeÂora Roberto Gonzales, were simple folk with little education but were sacrificing to see that their children were well educated. They remained our friends throughout our stay in Panama.
On one of our subsequent trips to Las Tablas, their teen-age daughter was scheduled to go to Panama City by bus, an arduous, hot, dirty four-hour trip, to start her schooling as a dietitian there. Since we had two empty back seats in the plane and it would require only a slight deviation from our course we offered to take her there. At her parents’ smiling insistence, she agreed. She had never been off the ground higher than she could jump and I little realized the secret terror she held of flying. For the entire 45 minute flight, despite my every precaution to maneuver gently, she gripped the arm rests on either side of the cabin as though her life depended on it. I am sure she was convinced it did. She looked out of the window only at Betty’s urging and then immediately returned her gaze to her lap or the floor.
My first need to use the radio was on approach to Paitilla airport in Panama City. I should have explained to her what I was about to do. When I started to talk into the microphone she exclaimed, “Dios! Vamos a estrellarnos!” (“My God! We’re going to crash!”) She was not convinced by my wife’s protestations that everything was fine. Of course the partial language barrier added to the problem.
As she hurried from the plane she murmured, “Nunca mas!” (“Never again!”) I echoed under my breath, “Nunca mas!” and vowed that any time I ever took a “first-timer” for a plane ride it would be for a short hop before attempting a longer trip. The last time I saw this otherwise very charming young lady she had graduated as a registered dietitian and had never again been up in an airplane. She subsequently married a young Panamanian physician.
*****
April 7, 1971 - Changuinola, Rep. of Panama. There were two airports on a large banana plantation run by United Fruit Co. One was five miles distance from the other. I was landing at the one with a small control tower and received a “cleared to land”. The runway was rougher than I had remembered from a previous visit there. As I taxied toward the tower I was informed that this airport was closed. The runway was being repaired. They assumed I was landing at the other air-strip because “everyone knows this one is under repair.” “But it’s okay,” he hastened to add, “You can stay as long as you want and take off when you’re ready.” Such an unconcerned, friendly attitude is the rule.
*****
Jan. 5, 1973 - As we rolled down the runway for a daybreak take-off from France Field on the Atlantic end of the Canal Zone the left window popped open and I braked to a stop. Broken latch was repaired on the spot by Betty and me in about 30 minutes. We continued the trip to Guatemala City with one stop at San Jose, Costa Rica, our Cessna 182 being favored the entire trip by a steady tail-wind. We were checking into our hotel in Guatemala City by 3:00 p.m.
We spent five days enjoying the country-side adjacent to Guatemala City, then started for Tikal in northern Guatemala to view the fabulous Mayan ruins there. Our destination was Flores, near Tikal. As we neared Flores a solid layer of clouds forced beneath us and it appeared that we might have to abandon the trip and return to Guatemala City. However, a hole appeared in the clouds and we spiraled down through it to find that we were over dense jungle with no road or habitation in sight. Because of the cloud layer we could not go high enough to see any great distance. Fortunately Flores had a radio station which we could home in on with our ADF (automatic direction finds) and in a long three minutes the town and airstrip came into view.
Our visit to Tikal lived up to all our expectations.
In Flores we were staying a block from the air-strip in one of a series of cottages surrounded by a cement-block wall, with a gate which was kept locked at night as a precaution against thieves and prowlers. The last night we were there, at about 2:00 a.m., a howling thunderstorm struck - lightning, thunder, heavy rain and wind gusts which shook the cottage. I was deeply concerned about the safety of the airplane which I had tied down with ropes secure to stakes driven in the ground. Over Betty’s protests (“Do you really think you have to?”) I put on the oldest clothes I had, climbed the wall and walked the block to find the airplane rocking in the gusts. After further securing the ropes and stakes I trudged through the downpour and again climbed the wall, realizing what scant protection it really was against prowlers. It also occurred to me to wonder what eight happen if someone saw me breaching the wall in the darkness and mistook me for a prowler. I quickly dismissed the thought as I hurried to remove my dripping clothing, dry off and snuggle close to Betty hearing the wind and rain now with complete contentment instead of concern.
The next day the weather was marginal but reported to be better in Guatemala City where we were headed. On taxiing from the tie-down area I found the left brake was useless. No repair facilities of any kind. We decided to go. As we were rolling for a take-off a young man ran out onto the runway and waved us to a stop. He was an American, a local Peace Corps worker, he hastened to explain and there had been a shooting in town. One man, in a fit of jealous rage, had shot another in the chest and the local doctor had declared that the victim would quickly die unless he was flown at once to a specialist in Guatemala City. I pondered the situation: one good brake; marginal weather which might require flying at altitudes ranging up to 10,000 feet or higher without oxygen or pressurization; no medical or first-aid equipment of any kind; a patient with a chest wound who might very well die en route. I could see myself landing in Guatemala City with a man dead of a bullet wound and a story which I had no way of verifying. With due apologies and explanations to the Peace Corps worker I firmly declined and was met with an outraged outburst. He would report me to the American Medical Assn., the Federal Aviation Administration and anyone else he could think of. I could understand his anger but he, apparently, had no understanding of my position. Taking that type of patient to altitude in an unpressurized aircraft might well cause his death. I have often wondered whether my decision was the proper one but never learned of the patient’s fate.
On our return trip to the Canal Zone we were met with fierce headwinds, resulting in a ground speed average of only 100 mph and necessitating an unscheduled stop at Managua, Nicaragua for fuel. Managua was still seriously affected from a devastating earthquake which had occurred one month previously. We had seen the wide-spread damage when we flew over Managua on our way up to Guatemela. After fueling and clearing immigration and customs (just for a gas stop - or so we thought) we went to the airport office to file the required flight plan and to check the weather. We were informed that the strong winds were producing extreme turbulence in the mountainous areas alone our intended route and that we “could not” go on until the next morning. Being in a foreign country it is seldom wise to argue with an official. We asked for his recommendation of a place to stay and were informed that there were no hotel rooms available anywhere in town or the surrounding area due to so many being damaged by the “terremoto”. Perhaps, he suggested, they would let us sleep in the small office building of the local flying club. We asked. They would.
Resigned to staying overnight, we left our plane tied down outside the flying club office, hired a taxi and took a brief tour of Managua to view the damage. Most of the streets had been made passable but the devastation was still awe-inspiring. Hotels, office buildings (including the American Embassy) and homes were badly damaged. It was obvious that the adobe homes of the less affluent people were least able to withstand the tremors. Tent cities were still such in evidence, - these to house the multitude of homeless. One large tent city was just outside the main entrance to the airport. The airport terminal building itself was damaged only to the extent of a crack in the ceiling and one wall of the main waiting room.
We returned to the flying club office shortly after sundown to find four workmen playing cards there. They had been expecting us and indicated to us the two folding army cots in the adjacent room where we were to sleep. They seemed friendly enough but most of the Spanish they were speaking forth was unintelligible to us. We uneasily watched the game for a bit, then decided to have a night-cap from the half-full bottle of bourbon in our bag. The men were happy to join us. Finally we left the bottle with the men and told them we would retire. One of the men explained to us that when they left they would turn the lights out and lock the door so that no one could get in and thus we would be completely safe. We partially disrobed and climbed wearily into the cots, wondering if we had been wise in leaving the whiskey with the increasingly boisterous workmen. We did not sleep until after they had left and we heard them lock the front door. All was quiet. The room was lighted dimly by the light from a lamp on a pole outside the building. We slept.
About 2:00 a.m. I came suddenly awake and froze in fright when I saw the silhouette of a man in the room. How had he gotten in? No matter; we were about to be robbed. Hopefully nothing worse.There was no one within shouting distance. I lay quietly, resigned to submitting peaceably. He hesitated only a second then walked to the front door, walked out and locked it behind him. Betty had been awake too; we concluded that he had simply looked in on us to be sure we were all right. All right? We had damn near died of heart failure.
The early morning flight the next morning back to France Field was uneventful.
By this time my log book showed over 1,000 hours as pilot-in-command, with 43 hours of night flight and 19.4 hours of “hood time”.
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