It was a little late and a lot hot because we had waited for the "Sunday Morning" TV show to air their coverage of the annual Oshkosh Air Show and aviation celebration. It was well after 10:00 by the time we saw the complimentary piece followed by another piece with an air crash. (sigh)
The last time out, we found the rear nav light was not working, so while Hubby climbed our little ladder to change the bulb, I moved listlessly to untie ropes, plug in headsets, and stow sundry items in their cargo or back seat homes. Hot, hazy, humid air smeared our view of the cloudless pale blue sky like an unwashed window. By the time I was ready to wilt, Hubby had completed his preflight.
Our Sunday afternoon destination of GoodSpeed (42B) had been chosen from two 1997 entries at http://www.100dollarhamburger.com. Fully aware of the disadvantages of relying on five year old pireps, we checked the "little brown book" which also indicated lunch might be available there. We plotted a course and made a note of nearby alternatives that also might have food.
Goodspeed, a small layer of asphalt next to the Connecticut River, is visible if you know where to look. After we spotted it, it disappeared for a few moments behind a ridge on downwind. Turning base, it reappeared and then on final, Hubby swooped down a couple of hundred feet above a beautiful swing bridge over the river for a lovely touchdown on the 50 x 2000 foot runway.
No taxiways adorned the tiny field, so we swung around and taxied back on the runway past a long banner on the grass. The guy smoothing and straightening it didn't even look up as our wing passed overhead.
Hubby paid the $3 landing fee at the FBO and I asked about a place to eat. After a second of looking confused, the young man pointed in the direction of the bridge and said there was a really nice restaurant a short walk away and a beer garden behind it. We decided on the beer garden. Hubby asked about the banner on the ground (yes they do banner-towing there) and sea-plane lessons (yes, $950 for a 2-day course) and aerobatic (no) and tail-wheel training (no, but tail-wheel trainers use the field).
We climbed toward a cheerful Victorian house up the hill, avoiding the car that seemed to want to use the street. Before we reached the house that we believed to be our destination, I was drawn by the sight of trees and (blessed) shade to turn back toward the river. Soon the sound of a stringed instrument and then a singer piqued my curiosity.
Lo! There was the beer garden. The singer who strummed a guitar had a good voice. With no break, he ranged from country to rock to the blues. He was joined by another guitar at "Margaritaville".
We sat under the blue-striped awning and ate our $100 hamburgers while watching tugs, river boats, fishing boats, and other river flotsum move back and forth under the swing bridge. Old people strolled on the grassy verge and up onto the old pier that might have once been a loading dock for steam boats. The food was good. The service was odd but adequate.
We left the serenity, shade and breeze for a walk into town. The restaurant appeared to be one of those up-scale Connecticut country club places with real white linen napkins. Next door, the community playhouse was getting ready for the evening's entertainment. After strolling past another five or six Victorian shops we determined that we had probably seen the entire village and returned, past the beer garden, onto the dock, and alongside the river. As we crossed a foot bridge a fish darted underneath a clump of floating algae--the only visible life in the river.
An airplane entered the pattern. We watched his rock-steady approach and saw the long hook drop down just as he crossed beyond the bridge. His target, a line held between two thin poles, seemed nearly invisible. The hook bounced in the air and we both groaned, thinking he had missed, then slowly, elegantly, the banner lifted into the air. With a roar of effort, plane and banner climbed toward the shore. We watched in awe.
Although we had left the window open on the plane and had hidden our headsets in the shade of the instrument panel, the black ear-cups burned our ears and the blast of propeller-driven air singed eyebrows. The limp orange windsock shrugged "whatever" as Hubby decided to use Runway 14. We watched carefully for banner planes and other visitors as Hubby moved the throttle to the wall and moved sluggishly into the hazy hummus.
New York Approach was in the midst of a long auctioneer-call of jockeying big guys and little guys trying to come to earth when Hubby finally got a word in over Norwalk. Approach was soon happy to hand him off to Tower.