This airport had been my heart and soul from my late teens for more than several years. I could hear WNEW dribbling out of the crappy radio on the counter, the Coke machine whining, smell the vague noxiousness of the heat from the propane heater. I could see the men that would never be forgotten to me, the instructors that would guide me and help me to get my licenses.
We usually climbed up to 400 or 500 feet and followed the Parkway toward home but I had a different plan. I was so damn tired I crossed the beach at Wildwood and dropped down to ten feet. The sun was low off my left. With the doors and windows open, a cool breeze and the near water would keep me awake.
Cecil was checking with the pilots to see if they needed anything. As he did several times a summer, he stuck his head in my Cub and asked, “Do you have a bottle to pee in?” Everyone but me carried a bottle. I guess it was a young guy thing. He liked to kid me about it. “Nah, I can hold it.”
We drove down the dirt access road between cornfields, and over a slight rise, a magical world appeared. There were grass runways and airplanes. An airplane took off. The scene was complete all at once and etched into my memory. The airport was a magnificent place.
The flight was good, although I did notice a little burble in my seat when I put in up elevator, something loose I guessed, a fairing or something. I wished I had looked the airplane over in Cape May, but I was 20 years old and everything was full-throttle all of the time. Hell, it was flying. I forgot about it.