Like many pilots who have had the opportunity to fly a wide assortment of airplanes, I’m occasionally asked, “what’s your favorite airplane?”
The inquisitive ones usually think I’m most enamored of the fastest or the largest airplane I’ve flown. The truth is a very different story.
Of all the airframes in my logbooks, I’ll sway towards the slowest, least complex machines listed there 9 times out of 10.
There are two that stand out in my mind: The Piper J-3 Cub, and the Lockwood AirCam. I’ve been fortunate enough to own and fly an example of each.
I truly regret selling both. They are remarkable aircraft that do everything I want an airplane to do — which isn’t much when you get right down to it. I want them to fly. That’s it. Just fly.
The Cub is as spartan as an airplane can reasonably be and still provide all the information a pilot might need. The most valuable instrument in the airplane may be the view. With a passenger up front it’s difficult to see the panel anyway. Sound and the sight picture become the Cub pilot’s guiding lights. The thrum of the engine tells me how much power I’m producing. The angle of the wingtip and nose to the horizon tells me all the attitude information I need.
The airspeed indicator is relatively unnecessary since speed isn’t an attribute the Cub is known for. As for navigation equipment, a roadmap and a watch can pretty much handle the job. If there’s a strong headwind I might substitute a calendar for the watch. It might be a more accurate indicator of my anticipated arrival time.
The AirCam is essentially a Cub with redundant systems. I sit four feet ahead of the wing when I’m in the pilot’s seat. Visibility is only restricted by the slender cockpit that surrounds my lap. From the hips up I’m out of the airplane. Flying the AirCam most closely resembles sitting in a canoe at altitude. The sense of liberation with unrestricted horizons is beyond my ability to articulate, but it calls out to me for a return to flight whenever I can.
Of course, the AirCam looks nothing like the Cub, it sounds nothing like the Cub, and it doesn’t share a single piece of equipment with the Cub. Yet it fulfills the same mission. And that mission is my favorite aeronautical adventure of all.
In either machine my takeoff roll is just a few hundred feet. The AirCam leaps off the ground more quickly, but the Cub does it with the style of a 1940s movie star. The AirCam is more closely aligned with an overcaffeinated teenager. No matter which one I’m at the controls of, the thing just accelerates and gets airborne so quickly I fall more in love with them every time they lift me off the ground.
Unlike most airplanes I’ve flown, I’m not seeking altitude in the Cub or the AirCam. Not much anyway — 500 AGL will do it. Which means both give me the enjoyment of a low and slow adventure that is unparalleled in any other machine.
I get a great deal of pleasure from knowing that my arrival won’t involve a descent. I’ll actually have to climb to pattern altitude in order to join the pattern when I return home.
As amazing as all that is, and it really is, what I love most about flying the Cub and the AirCam is the opportunity to leave civilization if I wish. Getting off the beaten path is appealing to some of us. And with the ability to fly off a grass field or depart a body of water — even one you might not think large enough to act as an aviation base of operations — is amazing.
My first seaplane experience was in the AirCam. Fitted with amphibious floats it was the most go-anywhere machine I’ve ever encountered. The power-to-weight ratio allows the AirCam to leap off the water in no time. It’s essentially on the step by the time the throttles hit the stops. It’s in the air seconds later.
With the center of gravity shifted lower by the weight of the floats, it’s a remarkably stable machine that can manage water operations with ease. The availability of differential thrust makes turning downwind a non-event — a task that can sometimes require significant ingenuity and effort in a single-engine seaplane.
I earned my seaplane rating in a J-3 Cub. That spare cockpit coupled with a set of straight floats made the experience one of truly bare bones, seat of the pants flying. From my position in the back seat and with the clamshell door fully open I get to experience every bit of the flight with all my senses. Even the occasional splash of lake water into the cockpit on landing or takeoff is a welcome thrill.
There was a time when no hangar space was available at my home airport. Thankfully, my good friend Andy lived on a private runway not far from my home. He allowed me to store my Cub in his hangar for several months.
I’m not a huge fan of commuting by automobile. But it was worth the drive to Andy’s place every time. I’d pull the Cub out, pre-flight the thing, flip the prop to bring its engine to life, and taxi out onto the grass. The uneven ground caused the airplane to wobble erratically as we moved to the end of the runway. After a run-up that was always quick and usually successful, it was time to line-up, advance the throttle and go.
Grass is a wonderful thing to experience in a classic taildragger, especially on landing. It’s not at all like setting down on pavement. I liken the experience to sliding into a butter dish. The grass softens the touchdown, stealing the squeak of the wheels on pavement in favor of the soft whoosh of rubber on turf.
The airplane slows quickly with no brakes necessary — even more quickly if the grass hasn’t been cut in a while.
I could go on and on about my love for aeronautical surf n’ turf. But I’d rather go experience it again.
Consider this my heartfelt encouragement for you to do the same. Even if you’re not a certificated pilot. Grab a taildragger. Engage a CFI. Go experience the water or the turf or both.
You’ll be forever glad you did.
