Ah, to Dine on a Tin Goose

I fly the precursor to the 727.

- Peter Garrison

You push that tip up, and I’ll grab this one.”

Raising myself on my toes, I push the tip of the 9-foot propeller upward; the other end drops into Chuck Wentworth’s reach, and he pulls it through. We repeat the procedure a few times, clearing any residual oil from the cylinders, and then move on to the next propeller. This one is too high up to reach; Chuck mounts a tall ladder to pull it through, then on to the third and the tiptoe method again. While we’re at it, we check the engines — they’re stark naked, not a cowling in sight — for the usual stuff: dangling plug wires, oozing oil and crows.

Chuck folds up the ladder and leans it against the hangar door. 

“Want to get up on the wing now?” 

We march single file up the aisle. There’s a hatch above the copilot’s seat and a foothold in the bulkhead behind it. He clambers through. By the time I get my head outside, he’s half-sitting, half-lying on the corrugated roof, struggling with the balky cap of the center tank. I begin to climb out but think better of it. The top of the cabin is curved, smooth, and about 12 feet off the ground.

With a dipstick that looks to have been made from a discarded broom handle, Chuck eventually determines that there are about 50 gallons in each of the three tanks. He then struggles back down into the cockpit, like a lookout descending from the rigging.