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Out on a Limb With a Wing Walker
| Article
# : |
10233 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
8 / 1986 |
2,054 Words |
| Author
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Nour David
Nour David is a freelance photojournalist who has covered both
the White House and the war in Vietnam. She is president of
News Photos World-wide and has been living in the Washington
area for the past sixteen years. David is a former member of
the Board of Director at the National Press Club and White
House News Photographers. |
A colleague saw the ad in the newspaper and as a joke he clipped it and pinned it on the presidential travel bulletin board in the White House Pressroom.
Glory commensurate to risk. I pondered the suggestion of danger, of glory. I grew thoughtful about the hectic and stressful schedule of my life with the press corps.
No experience necessary.
On Friday, April 8, of 1977, I dialed the number and asked for Ron David. The chain of events that followed had an incredible impact on my life.
An authoritative and confident voice answered the phone. Responding to my questions, he explained briefly about wing walking, biplanes, and barnstorming. He spoke passionately about the challenge and exhilaration of the sport, and of dreams, of courage, and old-fashioned dauntlessness.
I hastily scheduled an appointment.
I arrived at the Flying Circus Aerodrome on the thirteenth, five hours late - delayed by a troublesome presidential news conference. My eyes scanned the field, curiously searching for the man behind the mellifluously fluid voice that had inspired a sense of trust and confidence within me almost instantaneously.
I spotted Ron David in the center of the grass field -checking out the sky diver. His preoccupation gave me time to ponder and walk around the hanger. The biplanes were there and now finally I had the opportunity of seeing those fabulous flying machines up close. I touched one of the wings. Was it metal, fabric, or a combination of materials I couldn't recognize? The metal strings between the upper and lower wings looked to me like a strange harp placed betwixt them. The cockpit and the instrument panel looked simple and archaic, and the smell of petrol mixed with the field grass and the country air was transporting.
In the left-hand corner of the hangar there was a red and white biplane - I supposed it to be at least. Obviously, it was not an abstract work of art, but the uneasy marriage of earth and flying machine. What had happened to the pilot - or the wing walker?
I waited in the executive office of the Flying Circus Aerodrome, a rude partition
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