Would Your Club Mind If . . .
Arrival at the White House
The signs of security were everywhere in Washington that day: air traffic had been routed away from the city, streets were blocked near the vicinity of the White House, and a sign on Pennsylvania Ave. said "No Vans or Pickups Beyond This Point."
I waited on the south portico of the White House along with representatives of the press, lobbyists, and foreign dignitaries. We all searched the sky to get a glimpse of the President's plane.
Suddenly it appeared above the pines that decorated the periphery of the famous residence—a gleaming red, white, and blue airplane with the letters spelling "The United States of America" on the fuselage. It flew a wide sweeping turn over the city, then began its descent.
"Clear the landing area. The President's plane is about to land," a voice from a loudspeaker shouted across the expanse of the south lawn of the White House. Reporters and officials scurried off the grass.
The President's plane leveled its wings and began its final approach, lowering its landing gear and descending steeply. I noted that although the White House lawn was large, it was just barely big enough for a landing field.
The plane slowed as it began to flare. It touched down and rolled to a stop. The spectators cheered as the little RC airplane taxied up to the President's field box, and the propeller stopped turning.
Egad, it's like flying in an air show every time he goes up, I thought. Not even a little mistake would go unnoticed. If his loops drifted downwind, Paul Harvey would criticize it. If he forgot to clip the pin to his antenna, Jack Anderson would report it. And if he crashed, the stock market would plummet, too.
I wouldn't care for that. Flying in a couple of contests a year, to please other people's criteria, is fun and a challenge. But most of the time I'd rather fly to please myself—just to bore a few holes in the sky. I wouldn't want my flying to be closely scrutinized all the time, like the President's must be.
Having so little in common with the President, I was curious about why I was asked to come to the White House. Other than the fact that we both fly RC, the only experience I had to share was that I am also a president. But I'm just president of my RC model airplane club.
A Private Request
I was ushered forward to the President and introduced.
"I'm so glad to meet you," he said, offering his hand.
I shook it. I recognized the slippery feel of castor oil on it.
"You fly model one?" he asked as he offered the transmitter to me.
I looked around at the horde of reporters with their movie and TV cameras. Flash bulbs were popping like crazy all around me in spite of the bright sunlight.
"Of course," I said. "But I'd rather not fly with all this attention focused on me."
"Me, either," he said. "That's why I asked you here. Let's go to my office, and I'll tell you what I mean."
As we walked into the White House, the President sprayed his hands from a bottle of Fantastik and wiped them with a paper towel. As we entered the Oval Office, I noticed a couple chips of balsa wood in the carpet.
"I must ask you to keep the details of this meeting in the strictest secrecy," he said, as I wondered if anything I were to say would be recorded, to remain forever in an archive with other famous recordings made in this room.
"I need, and therefore the country needs, your help. You and your club can perform a great national service," he continued as he offered me a chair in front of his huge desk. I noticed the pen holder in the center of that famous desk—probably the very one that holds the pen that signs SALT treaties and bills into law—and it was engraved "DCRC Fun Fly. Egg Drop... 1st Place."
"We'll do what we can. How can we help?" I responded.
"As you know," he went on, "RC pilots like ourselves need our flying. The pressures and strains of the workaday world must be balanced by the refreshing diversion of flying. For people like us, a good run through the Advanced Pattern is more than an afternoon lark. It's a necessity when it comes to maintaining our emotional and mental health.
"Some people unwind with a good book, or they jog, or they merely watch TV. But for an RC flier, the joy that comes with the grace of controlled flight against a deep blue sky revives his grasp of the physical world, and cleanses his tired brain of the mundane chores of civilization. With an RC transmitter in his hands, his reach is extended to the sky, and he can stretch out and feel space and time."
"You mean it's fun to fly," I suggested.
"Precisely," he said. "Furthermore, the more burdened the RC flier is with the problems of the world, the more he needs that occasional escape to the fantasy of flight."
"And you're not getting enough flying," I said.
"You're getting the idea," he continued. "You saw my problem out there on the White House lawn. No room to maneuver, too many trees, and too many people. I've tried flying in front of the Capitol steps, but there's too much traffic nearby. I even tried float-flying off the reflecting pool across from the Washington Monument, but some folks said it was disrespectful."
"They never understand," I replied.
"Right. And I've been criticized for spending too much time on model airplanes. When I created the Department of Model Aviation, I was criticized. And what a storm of protest when I ordered the FCC to allocate a hundred new frequencies for RC! In fact, if I get any more noise complaints about flying off the White House lawn, I might lose my flying site."
"Yeah. We've had that kind of problem, too," I sympathized.
"What I need is a flying site like your club field. I need a place where I can get away and fly without being observed. Your field is surrounded by a swamp, has only one road, and it is very secluded. Would your club mind if I were to fly at your field?"
I paused to reflect on the President's request. My brain raced through the bylaws of the club. I found nothing to prohibit it, I evaluated the current club politics. No one would be offended. Not knowing what to say, I responded with the same line that I give to every prospective member.
"Well," I said, "you'll have to pay the dues."
At the Club Field
It wasn't long after that meeting when the President arrived at the club field for the first time. By then, the other club members had been informed and sworn to secrecy.
The President's helicopter came in over the swamp and landed in the overflow parking lot. Secret Service men scattered all over the field while others set up the President's plane.
"I wonder if he will fuel it up himself, or have some servant do it," a club member asked.
"He'll do it himself," I said. "That's part of the fun of flying."
Indeed, the President seemed to be like any other flier. He had a good time with the other club members. The lengthy technical discussions and joking with the other fliers eased the strain of his weighty office. We invited him to be a judge at the National Sport Scale Contest, but he said he couldn't because he had to attend a Summit Conference that day. The first lady came in instead, and she helped organize the picnic, although she was a bit overdressed.
Then, one day, I was called once again to the Oval Office.
"Your club field is a perfect flying site. So roomy! So private! How is the club taking to my use of the flying field?" he asked.
"Well, you know we appreciate the field improvements you've put in," I said. "The privacy fence is nice. The frequency monitor is great. The Marines who find lost planes in the swamp are super. But the clubhouse is a little more than we needed. Even though the dining room serves delicious meals and the pro shop has everything, all we really wanted was just a little sunshade and an outhouse for the ladies."
"I see," said the President. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. The guys have been grumbling about the helicopter traffic. Some say it's distracting. And we're afraid the neighbors might complain. They tend to blame everything on us, you know. Also, the security clearances that we are required to have are a bother. Then there are the field box searches. Well . . . couldn't you make your own flying site at Camp David?"
"It would take too long—government bureaucracy," he replied.
"Well, how about buying your own place?" I asked.
"It would have to go out for bids. Every congressman would want it in his district.
"Impossible! I'm afraid that your flying site is the only place available to me."
"Well, okay," I said. "If it's in the national interest."
An International Call
Just then the red telephone on the President's desk rang.
"Oh my God, it's World War Three," I thought.
The President picked up the phone and spoke a greeting in stumbling Russian, but continued in English.
"Yes, he's here right now. Why don't you ask him yourself?" the President said to the caller on the other end of the hot-line telephone.
"It's the Premier of the Soviet Union," he said to me, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. "He wants to speak to you."
I took the telephone with trembling hands, deciding simultaneously to let someone else become club president next year. I greeted the Premier and inquired as to how I might be of service.
"Comrade," he said. "Did you know that I fly RC, too?"
"No kidding," I remarked. "What are you flying?"
"I just test-hopped an Aeromaster made from an American kit. It's covered with British heat-shrink plastic. It has a Japanese radio, and an Italian engine, wood from Ecuador, wheels from Malaysia, French glue, and it's built with German tools and sanded with Norwegian sandpaper. I'm being criticized for being soft on international capitalism. But my biggest problem is that China is a really bad place to fly. Too many walls, too much interference from electronic surveillance, no privacy. What I need is a place where I can escape the pressures of high office. I need a place where I can reach out and feel space and time, to refresh my tired brain by drawing castor oil trails across a deep blue sky. Would your club mind if..."
Transcribed from original scans by AI. Minor OCR errors may remain.
