We kicked off a great week of flying with something a little different this time: two bowling balls and two paper bags of flour.  No we weren’t testing the forces of gravity with rolling balls around inside the plane, and we weren’t trying to take out the pesky gophers trying to dig holes in the gravel runway.  Nope.

We were lining up behind a row of other airplanes for an annual fly-in.

Fly-ins are these really cool small town events that bring communities together to look at planes and ride in planes and play with bowling balls and planes.  A lot of pilots come to the event.  But more importantly, a lot of people who don’t dream about airplanes every night get to see a different side of aviation than the usual commercial flights.  Volunteers take kids on small flights.  Local organizations host pancake breakfasts and bbqs.  You don’t have to be a pilot to attend a fly-in, so keep an eye out for them in your area… especially if you’re interested in the bowling balls.

All of the planes lined up on the runway.  The air was warm and damp from rain.  We all knew the flight pattern – a big rectangular course over the airport at a designated speed and altitude.  Then one by one, we’d fly above a stack of oil barrels in a field and drop our “bombs”.  First came a bowling ball for pilot bowling.  Martin flew the plane while I held the ball out the door.  He had to turn the plane just slightly so I could open the door far enough to get the bowling ball out.  I could not have held on without the longest straps we could find drilled to the balls.  Then I held on – the strap on my hand inside the plane, the ball outside the door – while he counted down and straightened the plane.  ”3… 2… 1… drop.”

Let me just say it’s a good thing the Air Force didn’t recruit either one of us after high school.  We were way off target.  Except we didn’t know.  We couldn’t see our ball or the target after we dropped the ball because the rear of the plane blocked our view.  As we continued on the flight pattern, we couldn’t see anyone else bowling, either.

When it was our turn again, I waited for Martin’s countdown.  Delaying for even one second would mean we’d be hundreds of feet off the target.  Well we were hundreds of feet off the target.

The good news is that so was everyone else.

We made one last loop around the airport.  Martin flew directly over the windsock while I held two paper bags with flour in them.  I couldn’t even see if the crowd was watching.  The bags nearly ripped open as I tried to wedge the plane door open with my foot and slip the sacks out when Martin radioed “drop!”

When we landed, neither of us could stop smiling.  It isn’t every day you drop a bomb with people cheering you on, you know.