In these difficult economic times, you might be expecting this post to be about secure investments. Obviously, coming from me, that would be a foolish assumption.
Today, three of us flew to Fargo to attend the Fargo AirSho. Mark flew the plane which was a relief to me; the NOTAMS and exit traffic were a little overwhelming just sitting in the right seat, listening, much less flying. The Fargo Jet Center, with its delux restrooms, amenities, free beverages and snacks, and pilot lounge, was also overwhelming. I took a bite out of a crisp, free apple and damned the world.
Oh wait. That’s another story.
Anyway.
Though my sunblock performed dismally, I had a fun day at the aAirSho. I wondered who was responsible for cleaning up all the FOD left by the crowds on the taxiway and surrounding vicinity. I shuddered at the jet-propelled outhouse and the required bathroom jokes and commentary the announcer provided for background as it zipped around the runway. Patty Wagstaff put on an absolutely incredible show — Mark said she was his favorite, and I have to agree; phenomenal. Being short and too far from the runway put a kabosh on me seeing the jet-powered school bus and Jim Mahoney playing chicken out on the runway. The sky divers, the vintage airplanes — all of it, really, made for a fun day.
The Blue Angels were the last act.
I’d never seen them before, and was quite excited. Formations and roaring and music and…wait a minute.
After standing, head and neck cranked at an uncomfortable angle, sun baking down, staring at the sky as the Blue Angels performed manuevers that were so close and tight I could scarcely believe it, there was a sudden lull. People began picking up their chairs, and I asked if the show was done. It seemed as if half the people were leaving.
“I suppose they want to try and beat the crowds,” Mark said. “That’s stupid; this is why they came. Why not stick around for the whole show?”
After a short while, the announcer came back on and said that the Blue Angels were finished. One of the jets had a malfunction and the show had to stop.
We made our way back to the pick-up point where the shuttles from the Fargo Jet Center would bring us back to where beloved Chip awaited us for the flight home. Though the Blue Angels had probably completed about 3/4 of the show, it was still a disappointment to see the blue jet being towed off of the runway after landing with the assistance of a hook and cable. Mark overheard, on the radio of some of the staff working on getting the display aircraft out to the runway and on their way, that the problem had been with the landing gear. He took a photographo of the jet as it was towed away, just in front of us.
“Here it is,” he said, dismally eyeing the mechanically defunct jet, “the finale of the Blue Angels show.”
I snickered.
“Maybe we should call them Blue Chips,” he added.
I punched him in the arm.
Chip got us both there and back, with no problems. Admittedly, for a short while, the cars on the interstate were moving faster than we were (though this was rectified once we got to altitude and were no longer climbing).
Blue Chips, indeed.
