The sky may not be your limit

“Um, Ernie, he’s coming right at us,” I could hear my voice crackle through the headset as the other small airplane grew steadily larger through the camera’s viewfinder.

Ernie, in the pilot seat, croaked back, “Don’t worry, we’re at 2,400 feet and he’s somewhere around 3,000. Are we close enough for a good shot?”

That’s when Tom, the other plane’s pilot, fizzled in over the radio, “Ernie, I’m also at 2,400 feet,” casually announcing, as pilots do, that we weren’t merely close enough, we were on a collision course.

Ernie presumably relied on his instincts, which was a terrible mistake. The sky being a three-dimensional space, Ernie decided that instead of going above or below Tom, he would speed up and loop around in front of him. I closed my eyes and Tom purred a protest over the headset, “Ernie, don’t cut in front of me,” again as nonchalantly as if he were announcing the temperature at our arrival location.

In a moment we were on the other side of Tom. “How’s that?” asked Ernie, completely oblivious that I was behind him making my peace with God.

I looked out the window at the other plane, parallel and now slightly below us. We needed to be closer for a good shot. Even at maximum zoom, Tom wouldn’t come out as more than a speck.

“Perfect,” I muttered into the mouthpiece, raising the camera to my watering eyes. I held down the shutter and let it rattle off two-dozen shots. “Beautiful.”

Wide open skies

It had all made sense on the ground.

I was to accompany the two amateur aeronauts into the sky, snapping photos of Tom as I rode with Ernie, and then shooting Ernie as I flew back with Tom. A local magazine agreed to buy a photo and cutline, a newspaper was interested in a small feature about amateur pilots, and Tom and Ernie were eager to buy all the photos that no one else wanted.

And to top it all off, I got a free ride through the Florida skies. Free entertainment is the main reason to freelance, after all — other than putting food on the table.

The first problem, however, surfaced shortly after takeoff: I’m not a photographer. I’m a writer.

I’ve had photos printed before, usually headshots taken after interviews. But I’d never attempted a “photo shoot,” normally preferring to snap a few quick shots before I left. If they work, great! If not, the publication can get its own photo. I just need to write a solid story.

I barely realized that I had crossed the line with this story by agreeing to do a photo and cutline. After all, without a good photo, no one needs a finely manicured cutline.

Furthermore, half the money to be netted from this project would come from selling the prints to the pilots. Which would be difficult to do without good prints.

And finally, how would I explain to the newspaper that my pilots wouldn’t take their photographer flying since I’d already misled them into thinking I was the paper’s photographer?

But I ignored such clouds on the horizon and borrowed a professional-quality digital SLR with a spy-satellite zoom lens from a photographer friend. “How hard can it be,” I figured. “Just point and shoot.”

Mayday/ Trouble at 2,000 feet

At the airport that morning, I conducted a photo shoot of the men and their planes, playing the part of a photographer like a pro. I borrowed a ladder and climbed it to get shots angled down, I laid in the moist grass to get powerful rockstar up-angled photos. I coaxed them to look at the planes coquettishly, hold it, now look coy!

Not once did it occur to me to verify that the white balance was correctly set for the foggy morning. Every photo I took was either over- or under-exposed, but they all looked great on the little LCD preview screen.

We took to the air as the mist lifted slightly. First I climbed in with Tom, somewhat nervous about the tiny plane.

“I’m trusting you here,” I said to Tom. “I told my wife that I wouldn’t get myself killed out here, and she hates when I lie to her.”

“Not a worry,” he cooly replied. “I’ve done this hundreds of times.”

Tom’s flying was smooth, but I quickly learned that the fog was indeed smog, and it framed both sky and earth in a thick brown haze. No matter which vantage point I directed Tom to assume, every photo of Ernie’s plane resembled a fuzzy bird swimming through a milky sludge.

“Looks great,” I said, lying to Tom to keep his spirits up as the plane landed. Luckily, the smog burned off as they refueled, and I hopped into Ernie’s plane looking for those few shots I needed to pay the bills.

“I’m trusting you here,” I chuckled to Ernie as I heard Tom’s plane ascend behind me. “I told my wife that I wouldn’t get myself killed out here, and she hates when I lie to her.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” Ernie mumbled. That’s when I realized he had lost Tom’s radio frequency and didn’t seem too sure how to find him again.

Hard landing

The twenty minutes I’d spend clutching Ernie’s passenger seat, desperately searching the horizon for Tom, assured me that Ernie wanted me dead. He dodged erratically to avoid clouds, and at one point realized with embarrassment that he was on course to hit a radio tower.

My stomach was swimming in my ears when Tom’s plane appeared before us. Immediately, we were barreling at him in kamikaze-style.

This is when the acrobatics ensued. I knew as soon as we broke off from that high-flying pursuit that I hadn’t taken a single printable photo.

Back on the ground 20 minutes later, I crawled out of Ernie’s plane. I still needed an interview, but my lingering air-sickness prevented my brain from caring. I slipped Ernie a business card, waited for him to disappear into the sky again, and collapsed in the grass.

A moment later, I opened my eyes at the sound of voices nearby. There was a son, sitting on his father’s shoulders. The boy flapped his arms like a bird as the father pointed out the different models of airplanes taking off. I must have watched for 10 minutes before they walked off and I realized that it would have been the perfect photo.

Everyone has their limitations, and nature lets us know when we’ve wandered too far. In subsequent assignments, I kept a keen eye on what I was expecting of myself. You need something written? I’m your man. You need photos taken? Graphic design? A video produced? I can refer you to someone.

As my nausea subsided, I realized the project was grounded. I had no interview, no photo, only a newfound appreciation for both photographers and terra firma. The next day I sent a string of e-mails letting everyone know that I had nothing to deliver, and apologizing for promising them the sky.

-30-

Writers writing about writing

I have an unnatural affection for famous quotations. They should rarely (if ever) be used in a story, I believe -- your goal should be to create new famous quotes, not recycle old ones. But they come in handy in conversation, as if all wisdom came in a snack-food size.

Here are some gems I came across recently in the Funny Times:

A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
- Thomas Mann

A man has to take a lot of punishment to write a really funny book.
- Ernest Hemingway

If I didn't have writing, I'd be running down the street hurling grenades in people's faces.
- Paul Fussell

Having been unpopular in high school is not just cause for book publication.
- Fran Lebowitz

Every journalist has a novel in him, which is an excellent place for it.
- J. Russell Lynes

If you can't annoy someone, there's little point in writing.
- Kingsley Amis

I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork.
- Peter De Vries