Wingovers and Stopovers, my World Championship Journey

The short story of a long journey

It’s July 2011. I’m a 16-year-old on vacation with my mom. I crane my neck as I look out the airplane window at a little island nation called Singapore, telling myself to remember every little detail as I know I may never visit there again.

Fast forward 11 years. It’s December 30th, 2022. I, now a New Yorker and on vacation, am waking up on a futon in my aunt’s apartment in Tokyo when my life changes forever. My then girlfriend Annika leaps out of bed and whisper-shouts “oh my god the university in Singapore is offering me the job.” Equal parts proud and bewildered, I reply “holy hell we’re moving to Singapore.”

Many things happen in 2023: I marry Annika, leave New York, and finally catch the control line bug. I practically grew up at the flying field and was always around the hobby, but for some reason flying never caught on. But after attending 3 of the last 4 NATS as a spectator and judge for the first time since I was in high school, I’m hooked. And there’s an even bigger fish to catch. My dad and I realized that, as a resident of Singapore, I could fly in the upcoming World Championships in Muncie on behalf of my new nation.

There were a few complications, chiefly that I didn’t know the pattern and had never even flown inverted. In the weeks before my trans-hemisphirical move, my dad Steve, and my uncle Doug, took me to the field to learn inverted and outside loops. But still, when I first set foot in Singapore a little over 9 months before the Worlds, I had never flown anything past inside squares.

I did not know what to expect from the flying community in Singapore. I didn’t even know if one existed. All I had was the name of one flier, Hwee Ben Ang, and the location of a couple hobby shops. I got a lot more than I expected. Mr. Ang put me in contact with the small number of control line guys in the country, and the hobby shops were well stocked. In particular Mr. Ang introduced me to two now great friends; Vejay and Danny. Vejay loaned me one of his planes, an Allen Brickhaus Privateer, while I built a Vector 40 on our apartment balcony. The first time I flew the Privateer, Vejay told me “fly like it is your plane.” It was on this plane that I did my first outside squares, triangles, and horizontal and vertical eights. Danny pledged to coach me, help me with engine runs, mix fuel, and meet me twice a week for launches and flight videos.

I finished the Vector 40 and flew my first pattern in February. In the meantime, I sorted my entry. Bill Lee walked through every step I needed to take and I appreciate the time he took to make sure I got everything together. Since I am the only person in the country who has learned the pattern and there are only 4 of us who fly stunt planes, a team trials competition felt unnecessary. Instead, my team selection process consisted of asking the other Singaporean fliers if they were okay with me flying on their behalf. Every one of them was supportive. In fact, everyone I spoke to in Singapore, in and out of the hobby, loved the idea of our little nation on the world stage. I was even interviewed for a local news article!

From left to right: Early flights in Singapore with a Privateer belonging to my friend Vejay (sitting in the circle with me); apartment balcony building area. Searing daytime temperatures mean most building happens at night; my Gieseke Nobler I planned to fly in the Worlds.

Back home

I came back to America for the summer and quickly finished a Gieseke Nobler that my dad started. I had my World’s plane. All I had to do was get it to run right and not crash it. Oh if I only knew then what I now know.

We put an Irvine 36 in the plane, only to realize it was near impossible to start and gutless once it did. After discovering a Brodak 40 didn’t fit, Doug gave me an old OS 40 FP he had run a couple decades ago. Though I had still never flown a pattern on the plane, I felt good now that I had a reliable engine and a week at Brodak’s to sort it all out. Thank goodness, because it took the whole week to sort out. The engine turned out to be terminally worn, and Mike Alimov built a replacement 40 FP one evening out of whatever parts we could scrounge together. It worked, but Mike advised me that it might not last through 2 weeks in Muncie. Oh, and both flaps and an elevator came off during a practice flight.

Don’t crash and don’t finish last

After considering my options (which included running over my plane and never flying stunt again), I settled on an LA 46 I got from Joe Gilbert for power. With a consistent engine run and the plane reasonably trimmed, I felt good upon arrival in Muncie. I set myself 2 goals: don’t crash and don’t finish last.

To get a feel for competition flying and get used to a routine, I entered with the Gieseke Nobler in classic at the NATS. This was perfect: a no-pressure competition on more forgiving grass. Or so I thought. I flew last in the opening round and by then the wind was stiff and had already claimed 4 planes. Nevertheless, I put in what was going to be a very competitive flight until I ran out of talent. After the 3rd loop of the clover I got pushed down heavily and didn’t recognize it in time. Despite my best efforts to make the 4th loop the side of a quarter, I pancaked it. Oh fudge.

Only I didn’t say fudge.

Over the next couple hours I realized just how much I had screwed myself. I wanted to fly in classic partly because a crash on grass would’ve been much less likely to be terminal than on the L pad. Ironically, the grass circles were so perfectly trimmed that I destroyed the plane anyway. The nose was crunched, the prop shot through the outboard wing and took a few ribs out, and the pushrod was broken. Game over. I tend to easily get demoralized, but this time I wasn’t all that crushed. Mostly I was mad at myself for not realizing I was in trouble during the maneuver.

It didn’t take long for the destruction of my Worlds’ plane to be the talk of Muncie. Several people offered help and Matt Colan even packed his classic plane to bring to me. But my week, and the hopes of my nation, were saved by Jose Modesto, who offered to loan me his Aurora. After thinking about it for 5 seconds, I accepted. He told me to meet him at the Dairy Queen after practice and we’d get everything sorted out. It was that night in that Dairy Queen that I learned Joe Daly played minor league hockey, met Orestes’ lovely wife, and watched Orestes have a McFlurry for dinner. Then Jose and Joe briefed me on the plane, charging, and life with electric power. I thanked them about 100 times. I should’ve thanked them more. Just before I left, Jose told me: “promise me one thing. Fly it like it’s your plane.”

Getting to know you

Jose told me on my first flight I’d pull out of the wingover at 25 feet and say “holy s***.” He was wrong. I pulled out 30 feet and said “holy f***.” This was my first experience with top-level equipment and the difference was night and day. I struggled at first with the sensitivity and incredible amount of control, but after some handle adjustments and slowing the controls a tad, I got more comfortable. I put in flight after flight on the grass circles. The ability to strap in batteries and go fly without messing with fuel and engine runs was enlightening and helped me progress more quickly.

To make things official, we went to a print shop in the Muncie Mall to get some vinyl lettering made bearing my FAI number and Singapore. He had many questions as it appeared he was equally unfamiliar with control line and the nation of Singapore. But the end result was an official-looking plane. Going into day 1 of the competition, I looked and felt ready.

Where we’re going we don’t need wind

Walking is hard. Though I fly in calm air regularly in Singapore, there is still a faint breeze and I fly a plane with a 50-inch wingspan. I was wholly unprepared for dead air with a big plane. I discovered this 1 minute into my first official. Despite my best efforts, I continuously flew through my own wake and made this borrowed plane rock and dive like the Lusitania. So I took bigger steps, making me tense up and fly my maneuvers tiny and high. It wasn’t great. A score of 866 reflected that.

I had another flight that afternoon to make things right. I did not. There was a little more wind, but after the wingover it shifted 180 degrees. Right in front of the judges. And since it’s FAI, they couldn’t move. I attempted a few maneuvers across from the judges, but it was hopeless. I added several extra level laps to see if the wind would shift again, but it didn’t. I had no choice but to fly in the judges’ faces. After landing I joked with the judges “I hope you liked what little of it you could see” to try to lighten the mood, but I was crushed. One of the judges even told me it was terrible luck. The score, a 756, may not have reflected the actual flying, but trying to judge a pattern flown right in front of you is a futile task.

From left to right: the death of an airplane; dad and I flying the flag in the opening ceremonies; getting comfortable with the new plane.

I had a single flight on Day 2 and a chance to erase my 866 from flight 1. One of the Japanese pilots, Shoichiro Nogome, flew before me and as we passed each other in the circle, I asked him how the wind was. He told me to be careful because it was turbulent and shifty up high. It got even worse. I was the last flight of the day and as I took off, the wind completely died. It was just me and the thermals out there. What little, periodic puff of air was in my face. When I got to the hourglass, I had nothing at the 2nd corner and ran for my life. I saved the plane but not the flight. The maneuver ended up being closer to a badly hitched wingover than an hourglass and I got a zero for it. A 756 left me last but one with a single round left.

That evening I flew 7 practice flights. Doug informed me that I had been flying at 15 feet and not 7 or 8 as I had thought. So for each flight, my dad stood downwind to act as a marker for my bottoms. Doug stood upwind, yelling commands during the level laps. “Keep them open” before the rounds. “Straight up, straight down” before the squares. “Fly to your shoulder, don’t turn as much as a triangle” before the hourglass. He told me to say this to myself anytime I’m flying. It keeps the mind focusing forward instead of dwelling on previous errors, which I always do. That session was a revelation. Before it felt like I was pulling the handle and seeing what happened. With a height marker and a script, I felt more in control. I was telling the plane what to do instead of reacting to what it was doing.

Bow Tie Brigade

Inspired by the coordinated, patriotic regalia of most other teams, I made myself a Team Singapore uniform consisting of white shirts with a Singapore flag patch and a bow tie. For most of my life I’ve worn sportcoats and ties. That way if I ever underperformed, I’d at least look good doing it. A bow tie while flying maintained my integrity while keeping silk out of the prop. But after 3 terrible flights, I considered leaving the bow tie home. At the last minute, I threw it on. I’m glad I did.

I flew at 8:50 on a perfect morning. Gabe Alimov flew before me, and as we passed each other in the pit, I asked how the conditions felt. He said with a big smile “dude, it’s perfect out there. Just enough air to not have to walk.” He wasn’t kidding. 75 degrees, low humidity, and just enough of a breeze coming from the clean side of the field. It couldn’t get any better. I was flying on the circle I had my wind shift flight on and I was keen to show the judges something decent for their first real look at my flying. I placed the judges, then pointed directly at them and joked “then I’ll do the maneuvers right here!”

Dad stood downwind again (I find the FAI markers impossible to see in the circle). I appreciate that he was willing to be a marker given he wouldn’t get a good view of the flight. As I walked to the handle, I internalized advice Bob Hunt gave me earlier in the week: try for your possible best, not the best possible. From the moment the motor spooled up, I was talking to myself. “Keep them open;” “straight up, straight down;” “fly to your shoulder, don’t turn as much as a triangle.”

Not needing to walk, the rounds and squares were more consistent and close to the right size. The triangles were a mess, and the horizontal eight wasn’t too much to celebrate. Normally that’d wreck the rest of the flight, but the constant conversation with myself kept me focused on what was to come. The square eight was as good as I’d ever made it, with the intersections within a foot or two. The clover looked good but felt like pure terror. The Gieseke Nobler crash rattled me and I was practically yelling to command myself to keep the plane level after the 3rd loop and also not cut it off early. The one maneuver I wish I could have back was the hourglass. The angles were great. The top was straight and over my head. But I pulled out at 8 feet. I can still picture it. It could’ve been tasty.

All in all, it was the best flight I’d flown in my illustrious 6-month stunt career. When the plane rolled to a stop, a small crowd began clapping. To my shock, they were all in bow ties: Chris Cox, Dave Fitzgerald, Orestes, Matt Colan, Jose Modesto, Jim Aron, Dennis Nunes, and Doug. I was so surprised that all I could do was laugh. I was touched that they had taken the time to show me their support. Just as I realized that, my dad ran into the circle to give me a hug. More than anything I was thrilled to make good on all the hours and work he put into helping me. The relief, joy, and appreciation made my eyes water and I tried my hardest to hold it in. What finally did me in was as I left the circle, Mitsuru Yokohama, the Japan team manager who recognized me from a contest I attended when I was 10, came up to me. He told me in Japanese “Ken-chan (the diminutive form of my Japanese name), you did great!” and gave me a hug. Displays of emotion like that are rare in Japanese culture. The gesture caught me so off guard that I finally let tears flow.

By the time I’d composed myself and taken a few pictures, the amazing staff had already posted my score. 923. I was delighted to post a 900+ and be 38th of 47—decidedly not last! And if I narrow my window to just the competition, I could claim to achieve both goals: didn’t crash and not last. In the 2 weeks in Muncie I put in 56 flights—roughly 1/3rd of all the flights I’ve ever flown—and I still wanted to fly more.

There are more people than column inches to thank for helping me get here, but in particular I’d like to thank the following: In Singapore, Danny, Vejay, and Mr. Ang. In Dallas, Mike Scott, Philip Nickles, and Joe Hildreth. Also, Joe Gilbert, Mike Alimov, Bill Lee, and Matt Colan. My stunt lifelines Jose Modesto and Joe Daly. My wife, Annika, for her unwavering support and positivity. And above all, my uncle Doug and dad Steve for introducing me to this infuriating, distressing, amazing hobby.

I write these words while holed up in a library, hours before my deadline. Every time I tried writing this at home, I ended up in the garage, sanding away on a new plane. I guess this means I’ll see y’all next year.