Legendary Aerodrome stalwart and instructor, David Rusty Fox was born a spectacularly gifted pilot-he was also likely a magician. His airplanes levitated, danced and performed slights-of-hand that might confound Houdini. Borrowed (we assumed the owner knew Dave was flying it) a Jungmeister did triple snap rolls, the J-2 Cub pulled up to a full stall, below 100 feet agl, then recovered and the Fokker D-7 literally hung from its prop. Given Dave’s self confidence and the edge upon which he flew, it is not surprising that a Fairchild 24’s force landed on stone wall, an Aeronca Champ taxied into a parked car and the same Fokker D-7 disappeared into a drainage ditch.

The machine that suffered most was Dave’s J-3 Cub. N33582, the alumna of Loch Haven Class of 1945 was kitted out in plain, white butyrate with grey-green numbers that, while legal, seemed hard to read at a distance. For some character, one of Dave’s students emblazoned a cross and cockcade on her flanks. Other than having the 75 hp modifications to her Continental, she was stock, pleasantly perfumed with 80 octane, dope and an accent of the Sir Walter Raleigh which Dave packed into the pipe that was his constant companion.

In Dave’s company, she led an exciting life-so did anyone who spent any time with him.

One afternoon, the wind gusted uncharacteristically from the west, directly across the Aerodrome’s runway. It was a turbulent day and no one envied Dave’s student about to get a tutorial in wheel landings. The Cub’s tie down was east of the runway, next to the old No.1 Hanger. Dave turned her around, sniffed the wind, consulted his muse, went to full throttle and was airborne before he got to the runway. Given the gale, he cleared the trees on the west side of the field, returned, picked up the student and used the conventional routing for the lesson. This new, SE-NW, runway pleased Dave and he employed it whenever possible. If the wind was not sufficient for a totally westerly departure, he turned north, at about 25 feet, and used the regular pattern. The southerly departure was deemed impossible-the angle was too acute even for Dave. This became a much-anticipated “Fox Trick.”

A fateful day found the wind from the west and Dave with a student scheduled. As he peeked and prodded, pre-flighting the Cub, the regulars gathered to claim orchestra seats. Dave got a prop, stood on the brakes, ran her up and let loose. Whether it was a rock that nudged him a bit off course or just a miscalculation remains a discussable topic. In the event, the right wing tip caught a hanger brace, was neatly chopped off, fluttering to the ground, the whole wing was swept back a bit and the Cub pivoted 90 degrees. Normally, this would have put Dave in the shrubs. However, a friend had parked his Bonanza in front of the shrubs and it was time for some Fox sorcery.

The hobbled Cub climbed, sufficient to clear the Bonanza, but not the looming, taller saplings. Suddenly, the left wing was inches from the ground, the damaged right wing was almost vertical and the “impossible” turn to the south, more than a full 180 degrees, was accomplished. Arrival was three point, in the middle of the runway, the engine at idle, right wing drooping, Dave sulking in the cockpit, muttering and packing his pipe. I almost made it to solo with the hours bartered working on that wing.

Years passed and N33582 needed new cover. Frugal, Dave traded the job for flying time with two of his friends. They took the better part of a morning for reassembly and, a few items remaining, they left a “Do not fly” note in the cockpit and headed for lunch just before Dave arrived.

A digression on Dave’s ground transportation-he fancied ancient Studebakers, preferably Golden Hawks, the more battered and battle hardened, the better. He packed them with airplane parts, car parts (which never seemed to make it to the car) and, possibly, some notes with IBM trade secrets that were perfectly safe in all the clutter. His vehicles became two-place machines and even that was being a bit generous.

Studebaker parked, Dave commenced a seemingly thorough preflight. Finding nothing amiss, he tossed the “Do not fly” note as overly cautious, assuming he could at least taxi-test prior to the lunch crew’s return. Directly, he was on the runway, doing “S” turns and circles, happily whistling away in the front seat (at, maybe, 120 lbs., with pipe, Dave presented no weight and balance problems for the “solo from rear seat only” J-3) and pondering greater things. Could it hurt to just to lift it? He taxied to the north end of field, faced the wind and started to roll.

The Continental was turning properly, yet Dave noted the tail was not coming up and the faster he went the more firmly it seemed planted. Was there something heavy in the rear of the fuselage? Before the possibility could be explored, the Cub did what Cubs want to do and spectators marveled at an angle of attack aggressive even by Fox standards. Dave, seeing only sky, found full forward stick produced the opposite of the desired effect. The Cub achieved a verticality which no amount Fox legerdemain could sustain indefinitely. After having contributed its best, the US 35B airfoil took a powder.

As steeply as it had been climbing, the Cub came down in the reverse attitude. Having gained no significant altitude or speed, the nose-plant, noisy as it was, could have been a lot worse.

The lunch crew returned to find Dave and Cub somewhat the worse for wear. They immediately knew what had taken place and for the life of them couldn’t understand why Dave ignored the “Do not fly” note, they left account of the elevator cables being hooked up backwards.

Author’s Note: Dave Fox made his final departure test flying a friend’s home built amphibian. Even he could not overcome the catastrophic structural failure caused by the propeller shattering. He was one of the most kind and generous people I have ever encountered and a tremendous influence on a kid. I know I will never meet anyone quite like him.