Airport Journals


Catalina Balloon Misadventures	Mar '06

By Cliff Robertson

Today hot-air balloons are everywhere. But 40 years ago they were a rarity. Though the Montgolfier brothers proved their viability in the 18th century in Paris, ballooning was "on the descent" for some time after.

The Civil War saw their use for observation purposes. Later, in World War II, the Germans, as well as the Allies, used them in the Signal Corps. A cowboy fighter-pilot from Arizona became adept at shooting them down. Frank Luke was finally shot down. He survived the crash, only to be killed after his pistol was emptied. He went down pistol blazing--a true hero. Luke Field is justifiably named after the "Balloon Buster."

In the sixties, I was hanging out with my pilot buddies Paul Mantz and Frank Tallman, in the hangar at Orange County, when a young man arrived with a wild plan. Seems he represented a balloon company from the Midwest, Raven Hot Air Balloons. The plan: A balloon race from Catalina Island to the Southern California coastline.

Though neither Frank nor I had even been in a balloon, we were fascinated. Paul--older and wiser--thought we were nuts. Four weeks later, we were about to confirm his judgment. Eight "ballunitics" were hunkered down in Avalon searching the January skies for a hint of sun. There was none. We were asked to make a decision. Frank and I--the more experienced of the lunatics--voted to wait until the following weekend.

Finally everyone agreed. The following weekend the weather was worse, but Frank and I were outvoted. The other 'aeronuts' were under pressure from the T.V. networks. Frank, an old movie pro, agreed with me-—too dangerous. We were out-voted.

"Man your balloons." Frank and I were to take off second, following the only female pilot, Barbara Keith, from Connecticut. Barbara, a young grandmother, was the most experienced pilot, with the exception of the promoter. Barbara was a dear. She had never ballooned over water (none of us had), but was enthusiastic. She presented each pilot with a small teddy bear for luck.

By 1:00, I became concerned. Barbara still wasn't ready. When I expressed my concern, she suggested I "go ahead...she would catch up." With flags waving, the Avalon Island aviation band playing, and a group of 1,000 shouting, I signaled the ground crew to let go the tether lines and we shot up into the gray foreboding island rain clouds. Seated, Frank watched me control the propane gas nozzle (called "the honker").

The band played on as we majestically soared to 2,000 feet, towards the lea side of the island. I was surprised at our speed. I was surprised by everything. This was Frank's and my first balloon crossing. Our "Rover boy" enthusiasm was soon dampened. We began to descend. "We're going down," I shouted to Frank (still crouched on the floor of the gondola).

"Well, open the honker all the way," shouted Frank.

"She is all the way," I answered. In the distance we could see a rescue craft headed our way. How humiliating, I thought.

We were only aloft 10 minutes and were on T.V.! Hollywood would howl with laughter. "My agent will never forgive me," I thought, "and my 4-year-old daughter..." No time for that.

"Hang on Frank. We're going in." The next thing I knew, we--or at least I--were submerged. I fought clear to the surface. Eight-foot waves were rolling eastward.

"Frank! Frank! You all right?" I yelled. Silence. No sign of my buddy.

"My God, I've lost him," I thought. His family has lost their loving father.

Suddenly, I envisioned my young daughter, Stephanie, explaining to her playmates, "My daddy was lost in a balloon race off Santa Catalina Island."

Ridiculous. Outrageous. What a stupid way to go, I fumed as I searched for Frank. Finally, he emerged--hatless (we wore top hat and tails for the occasion). His normally meticulous mustache now drooped like the walrus in "Alice in Wonderland." As he clutched a piece of the gondola, he said, "Here I am Cliff."

Relieved to the point of tears, we climbed in the half-submerged gondola. In the distance, we could now hear the rescue boat's siren as it charged through the towering waves.

"Hang on! Hang on!" we heard the crew shout. "We're coming to get you."

How embarrassing, I thought. Only 10 minutes aloft--after all this publicity! Suddenly, an idea came to my sodden brain. The propane tanks are sealed--closed tight. Maybe, just maybe! I prayed as I tried my Zippo cigarette lighter. Turned on the honker valve. Full open. A moment, and whoof, whoof." My silent prayer answered.

Slowly. Slowly. Grudgingly, the still-inflated "balloon" began to rise! Free from the frigid January waters. Free from the crashing waves. Free from Hollywood humiliation!

Later, the crew of the rescue craft described what they saw. A giant water-sogged balloon rising not-so-majestically from the waters, with two beleaguered aeronuts--hatless--shivering in their dress suits. Rising, with remnants of their ill-planned attempts. Falling, from their gondola--falling like garbage from Heaven.

Look for a continuation of Cliff and Frank's hairbreadth misadventures in next month's Airport Journal.

Academy Award and Emmy Award winning screen star Cliff Robertson has owned and flown a wide array of aircraft, including a Spitfire MK IX, a Messerschmitt ME-108, a French aerobatic Stampe SV4 biplane, a Grob Astir glider (in which he still holds a distance record) and a Beech Baron 58. A holder of single, multi, instrument and commercial licenses, as well as balloon, the pilot of many thousands of hours has accumulated many aviation awards, including EAA's highest Eagle award and the AOPA Sharples award. The American Veteran Association recently honored Cliff as Veteran of the Year. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be-published book.