Airport Journals


Catalina Balloon Misadventures, Part II	Apr '06

By Cliff Robertson

In last month's column, we left Cliff and his fellow "Balloon-A-Tic" Frank Tallman in a true "Cliffhanger" along with nine other pilots attempting to fly over the stormy cold waters from Catalina Island to the Southern California coast in January. Caught in a vicious downdraft shortly after takeoff, it appeared that the intrepid two might have drowned. We continue with Cliff's dramatic story:

I was able to relight the propane honker, and miracle of miracles, ever so slowly the giant balloon began to rise. A roar from ashore accompanied its ugly ascent, helped by the victorious Sousa Band music from the stalwart Catalina High School Band.

Five hundred feet above the windswept waves, the music suddenly stopped. The crowd's victorious shouts petered off to a lone moan of misery as they watched the colorful globe catch the 20 knot western winds and head eastward with but ONE Balloon-A-Tic aboard—now desperately wrestling the dangling ropes. Frank was missing! Nowhere to be seen by the horrified crowd!

Frank Tallman. Aviator Extraordinaire! Hollywood's most famous stunt pilot. Father of two. Beloved by the aviation community—everywhere! Gone! Frank has drowned, the crowd groaned; only Cliff has survived! There! There! See him struggling with the ropes!

The balloon continued rising into the grey rain clouds. Robertson standing alone, looking skyward—possibly praying. Up, up and away in his flabby balloon—headed for Heaven with fervent prayers from the Catalina crowd. Prayers for brave Frank—"so young, so young"—the crowd sighed. A sole young bugle player rose, lifted his horn to his lips and began the soulful notes of "Nearer They God to Thee."

"He's in a far better place," sighed an elderly couple, "a far better place."

Well—not exactly. No, not really. A far wetter, but not better place. For Frank Tallman was now crouched in the smallest fetal ball his 6 foot frame would allow, cursing the feckless actor–pilot who had put him in this ridiculous position! "Here's another fine mess you've got me into, Robertson!!

One thousand feet and rising, I finally asked the questions: "Frank, how come, through this entire caper, you're not helping? How come I'm doing all the work? How come I'm standing and you're crouching??? A long pause, and finally, in admissive contrition, "Cliff, there's something I've just realized, riding in this damn balloon."

"What?"

"I've got a fear of heights!!!"

"They sailed away for a year and a day"—or so it seemed. Finally, I spotted in the flotsam around my feet, a sodden paper sack a restaurant owner pal of mine had tossed in the gondola with the remark, "You might need this, Cliff. It's cold up there." It was cold and sure as hell wet. I reached into the sack and pulled out its wonderful contents: a nearly full bottle of Old Crow, Kentucky's Proud Bourbon—heaven sent. It not only warmed the cockles of our hearts; it fortified our spirits for the rest of our star-crossed journey.

But it was very brave bourbon. It lives up to its legacy—and just might have saved our ass! If we were going to crash, might as well relax and not go "tensed up." A proverb I applied years later flying my de Havilland Tiger Moth (G-ANEI) biplane from South Hampton, England to Cherbourg, France—in dead winter. In this case, it was a large Baby Ruth candy bar that assuaged my nerves. (Note to fellow pilots—keep a candy bar close.)

Meanwhile, back to the balloon. In the water-soaked gondola, things were happening fast. Too fast for our rover boys—now quite relaxed, their spirits raised by the Kentucky spirits. The winds were beginning to remind us that we were not in charge. That the California coast was still miles away and the remaining propane fuel was low, as was our Old Crow.

We donned our Mae West life jackets and I released the 100-foot tether line to help us gauge the distance from the now rising waters. The plan was to jump about 30 feet before hitting the stormy waters. Thanks to Old Crow, a certain bravado surrounded our gondola. We braced ourselves to jump—this time before the balloon's impact.

The 100-foot tether line was lowered. One, Two, Three, Four, Five—Jump!! As we did, the balloon, relieved of our weight, stopped its descent and began to ascend with the last remaining propane fuel. We were stopped dead by the water and stopped by the reality that we had forgotten to inflate our Mae Wests, thanks to Old Crow. A fortunate oversight, there were no neck injuries, though our egos were damaged. We sank unobstructed.

Each of the other eight balloons had been assigned a chase boat. Ours had bravely plunged through the stormy seas trying to follow our erratic route. A dauntless task. They had continued for some four hours. Happily they saw us crash. They also saw the balloon refuse to crash for another 15 minutes—a very long 15 minutes.

"My God, we are in deep do-do," cried Frank. "If the balloon makes it alone to the shore, our asses will be in an FAA sling!"

We treaded water and waited. Finally the balloon made a landing off of Dana Point, California. We waited for our chase boat to arrive. At last a very jubilant group arrived—mostly press—mostly drunk. The four hours had taken its toll. It had been a long and bumpy voyage.

"There is your balloon," shouted the skipper. "Go get it."

He obviously had had enough for one day. Probably enough for life. He kept his boat nearby as Frank and I flirted with heart attacks trying to retrieve our sodden beleaguered balloon. There was nothing beleaguered about the press. They were delighted with their story—the story that hadn't ended yet.

Frank and I were dropped off at the Oceanside Coast Guard Rescue Station. Later, after a warm shower and two dozen choruses of "Sweet Adeline," I placed a telephone call to my cousin who lived in nearby Del Mar.

Cliff: "Hello, Bill?"

Bill: "Yeh, Cliff?"

Cliff: "Yeh. Say, Bill, will you come and get me?"

Bill: "Sure. Where are you, pal?"

Cliff: "Oceanside Coast Guard Rescue Station...We crashed."

Bill: "Crashed? In your plane?"

Cliff: "No. In a balloon."

Bill: "...ah.ah.a balloon??"

Cliff: "Yeh." (There was a long pause. Finally I heard what was expected)

Bill (to his wife nearby): "It's Cliff, dear. Just another one of his practical jokes. You'll never believe it—I sure as hell don't." He chuckled, and as I expected, hung up.

Editor's Notes: Old Crow was the name of the plane of one of Cliff's still living heroes, P-51 fighter ace "Bud" Anderson, a modest and great hero. Bud and Old Crow are still flying at Oshkosh in July.

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.