Hand-propping a Taylorcraft

Being the youngest of three brothers, I spent those summers chasing shadows—specifically, the shadows of my older brothers. They were bigger, stronger, faster, and infinitely cooler in my eyes. And I? I was the tagalong, the perpetual underdog, and, as my brothers loved to remind me, a gigantic pain in their rear ends.

I wanted nothing more than to be like them, to be their equal—or at least to prove I wasn’t the runt of the litter. That desperate need to measure up put me on a crash course with fate, although it would take years before I fully understood just how close to the edge I’d danced.

It was sometime in the summer of 1981 or maybe 1982. Those exact details blur now, but what I do remember vividly is the boredom. Summers at the rural Allendale County Airport (AQX), Browning Aviation could be magical, sure, but they could also stretch out into a monotony so deep it felt suffocating. That boredom drove me to the edge of mischief, and on this particular day, it led me to our 1946 Taylorcraft.

The Taylorcraft was a beautiful, old-school piece of aviation: wood, fabric, and pure nostalgia in a taildragger frame. It was simplicity itself. No electrical system, no bells or whistles—just a basic engine, a stick, and wings. And because it lacked an electrical system, starting it meant hand-propping the engine.

I was all of 11 or 12 at the time, and with no one around to tell me otherwise, I decided I’d try propping it myself. It was an exhilarating mix of stupidity and adrenaline. The first pull on the propeller blade sent a shiver up my arms, a jolt that felt like the universe waking up. After a few more tries, the engine roared to life—a sound so beautiful and primal it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I felt like a god. Or maybe an idiot. But mostly, I felt alive.

That was the first of many such clandestine adventures. To my knowledge, neither Mom, Dad, nor my brothers ever found out what I was doing. It was my secret rebellion, my private rite of passage. Miraculously, I never hurt the airplane or myself, although I’m sure I shaved years off my parents’ lives without them even knowing it.

Fast forward to the summer of 1989. I was 19 and working at the Hilton Head Airport (HHH), a tiny hub that saw everything from private jets and turboprops to the occasional flying relic. One hot, sticky afternoon, I’d just clocked in for my shift when a call came over the radio: A pilot needed help starting his airplane.

When I got to the tarmac, there it was: a 1946 Taylorcraft, looking like it had been plucked straight out of my childhood. The pilot was an older man, kind and weathered, and clearly in need of assistance. Around us, a small crowd had gathered—corporate pilots, an A&P mechanic, and passengers waiting for their flights. Everyone was gawking, but no one was stepping up.Here was my chance to prove that all those childhood escapades hadn’t been for nothing.

The pilot explained his predicament: No electrical system meant no starter, and no starter meant someone needed to hand-prop the engine. The mechanic looked skeptical, the corporate pilots looked confused, and the passengers looked bored. Then the old man asked, “Does anyone here know how to prop a Taylorcraft?”

I froze for a second, the weight of the moment settling on me. Here was my chance to prove that all those childhood escapades hadn’t been for nothing. I raised my hand.

“I can do it.”

A murmur went through the crowd. The mechanic shot me a look that practically screamed, You’re gonna get yourself killed, kid. But the old pilot’s eyes lit up. “Well, then,” he said, grinning, “let’s get her started.”

We went through the motions: fuel on, throttle cracked, magnetos hot. I positioned myself at the propeller, just as I’d done so many times before, and gave it a pull. On the first try, the engine sputtered to life, coughing and roaring like a lion waking from a nap.

The crowd erupted in applause. Passengers clapped, corporate pilots shook my hand, and the old man gave me a hearty slap on the back. The mechanic, meanwhile, sulked off, muttering something about amateurs. I didn’t care. For one glorious moment, I was the hero of Hilton Head Airport.

That day, I learned a lot about life and about myself. Sometimes the things we do as kids—the reckless, borderline idiotic things—turn out to have value we never could have anticipated. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, those old, forgotten skills get a second chance to shine.

As for me? I walked away from that Taylorcraft with a grin that lasted for days, a story I’ll tell forever, and just a hint of smug satisfaction that, for once, being the youngest brat had worked in my favor.

Keith Browning Sr., from Allendale, South Carolina, is an airport brat who grew up at his family’s FBO, Browning Aviation, which inspires his upcoming blog, A Face in the Clouds.