The age of englightenment

No self-respecting aeronautical engineer would have ever claimed the tortured blueprint that I had painstakingly drafted to convey a twin-fuselage attack helicopter with intermeshing rotors, but I owned it like a boss. It was exactly the kind of thing that you might expect a bored ninth grader to sketch in the back of his English book during a less-than-riveting lecture on The Merchant of Venice.

Convinced that I was onto something and that the world needed my design, I decided to send it to the American Helicopter Society. Since I couldn’t send them my English book, I copied it onto a sheet of paper, stuffed it in an envelope, and dropped it in the mailbox. I’d read somewhere that the society accepted technical submissions and sometimes published the really good ones. I was convinced that mine would make the cut.

I took my well-deserved C in English and dumped that soul-crushing book onto the teacher’s desk, exchanging it for one of those looks of disappointment typically reserved for students convicted of harboring an uncertain future. English was not a priority for me, and I was glad to be free of it. It was summer in East Tennessee. That meant being able to work to pay for what really mattered, so for the next three months, I mowed yards, delivered papers, and stuck my savings in a cardboard box labeled “Flying Lessons.”

And I waited. I waited for my seminal aircraft design to take root in the minds of those who were in a position to build it.

About once a month, the Journal of the American Helicopter Society arrived in my mailbox. I’d eagerly thumb through it, but not surprisingly, my design never manifested itself in print. Perhaps this was a gift from the society for which I should be quite thankful. It would have been difficult to construct a meaningful career in aviation upon a foundation of professional embarrassment.

Fall came, and I started the tenth grade. By now, I had reluctantly admitted to myself that my aircraft design wasn’t such a great idea, as evidenced by a complete lack of response from the society. I began to question whether a life in aviation was really in the cards for me.

Then, one day, I received a letter from Richard B. Lewis II, technical director of the American Helicopter Society. I prepared myself for his rejection.

Dear Anthony,

Your design for the “Twin Cobra” was reviewed with much interest in my office. As you may know, twin-rotor designs are an important class of helicopters.

I was elated. My drawing had made it to a room full of important people who looked upon it with interest, not scorn, not humor, not ambivalence, but with interest. I pictured a room full of men in horn-rimmed glasses, all huddled over my sketches with furrowed brows and expressions of grave intent.

As I read the letter, my spirit soared. In it, Lewis talked to me like a peer. He’d examined my sketches in detail and entered into a precise discussion about them, gently pointing out the many flaws in my design and suggesting plausible alternatives. He explained interconnecting shafts between gearboxes, the synchronization of rotor systems, and gave examples of side-by-side, intermeshing rotor systems that had been successfully employed on other aircraft.

Most importantly, Mr. Lewis wasn’t patronizing me. He’d given me the most valuable thing someone in his position could give me—his time, his attention, and his respect. He closed the letter with this:

…the American Helicopter Society and the U.S. Army Aviation Research and Development Command commend your interest in combat helicopters.... I should also mention that the Army offers the opportunity to fly the world’s finest helicopters.

That letter was a game-changer for me. Above all, it sanctioned me to try, to step out and take risks with ideas, to fail and get back up.

Within a few weeks, some friends and I had cobbled together a hang glider from bamboo, plastic, and baling wire and pulled ourselves aloft behind a dirt bike. By the summer after my senior year, I had completed my private pilot certificate and joined the Army’s Warrant Officer Flight School Program. Soon after, I found myself flying attack helicopters in Germany.

Just last week, as I was rifling through some old papers, I stumbled across that old drawing and Mr. Lewis’s kind letter of response. How I still have it after all these years, I’ll never know. As I read through it for the first time in four decades, I recalled the feeling of validation that overcame me when I received it. A life spent in military and civilian aviation passed before me like a memoir. There were chapters of nail-biting adventure, interludes of transcendent beauty, and an epilogue of lasting friendships that I cherish above all else.

Would I have continued to pursue a life in aviation without that letter? Maybe, maybe not, but one thing is certain. At the very moment my confidence and enthusiasm began to wane, both were reinforced by a kind soul who dedicated time he probably didn’t have to a child he didn’t even know. For that, I remain to this day profoundly grateful.

Anthony J. Rinderer has been flying for 44 years. He holds a helicopter airline transport pilot certificate, a commercial pilot certificate for single- and multiengine land airplanes, a rotorcraft CFII with instrument airplane rating, type ratings in the S–76, Mi–17, and B200/B300, and a remote pilot certificate.