The Dyna Jet
Fire Art
by
Cork Marcheschi
A couple of months ago I went to an open studio of FIRE ARTS at the Crucible in Oakland. The vibe was "aren't we cool?" Cool they weren't, but lukewarm they were. The event had the quality of a Boy Scout jamboree fully realized with the parents gone for the weekend.
The blacksmithing was the only area of real interest to me. Flamethrowers have been essential elements of the Bay Area art scene for over 30 years.
Driving back home across the Bay Bridge I recalled my most stunning encounter with "fire art".
It was 1964, I was a freshman at the College of San Mateo. I was a bass player in a band and had recently met another bass player (for the Stingrays) who had an amp set up that sounded great, and I asked him about it. Jim turned out to be very friendly and invited me to his house to see how he made the amp. I went to his place the next day and entered through the open garage door. Before I got into the garage proper, I saw all of the control line model planes hanging in the garage. I had been fascinated with control line models since I was in third grade.
Control line models are balsa wood and silkspan paper constructions that are powered by two stroke motors. They have two wire lines that come out from the wing and go to a handle that the pilot holds. By tipping the handle up the plane goes up and by tipping down it goes down. The little motor is started and the pilot moves to the center of the circle, grabs the control lines and signals his co-pilot to let go of the plane. Then for about two minutes the plane flies in a circle and depending on the pilot’s talent it can do wonderful stunts or just lazy dips or a wingover that drives it straight into the ground.
So there I am standing just outside the open garage door looking at at least 12 planes hanging from the ceiling. I could feel my unfulfilled third grade desires become active.
Jim came out of the house and invited me in but I wanted to hang out in the garage.
I forgot about the amp and asked about the models. Jim was ecstatic. He had been flying for 10 years, since he was 9, and was a state stunt champion. None of his hip rock 'n roll friends had any interest in this kinda kid stuff, but I was, "OH BOY! Come on Jim, let's play with your planes." So he lovingly tells me about each and shows me his trophies.
On the wall was a mysterious plane like thing? It looked part rocket, part submarine, part streamliner. It screamed SPEED! "WOW, Jim, what is this?" Pause – something was happening in his head – "Cork – that is a Dyna Jet Redhead pulse jet." I didn't know what that was but it had excitement written all over it. There was some kinda energy flowing and I wanted to see the Jet fly or do whatever it did. "Jim, lets do it. Please, I need to see this thing fly. Jim said, "It takes 3 people." No problem. I called Bob Gibson; he was always up for anything.
We loaded a bunch of stuff into my car and off to a field behind San Mateo High School.
The scene: Jim says, "Park here." We get out of the car and move stuff to a staging area.
Then Jim walks to the center of the field and with a large mallet drives a metal pole into the ground. It sticks up about 3 feet. This pole has a hole in the top of it. This will come into play soon. Next the control lines are run from the handle (this handle has a metal spike extending four inches below the grip) at the center of the circle to about 50 or 60 feet away. Next a wire-framed carriage with four wheels is placed at the spot where the control lines run. Now for the plane – this is unlike any model I had ever seen. The lower section of the fuselage was a gracefully streamlined aluminum form. Kinda like an exaggerated teardrop. The wings were very stubby little aluminum protrusions. The profile of the wing was so minimal it was hard to believe it could provide any lift. The elevators (little flaps on the tail that go up and down) barely moved, maybe a total travel of a quarter inch.
A beautiful wooden box with brass hinges and a machined hasp is brought out of the trunk of the car. Jim opens the box and set inside is the Pulse Jet engine, a mysterious and beautiful object. The engine was about 18 to 24 inches long, the front part of the engine was egg-shaped, the front section was RED. Then it tapered to a long black tube that went straight back to where it had a slight flare. This little thing looked like business.
In the motor box was a small bag of pen bladders. These are the little rubber reservoirs that hold ink inside a fountain pen. A turkey baster-like device sucks up some Coleman fuel (for camping stoves). Jim hands me the little bladder and he fills it with fuel and then I pinch it shut so no fuel escapes. Then in a clumsy first sex kinda WAY, Bob holds the motor. I have the fuel filled pen bladder and Jim is trying to fit the bladder onto the gas intake of the Pulse Jet. Six big hands fumble with little fuel-slick bits and pieces. This entire operation has the feel of the pre-1968 back seat bra removal exercise, which wasn’t always successful!
Now the motor and fuel bladder are bolted to the top of the aluminum, tear-drop fuselage. This is a motor on a piece of metal with two little wings. The jet plane thing is set onto the wire-framed cradle with four wheels. Another trip to the car and another interesting case, the case is opened and a battery and small wooden box come out. Bob is sent back to the car for a bicycle pump and is told to leave the car doors open as well as the trunk. Inside the lid of the case is a picture of a mysterious plane that looks a lot like this little jet but I can tell it’s not a model because of the persona standing next to it. I ask about it and Jim tells me that it is a German V1 pulse jet. These were the buss bombs that terrorized London during the Blitz. The little jet in front of me is the same type of engine. The battery is connected to the little wooden box, which is a Model T Ford spark coil. Wires from the coil are now connected to a little spark plug on the engine.
A bicycle pump is connected to an air nipple on the top of the engine. By this time it was close to 6 pm and twilight had just started to pass.
OK, everybody ready? "Cork, pump the bicycle pump like a fool." "Bob, hold the plane’s wings." Jims flips the electrical switch. I start to pump. About 30 seconds later the world explodes with a sound and feeling that is HUGE. This was a cartoon where a mouse roars and the town crumbles. This was more powerful than a Fuel Funny Car: midnight to noon in a nanosecond. This was full-bodied, Holy Shit loud! And talk about fire art! There was 8 feet of blue flame shooting out from between my legs. This thing went from full off to full on – no fooling around here. Jim removes the electrical wires, I pull off the bicycle pump and Jim runs to the center of the circle; he picks up the handle and sticks the spike into the hole in the center of the pole and then waves. Bob lets go and this thing takes off like "Poof!" – gone. The carriage with the wheels separates from the jet. Jim squats below the wires and pivots around and around as the jet flies at about 4 feet above the ground. This thing is sooooo fast (about 135 mph), Jim looks like a squirrel in a wheel as he scampers to keep up with the jet. It howls for about a minute; the flame streaks an intense blue-white gold that catches up with itself and creates a fiery ring. Then silence…
The plane slows down and lands. Bob and I are dumbstruck and excited. Jim screams, "We gotta get outta here!" He starts to put things away with bank-robber swiftness. We follow suit. As I am packing up I notice that every house surrounding the park has people on the porch. Jim hollers, "Come on, run for the car!" and we do. Into the open trunk and open doors we fly and away we go. About half a block away the police car approaches the park. We all look at each other and laugh with a crazy abandonment.
Here it is 40 years later and the sound, feeling and utter surprise of that moment has stayed with me and set a high water mark that I am waiting to be bettered. The fire folks at the Crucible could do well to get themselves a Dyna Jet Redhead pulse jet and let it rip.
— by Cork Marcheschi
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August 24, 2007
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