Back seat of a J-3. Door and window tacked open, a warm summer breeze in the face. That C65 purring along infront of me, just me and my thoughts as I drift lazily along on a warm summer's evening, sun low on the horizon.
Pulling the power, rolling out on final. High. Slip her on in, hold it, hold it... keep easing back on the stick until... there. Settle gently onto the freshly cut grass. Slowing down, quick waggle of the rudder to lock the tailwheel steering back in. Grass clippings flying up off the mains. Gentle S-turns back to the hanger.
Push her in, lock up, and think to yourself "I can't believe I get PAID for this!"
(well, close to that anyway. What REALLY happened was there WERE no doors or windows, we had replaced the C-65 with an O-290, and it was running a little rough. I was nervously watching the gas gauge, and trying to beat sunset back because my SOB boss HAD to schedule a late evening banner to be flown an hour away from base. Shoehorn myself out, thinking "Mr Piper knew what he was doing, there was a reason these things only came with 2 1/2 hours of gas, not 7!" Grab a cold one and finish my paperwork in the oppresive heat and humidity of the hanger, smearing the ink because of the sweat running out of every pore on my body. Sit back and think, "I can't believe I get PAID to do this!"