Photographer soars over Connecticut

STRATFORD — The bumper sticker on Morgan Kaolian's Jeep Cherokee reads, "I Love Airport Noise."

I barely notice it when I catch up with him in the parking lot of the Lordship Dunkin' Donuts for a pre-flight coffee. But the image flashes back an hour later, as the roar of the propeller builds to a crescendo and the acceleration presses me to the seat of Kaolian's little Cessna Skyhawk.

A pair of bulky headphones dampens the propeller noise, but they also pipe in tower chatter at ear-splitting volume.

"We have takeoff," Kaolian says into the mic — or something to that effect; I can't quite make out the words through the veil of white noise.

And as the little three-seater noses upward, I forget my discomfort and gape.

It's

one thing to watch the ground melt away from the side window of a 747. It's another when the view occupies your whole field of vision.

There's Sikorsky Memorial Airport receding below.

We bank.

Over there is the big red-and-white stack of Bridgeport Harbor Station.

Bank.

And that could only be the mouth of the Housatonic.

Bank again.

In a few moments we're at 1,500 feet, aimed at New Haven.

"Anything in particular you want to see?" Kaolian asks, casually nudging the stick.

"Umm," I dither. "My house?" I tell him where I live in New Haven.

Kaolian checks his camera. He's an aerial photographer who does regular work for the Connecticut Post, accepting no fee but asking that he gets credit for the photos as Morgan Kaolian/AEROPIX.

It's good publicity, helping Kaolian attract commercial gigs that pay his bills. And it also gives the veteran pilot another excuse to get the Cessna aloft.

Kaolian, a native of Bridgeport, loves to fly, and has since he was a kid building model planes. He flew solo at age 16, and got his pilot's license while he was still in high school.

Kaolian didn't fly in the service, but he worked as an aircraft mechanic after shipping out for Japan, just in time to help rebuild the war-shattered country. (He doesn't like to give his age, but you can do the math.)

In the intervening years he worked as a television station art director, ran an advertising agency, worked as an airport manager and became the state's first airborne traffic reporter, among other jobs and positions.

He took up aerial photography after retirement and he has become something of a freelance activist, championing aviation issues and Long Island Sound.

Lately, he's been spearheading an effort to restore decaying buildings at Sikorsky Airport, including a 76-year-old hangar once frequented by Charles A. Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart.

He has also made it a pet project to push for a proposed causeway that would link Pleasure Beach to Stratford. "All these things started from the Long Island Sound, what I saw covering it from the plane, from Westchester to New Haven," he said.

Kaolian has also been lobbying for the extension of Sikorsky's runway, setting him at odds with some Lordship neighbors — thus the "I Love Airport Noise" bumper sticker.

The statement is defiant but good-natured, Kaolian's modus operandi. He radiates stout, avuncular enthusiasm, accented by the prominent nose, the shock of white hair emerging from his baseball cap, and the sun-weathered eyes.

At cruising altitude, distances dissolve and I can see my entire daily commute stretch out before my eyes. It's a clear day and the Elm City heaves into view before we've crossed the Housatonic. We're within strafing distance of the Green within 15 minutes.

Some months back, when Kaolian first proposed to take me up, he promised not to shoot photos out of concern his acrobatics might alarm me. I told him not to worry, and he seems to have taken this to heart — which is fine with me; if Kaolian can make a few bucks taking photos, I'll feel less guilty about the $100 or so it cost him to keep me aloft for nearly two hours.

In any case, Kaolian can't resist swooping down over the rubble that was the New Haven coliseum to snap some photos with his Nikon D200.

His procedure is low-tech. He flies as low as he can get away with, dips his port wing, opens the window (which is hinged at the top) and snaps away, gripping the stick with his free hand.

The coliseum's easy to find — look for the big pile of rubble and twisted metal. But we have to circle my neighborhood several times before we can pinpoint my house. By the time we nail it down, I'm profoundly grateful for the blast of cold, fresh air that gushes through the open window as he shoots.

All this banking is wreaking havoc on my inner ear: I'm motion sick for the first time since childhood.

Kaolian's not done with me, though. He turns around (banking yet again) and sets a course for the Naugatuck Valley, where he wants to show me Robert Scinto's latest office monolith.

Bank. We swing around to the Target store that has risen from the ashes of Ansonia's Latex Foam Products Inc.

Bank.

It's out to the Sound, where we see coal being offloaded from a freighter onto barges, destined for PSEG's Bridgeport Harbor plant.

Bank.

Then down along the Gold Coast, where I get a bird's-eye view of Don Imus' Southport mansion.

Bank.

Trying to be subtle, I point out the Cessna's lack of air-sickness bags. Kaolian genially takes the hint.

"Sure, let me just get a couple more shots."

Bank.

Finally, he points the nose toward the northeast, Bridgeport heaves into view, and I'm glad I didn't order that buttery raisin bagel back at Dunkin' Donuts.

Edward J. Crowder, general assignment editor, can be reached at 330-6326.