Piece by piece, they transformed boxes of sheet metal into an airplane named ‘Velma’ — and watched her lift into the sky
The crowd pressed close to the edge of the runway at the San Luis Obispo County Regional Airport. Students who had pieced the airplane together stood alongside the family of their professor, Eric Paton, listening to the radio and scanning the distance for movement.
At the end of the pavement waited the airplane they had built, about to leave the runway for the first time with Paton at the controls.
They called it “Velma,” a Rans S-21 Outbound wrapped in bright floral patterns. Alumnus Paul Kendrick (Business, ’06) took the controls, with Paton in the other seat under his instruction. Together they had rehearsed every possible failure — an aborted takeoff, a turn back to the runway, a glide from higher altitude. Now came the test.
The throttle went forward, and “Velma” charged down the runway. For a breathless few seconds, the crowd was silent. Then the plane lifted, climbing into the sky as cheers erupted below.
From Crates to Wings
Months earlier, the sight had been very different. What arrived at the San Luis Obispo airport wasn’t an airplane at all, but a set of wooden crates filled with sheet metal and parts.
“It started as flat-pack boxes,” Paton said. “Piece by piece, students turned them into something that could fly.”
The aircraft became the centerpiece of Cal Poly’s Aero 471 course. More than 60 students took part over five quarters, learning metalwork, problem-solving and teamwork.
Paton’s father, Neil, also had a hand in the project. A retired aerospace engineer who once worked on the Apollo 13 mission for Rockwell International, he owns the hangar where the students met twice a week. Manuals, diagrams and parts lists covered the tables, and Neil guided the students through choices the books didn’t explain.
“Airplanes aren’t puzzles you can just snap together,” he said. “The manuals don’t give you every step. Students had to think ahead, improvise and be honest about issues they spotted. That’s how you build safely.”
The project started with the tail, then wings, then fuselage. By summer, the work accelerated. Seats were bolted in, cables routed, rivets set one by one. Some students described it as an “adult Lego challenge.”
“It’s rewarding to see a flap of metal turn into a wing you know will hold up in the sky,” said aerospace student Ethan Mac.
General engineering student Kyle Marshall remembered the moment when the project shifted from scraps to something real. “When the wings were off, it just looked like a bunch of pieces,” he said. “You get so entrenched in the small things. Then one day you look up and think, ‘Looks like an airplane!’” Even small tasks, like fitting the seats with no wiggle room, felt like breakthroughs.
For some, that experience went beyond the hangar. Aerospace engineering student Anthony Perez, who worked on the tail cone and cage, landed an internship as an aircraft mechanic and now plans to earn his pilot’s license. Fellow aerospace student Carlos Mercado said the project gave him tangible skills that bridged classroom theory with hands-on aviation.
The First Roar
By winter, the wings and tail were complete. The fuselage stood on its own landing gear. What remained was the heart of the airplane.
Students wheeled the project outside for its first engine startup. Before turning the key, they had to purge the system, priming the oil pump to be sure the engine would lubricate once it fired.
The group crowded around the hangar doors, some with phones out, others just watching. Paton climbed into the cockpit and twisted the key. For a moment, silence. Then the engine coughed, caught and roared to life.
“It was nerve-wracking,” Paton admitted later. “But when it came alive, woohoo!” He threw his hands in the air as the crowd cheered.
For students like Isai Villanueva, who earned his pilot’s license at 17 but had never built an airplane, the moment was a revelation.
“Every detail matters,” he said. “That gives me confidence when flying.”
Villanueva had joined the project on a roommate’s recommendation, then came back to see the startup. “This is the epitome of Learn by Doing,” he said. “It’s valuable to see how an airplane comes together piece by piece.”
Past and current students stayed in touch through a group chat, alerting each other about milestones. They described the project as both a class and a family environment, a place where Neil and Eric pushed them to be honest, careful and collaborative.
For many, the sound of that engine marked the point when the project felt real. The airplane wasn’t just a collection of parts anymore. It was alive.
The Moment of Truth
Paton, Kendrick and several students spent hours in the hangar inspecting, checking and rechecking before rolling “Velma” out for her maiden flight. Those final steps stretched the tension for everyone waiting nearby.
“I just want to see what it looks like in the air,” said Jack Schafer, an aerospace engineering student. “Fingers crossed it all works.”
Around him, students swapped memories of long hours in the hangar. “You touched that,” one joked, pointing to a section of the plane. “Yeah, and you riveted that,” another replied. The nervous laughter carried a mix of pride and worry.
In the cockpit, Paton was joined by Kendrick, who remembered the nerves of a first flight from his own student project years earlier, when he helped build a Van’s RV-7 still used for Cal Poly’s flight test courses. “Will the engine work for the entire flight? What do we do if not? There are always concerns with a new plane,” he said.
Paton’s wife, Shelley, tried to burn off nerves with jumping jacks as she watched from the side of the runway. Their daughter, Avery, a student pilot, stood nearby. When the plane lifted off, Shelley exhaled and high-fived the group. “Good job from the wife,” she told the students with a laugh. Avery marked the moment in her own way, leaving her dad’s favorite donut in the hangar with a note that read, “You survived!”
The flight itself was careful and deliberate. Paton and Kendrick climbed to 5,500 feet, testing flap operations and evaluating flight characteristics. Designed for bush flying, “Velma” left the ground quickly.
“I was surprised by how little runway it needed,” said Edison Carroll, an aerospace engineering student who listened in on the tower radio. “But it was built to fly.”
Later, Paton reflected on the milestone. By then, he had also earned his tailwheel endorsement, allowing him to fly “Velma” without an instructor. “The first flight was a mix of excitement and nerves. We had rehearsed every possible emergency scenario. Thankfully, none of them happened, and the flight was a complete success. After 15 hours and about 40 landings, I can finally say ‘Velma’ is fun to fly.”
What Comes Next
For Paton, the project was never just about one airplane. He saw it as the beginning of a tradition, a chance for students to take on full-scale projects that leave a mark long after graduation. He hopes to begin another build and boost awareness for the course so more students enroll.
His father, Neil, saw the impact firsthand. “I’ve worked with a lot of engineers over the years, but these students impressed me,” he said. “They were careful, responsible and eager to learn.”
The project gave students more than rivets and checklists — they left with new career ambitions, practical skills and a deeper respect for aviation.
As Schafer put it, “Now we can point up and say, we built that.”
You can help launch the next project by supporting hands-on learning in aerospace engineering here.
By Emily Slater
