1941 Piper J-3

In the corner of our hangar next to CNC machines and titanium bar stock is our bright yellow 1941 Piper J-3 Cub. Around here, we just call it the Shop Cub. It’s not just an airplane. When the workday fills up with prototypes, deadlines, and machining schedules, the Cub is our way to step back, reset, and remember why we fell in love with flight in the first place.

The Cub is as simple as flying gets. There’s no starter button, no avionics suite, and no electrical system at all. If you want to fly, you grab the propeller, swing it by hand, and listen as the engine coughs awake. If you want a radio, you bring a battery-powered one and toss it on the seat. That’s it. It’s a design from the late 1930s that still works beautifully because it never tried to do more than it had to.

When Piper introduced the J-3 in 1938, the mission was straightforward: build something light, affordable, and approachable. At about $1,000 brand new, it cost the same as a car. With a 35-foot wingspan stretched over a fabric-covered frame and an empty weight around 680 pounds, it was light enough to lift with your hands and forgiving enough for new pilots to learn the ropes. Cruising at 65–75 mph, the Cub wasn’t about speed, it was about accessibility. During WWII, most American pilots earned their first wings in a Cub through the Civilian Pilot Training Program. My grandfather was one of them, first learning stick-and-rudder skills in a Cub before moving on to the T-6 Texan and eventually the B-17 Flying Fortress.

Flying the Shop Cub over California’s Central Coast brings all of that history to life. In just ten minutes, you can be over Morro Rock, door swung open, cool marine air spilling into the cockpit. Head north and the coast carries you past Cayucos and Cambria, waves breaking against the cliffs. Inland, rolling hills with green oaks and dots of cattle stretch out beneath the wings. It’s flying at a pace where you see things you’d never catch at 200 knots.

Of course, Cubs have their quirks. On the ground, the taildragger stance demands your attention. But once airborne, it’s pure honesty: stick, rudder, a couple of gauges, and the hum of the engine. Thirty minutes in the Cub isn’t just a flight, it’s a reset button. There are no glass displays nor systems to manage. You just get to fly.

For me, the connection goes deeper. Growing up, there was a Cub sitting at our home. The wings removed, it was dusty and waiting for someone to bring it back to life. A true barn find from my childhood, one I still dream of restoring with my kids someday. It’s more than an airplane; it’s a thread through generations, tying the joy of flight to the act of building, restoring, and carrying knowledge forward.

That’s why the Shop Cub fits so naturally into our hangar today. It’s more than just a vintage plane we happen to keep around. It’s a reminder of what good, simple design looks like. Light, functional, enduring. A machine that earns its place not through complexity but through clarity of purpose. The same principles we hold onto every time we sit down to design a new tool at Aerocrafted.

Because sometimes, the best way to move forward is to look back at what’s lasted.