There are few aviation activities that I enjoy more than ridge soaring in Hawaii. And so it was 25 years ago that I found myself strapped in the cockpit of a Schweizer 2-33 sailplane, preparing for a five-hour endurance flight over the northwestern tip of Oahu. My purpose was to satisfy one of three requirements needed to earn a silver badge, an internationally recognized soaring award.
As I completed the brief before-takeoff checklist, my instructor walked over to the tube-and-fabric trainer and handed me a can of passionfruit juice and an opener.
"You're probably going to need this."
Why hadn't I thought of that?
Minutes later I was making gentle, elongated figure-eights over the ridges — a pristine beach and the spectacular Pacific on one side of the sailplane and lush, verdant mountains rising to 4,000 feet on the other. From my perch, I could see whales playing and an occasional submarine from Pearl Harbor cruising off the coast. It was going to be a heavenly flight.
I then turned on my portable tape recorder so that I could listen and soar to my favorite music. I was totally prepared for an afternoon of aerial bliss. Or was I?
More than two hours later and after attempting to soar and maneuver to the flow of Born Free, I began to feel the urgency of a physiological necessity. This is when I realized that I was not as prepared as I had thought. I looked around the small cockpit for a plastic bag, an airsickness bag, anything. But there was nothing useful to be found. The smart thing would have been for me to land and start anew on another day, but who said that I was smart? I was not about to give up the time that I had invested in this flight without gallant effort. The pressure continued to build insistently, and I recognized that there would be no way to last another two hours without bursting.
Then I remembered the can of passionfruit juice. All I had to do was drink the contents, and, voilà, I'd have a container.
I quickly opened the can and enjoyed its contents. But the rest of the procedure was much more difficult than anticipated. That's because there is very little room in the cockpit of a glider to maneuver the human torso.
While continuing to remain in the surging lift generated by the ridges below, I released the five-point shoulder harness and safety belt. The updrafts and turbulence caused by the trade winds deflecting from the ridges below were a serious reminder that this was not a very bright idea, but I had little choice if I was to remain airborne.
This is not the appropriate forum to detail the difficulties that followed, but suffice it to say that this ordinarily natural process turned out to be unusually challenging. Compounding the problem was the need to simultaneously maneuver the sailplane so as to remain in rising air.
I opened the side window of the canopy and attempted to pour the contents into the relative wind. In the process, most of what I attempted to pour overboard seemed to find my lap.
After five hours had elapsed and the sun had begun to set, I popped the spoilers and descended for the airport at Mokuleia. My torturous flight was mercifully about to end. I landed, rolled to a stop, and noticed a group of people walking toward me. These were local girls and a few pilots my instructor had recruited to share in the celebration of my accomplishment. They had brought leis, two bottles of champagne, and enough glasses to go around.
But as the group neared the glider, one of the pilots stopped short, pointed toward me, and began laughing uncontrollably. The stained left side of the sailplane told the story of my flight, and there was no place to hide. Nor did I dare to exit the glider in this mixed company because of my wet trousers. It was humiliating.
Although this story might seem like comic relief (no pun intended), such a problem can have serious overtones.
Several years ago, a friend of mine, Joe Degatano, was holding in a Piper Cherokee over an undercast near Zanesville, Ohio, waiting his turn to make an instrument approach there. At some point during the hold, Joe fell victim to the same kind of problem that I had had in Hawaii. After requesting and being refused priority, he felt that he had no choice but to declare an emergency to obtain needed relief.
No other experience has taught me more about preparedness. Before almost every flight, I ask myself what I might need — however unlikely it might be. This habit has paid handsome dividends. Such items invariably include snacks, water, first aid and survival kits, and charts that cover areas beyond my intended route. I have even gotten into the habit of ensuring that my flight bag always contains a supply of heavy-duty Ziploc freezer bags.
I have discovered that when prepared I never seem to need these additional items. It is only when I fail to prepare that such needs inevitably arise. The gods of flight seem to enjoy playing such games with us.
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