"Okay," Phil agreed, "so long as I know you're not going to kill me."
"I may hurt the plane," I teased as I taxied to the runway with the memory of those last touchdowns fresh in my mind. " But I promise we'll both live and laugh about it later."
Phil was encouraging, even though I felt slightly off-kilter as I flew that first pattern. At a gentle eight knots, the wind wasn't an issue. But the airplane wanted to balloon on downwind. And without realizing it, I allowed my track to veer too close to the runway. Why was I making my work harder at every point along the rectangle? Perhaps I needed Phil more than I thought.
We both forgot about his vow of silence. He offered some choice pointers about positioning myself over certain landmarks and pulling back power in the turn to keep from gaining altitude. We worked on procedures - my timing and where to start the descent, things I thought I had under my belt long ago.
Phil had me watch my "key position" on the base leg. High or low? Fast or slow? These were questions I hadn't been asking myself on the one landing per flight I had been making recently. The truth was, I had lost the knife edge of my landing technique while I increased my cross-country flying skills. My eye had been focused on the checkride and what I needed to meet the requirements before the FAA increased them in a few short weeks. Murphy's Fourth Law of Flight - If you focus on one area only, you will lose the big picture.
My landings improved. The second one was a kiss. Phil seemed to approve of my flying, I think - the seat of the pants flying had grown bit by bit, hour by hour. The part of my brain that talks to the tower was functioning well, too. Better communication made me feel I could really be a pilot one day. I've been at it for exactly a year, flying once a week on average.
After three trips around the pattern, I requested a full stop, called ground control from the taxiway, and asked, unbidden, to go to the FBO. That's where the Learjets and Gulfstreams deliver their passengers - not my flight school tie-down behind the hangar.
I let Phil out right in front of the FBO after a proper turn into position, like an ice skater or gymnast in a clean finish. He was all smiles and gave me a handshake I'll remember for a long time. Then I called ground, got my clearance, and taxied away alone.
I felt that curious mix of excitement and fear. Which is more powerful? The fear keeps me alert and crazed enough not to make mistakes. The excitement is a rush, an electrifying charge of satisfaction and desire that fills the blood, the head, and lungs when it's just me in the cockpit.
But back to the fear. I have no fear of crashing, of hurting myself or anyone else. It's a fear of coming up short, of encountering a situation where I won't know how to respond as pilot in command. I'm afraid of what I can't yet know. Fifty hours is a very thin base of experience in this complex and alien environment.
The crowded airspace doesn't make it any easier! We're all up there together, me and the big boys - and the weekend flyers. Controllers speak so fast. They assume I get it all, but that's not necessarily the case. How can I be number four when I don't see one and two? Airplanes hide in clouds or get camouflaged by the terrain.
Finding traffic, I sometimes can't tell if it's flying toward me or away. What's fast looks slow. What's slow can whiz right up from under you, especially in the pattern. Who's where when? Did the last guy say he was on three-mile final? Is he cleared to land? Am I? Can I turn base now? How am I supposed to know? I see nothing from under the wing in a turn. Does everyone know I'm turning base or do they assume I won't? Does anyone care? Am I the loose cannon up here?
"Seven Five Hotel turning base," I beg. "I could use some help." Amateur. I scold myself for being so stupid that I have to ask.
"You're fine, Seven Five Hotel."
Thank God.
Each time around the pattern I'm dealt a brand new hand - a Falcon Jet entering from the northwest; two Cessnas behind me; someone for left downwind, but they'd prefer a right; a Cherokee should call back to come straight in; another does an abbreviated base - don't ask me why. Just fly the airplane and listen up. Eyes peeled - and don't make any mistakes.
On downwind for the fifth time, the controller asks if I have the Glasair on final. "I don't know what one is; but if you mean the aircraft to my left going in for the landing, I see him," I offer in reply.
"That would be the one," the controller answers. I resist the urge to laugh out loud. Flying an airplane is serious business. I'm pushing the limits of my expertise as it is.
I'm tired and cleared to land "number two for a full stop." Murphy's First Law of Flight - What goes up must come down.
I watch "number one" float over the rich spring fields toward the runway like an overgrown moth. It's all under control - airspeed, rate of descent, power, flaps, mixture, carb heat - so I relax and have a last look around. The air is as clear as I've ever seen it. The Manhattan skyline, more than 60 miles away, is a picture postcard in miniature, a blue and green gumdrop good enough to eat. Centerline, aim point, power for 60. Ah, a perfect day.
Phil was out with another student when I got back to the flight school, so I couldn't let him know how the rest of my flying went. I figured that was as it should be. After all, I did the landings for proficiency, not an instructor's endorsement.
That's when I finally understood what it was I needed to prove yesterday, and how I had passed the test. After Phil got out of the airplane and I was by myself at the hold line that separates the taxiway from the runway, the tower told me to "position and hold." I acknowledged and set my little airplane squarely before the mile-long centerline.
Sitting atop the huge number 5 in the center of an island of thick wide lines, I was struck with a powerful feeling of ownership. The wide stretch of asphalt was all mine and no one else's until someone said otherwise. I waited, primed like a tigress for my moment, the right moment when mind and engine would come together to defy gravity once again. The line of trees wiggled through the heat waves at the runway's pointy other end. From here to there, it all belonged to me.
For a nanosecond I wondered what it would be like to change my mind and limp off the runway in fear. A ridiculous thought. You've done this a hundred times, maybe more. Still, I asked myself why I was there. Why was I doing this?
The answer came quickly - because you love it! Yes. You love to fly as much as to breathe. Sure it's hard. And it's scary. But you can do it. Practice and you'll be great. When you're up there, how do you feel? Blessed, I reminded myself - competent and truly blessed to be flying an airplane at all.
"Seven Five Hotel, you're cleared for take off," the tower called.
"Clear for take off, Seven Five Hotel," I replied with the unmistakable tone of someone who knew what she was doing. The controller couldn't see my smile. Neither could Phil. But maybe they heard my joy echoing above Runway 5 when, throttle to the wall, my feet did their happy dance over the rudders and I climbed into the sky for more.
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