As I look back, I remember how much I looked forward to arriving at the airport by 7 a.m. to fly, my instructor taking obvious joy in my enthusiasm. By doing my homework and asking questions, I know I made his job much easier. With each flight I watched my logbook fill up and eagerly anticipated the end of each page (something I still do).
Learning to fly was a mix of joy and frustration. My instructor made my first cross-country special with a visit to the Leesburg, Virginia, flight service station. On the other hand, the aviation medical examiner denied my student pilot certificate/medical because of my hearing aids. I didn't need a statement of demonstrated ability (SODA) for the third-class medical (like I would two years later to get my first-class medical), but the delay in getting my student ticket kept me from achieving my goal of finishing my training in time to fly back to college in Florida in the fall.
It took six months for me to get my medical, and my training started and stopped as I waited. But for every negative there were positives. I thoroughly enjoyed reading and learning. I kept my instructor busy answering my questions, and I passed the written exam with a score of ninety-something percent. Even better, I got to the point where my instructor could no longer pull the power to idle, simulating a complete loss of power, without me assuring a safe landing.
During difficult times such as these a student may think about quitting. One reason I continued was my parents' ongoing support. They were both so proud of me when I came home with my temporary airman's certificate - I've kept it to preserve the memories.
After I became a private pilot my mother, though skeptical and a little scared for me, always asked about my flying. My father and I would fly on cross-country day trips to places such as Cape May, New Jersey; Martinsburg, West Virginia; and Frederick, Maryland. Along the way, Dad gave me a minute by minute account of our route, navigating, asking questions, and, on occasion, taking the controls.
Despite my degree in economics, he finally acknowledged that my career would be something aviation-related. To this day I think he's jealous of that. He works. I fly.
When I was a junior in college and working on my instrument rating, Dad sent me some money now and then to help pay for the training. While attending classes the following summer I worked at the airport and delivered pizza part time - and spent every dime on flying. NDB instrument approaches and compass turns stymied me and I almost quit, but my parents' support came through again. It took me two tries to pass my instrument checkride, but, once again, they were proud of me.
After earning my instrument rating I had a heart-to-heart with Dad about going gangbusters for my commercial, multiengine, and flight instructor tickets. I was going to finance it at the airport and Dad agreed to help me if necessary. In the end, he paid for my CFI and I paid for the rest, with no small amount of help from some very understanding instructors (now my employers). I was 23 and in a position to make a living doing something I love more than anything in the world.
About that time, the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association's Project Pilot was in full swing and I enrolled Dad. Mom wasn't thrilled about having two of her loved ones flying, but she still remained supportive, encouraging both of us and asking the right questions.
Dad started his flying lessons with me in September, flying twice a week. He made quick, steady progress, and I smiled as I watched him read as voraciously as I had and ask the same questions. In the air he was a far worse critic of his performance than I was because he demanded perfection of himself. We discussed all of the Project Pilot bulletins - how to set up for a landing, how to use the radio, what constitutes an emergency, and what makes a safe pilot. We still discuss them.
In time, my dad and I changed roles. He ran into the same hurdles I did. Uneasy about getting his medical, a test with a light gun calmed him because he was able to distinguish the shades of green and red. He would lose altitude in slow flight, bounce his landings, struggle with crosswind landings, and report the wrong leg of the traffic pattern on the radio. Now it was I who offered encouragement, consoling him after a bad flight, and pointing out that learning to fly is not easy.
As the seasons changed and winter weather slowed his training, my dad was forced to review a lot. Finally, when I told him he was ready to solo - he refused. I cannot argue with a student who doesn't feel ready to solo. And for four weeks, he politely declined. My kind of pilot. Safe and within his personal limits.
Finally, on a spring weekend with no wind or rain, Dad was landing and doing go-arounds like a pro. When I asked if he was ready, he didn't hesitate - yes. He had the pattern to himself. I stood on the ramp with a handheld radio, as I always do when students solo.
After takeoff he held the runway centerline, climbed to 700 feet, and announced his crosswind leg, then his downwind. On the ground, my boss and I talked, and I don't think my nervousness showed. When my dad turned to his base leg I walked to the taxiway so I could watch his final approach.
He was plenty high, but I watched the final increment of flaps come down and heard the engine go to idle. The Cessna 150 floated gently, gently, gently as Dad flared, holding the nose off the ground. The tires squeaked as he touched down. When the nosewheel finally touched down, I smiled. After clearing the runway and completing the After Landing checklist, he taxied back for another circuit. "Taxi slow, Dad," I thought to myself. "No need to rush, and don't ride the brakes." We exchanged thumbs up as he passed, smiling. I was finally able to relax.
As my dad flew some more circuits I reflected on the last five years. We have come full circle, my dad and I. All the words of encouragement, the money he gave me when I needed it, his congratulations when I passed my checkrides, the trips we took (and will continue to take), the books and accessories he and Mom continue to give me for Christmas and birthdays, the words of caution when I fly IFR. Now it's my turn to do all that. It's my turn to watch him go for his checkride, and hope that he passes on the first try. All with the company of Mom, who has been through this already.
But not today. Today is your day, your first solo. My Dad.
"Bay Bridge traffic. Cessna One-Seven-Two-One-Four is departing runway One-One, closed traffic, Bay Bridge."
Way to go Dad. I'm proud of you.
Postscript: A little more than a year from his solo, on May 3, 1996, Dad took and passed his checkride. He flew with the same examiner who had tested me for several ratings. Only after he'd passed did we tell the examiner that we were related. He smiled.
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