In Training

I decided to learn to fly when I was hospitalized in my native Germany. As I lay in bed, my mother brought me Saint-Exupery's Wind, Sand and Stars. Reading that book was my favorite activity.

Four months later I began training at a Fullerton, California, flight school. Not a good choice. The school used a beat-up Cessna 172 and Cessna 152 that constantly developed mechanical problems. (After legal and financial problems, the school closed.) Even worse than the state of the equipment was the fact that my instructor had no experience whatsoever. A former plumber, he had realized his dream and become a flight instructor just to turn my dream-learning to fly-into a nightmare. Nevertheless, I soloed two months later and soon went on my required long solo cross-country from Fullerton to Blythe near the Arizona border. I did not feel ready for this adventure.

The radio in my airplane, a tired Skyhawk, had previously suffered from malfunctions and really belonged in a museum. Two or three times I had lost all electrical power. Nevertheless, I took off. After all, if my instructor felt I was competent, why shouldn't I be?

The flight went smoothly until I picked up words in Spanish on the radio. Panic struck. All of a sudden I was convinced that I had lost my way and ended up in Mexican airspace. It would only be a matter of time before fighter airplanes would shoot me down-at least that's what happens in the movies, right?

Surprisingly, I managed to get to Blythe unharmed and even found my way back to Fullerton-almost, that is. Even though I am not a native English speaker, when I started flying I decided that I would never tell any controller that I was a student pilot. My instructor had suggested that I use those magic words to get extra help, but it seemed uncool to me. Sure, I had problems understanding what controllers and other pilots said on the radio-everyone does in the beginning. But confess that I was a student pilot? No way. My attitude changed that day.

When I got to the Banning Pass in the mountains near Riverside, a solid cloud cover developed below me. I suddenly found myself without any visual reference on the ground. Only mountain peaks surrounded me.

Matters got worse. The next thing I noticed was the strange behavior of my VOR, which promptly died. I started sweating and panicking. What would happen if I flew into controlled airspace around Ontario International Airport? Could they suspend my certificate before I had even gotten it? Suddenly, I felt very lonely. I was a foreigner in a strange place where I really shouldn't be-in an airplane cockpit at 4,500 feet somewhere over Southern California. Emphasis on somewhere.

I had been listening to Ontario approach control and the frequency was extremely busy. Embarrassing or not, the time to confess had come. In one of the few seconds when no one else was talking, I made my call. "Seven-Three-Four-Delta-November, 4,500 feet, Banning Pass," I radioed. "I'm having a VOR malfunction, and I need assistance." Now was the time: "Student pilot," I added hesitantly.

What happened next was one of the most rewarding experiences I had during flight training. The controller-up to now busy talking to a lot of "heavies"-detected that my voice did not sound as professional and confident as I would have liked. Within seconds he advised six or seven other airplanes to stand by. The frequency was silent, and I had his undivided attention. I dialed in the squawk code he assigned to me, and it only took him a few seconds to pick me up on radar. He gave me a vector and monitored my progress through his airspace. While doing so, he was the friendliest, most patient, and most understanding person in the world.

The final portion of the flight to Fullerton was a piece of cake. Well, it would have been, if only I could have spotted the runway on final approach. On summer afternoons there is a lot of smog and haze in the Los Angeles Basin. To make matters worse, I had to fly my approach to Runway 24 right into the sun.

It took me four approaches to get the airplane down on the runway. At least other, more experienced pilots had similar problems that day. That eased the pain of feeling like a total idiot. But when I finally got out of the cockpit, I was tempted to copy the Pope. I really wanted to kiss the ground.

I learned a lot from this long solo cross-country flight. The first thing is, never panic. You can start panicking once the wings come off, but you'd better stay calm until then. It buys you time and helps you to take the right action. Also, I began to appreciate the magic of the words student pilot. They really work when you need help. Most of all, I learned that, thanks to courteous, professional controllers, the "friendly skies" are right above us.