My head began to feel heavy as thoughts of seeing Chincoteague from the vantage point of a fish swam through my brain. I knew what I had to do. Adjusting the microphone on my headset to ensure my pilot could hear me, I said, "Darling, we must go home. I think I left the stove on."
Back on terra firma, I resolved not to fly again as a captive audience. The issue was control. I couldn't bring myself to climb back into the cockpit until I knew how to bring the bird down by myself.
Perhaps a brief history of my experience as a passenger will strike a familiar chord. When I met my high-flying boyfriend, he was a student pilot. This is a title he held for a time period equivalent to medical school plus a two-year residency. So it was with some trepidation that I agreed to fly with him shortly after he earned his pilot's certificate.
Flying has never bothered me. In fact, I rather enjoy a turbulent ride in a 747 - glasses clinking, pillows flying around the cabin with each dip of the plane. But, arriving at the local airport and coming face-to-face with the piece of metal he called a plane was not exactly like viewing a gleaming jumbo jet from the comfort of the VIP lounge at Dulles Airport. "Darling," I said, "do you have parachutes on board?" He was incredulous! He was perplexed! He replied, "Would you ask the lady behind the ticket counter at United for a parachute?" Perhaps he had a point.
So I climbed into the not-so-spacious Cessna 182 with all the confidence of a Gulf War soldier who left his rifle back in the States. I feigned a look of excitement as he proudly pointed out the various buttons and knobs that adorned the instrument panel. He buckled my seat belt with protective aplomb and began the preflight mantra: mags on, flaps up, fuel gauge, coffee. I wanted to jump in with: life preserver? shark repellent? insurance? Valium?, but I refrained.
To look at him was to see a 12-year-old boy with his first BB gun! How could I rain on his parade? With the preflight check complete, I settled in for my first ride in a private plane. I had just finished a calming round of Lamaze-style breathing when he yelled, "CLEAR!" Hold it! Did he say "CLEAR," or was it "FEAR"? I couldn't imagine who he was yelling at. Perhaps it was an ancient aviation ritual. Whatever it was, it raised my blood pressure to previously unseen heights and put an innocent house finch, roosting on the wing, into cardiac arrest.
The next 10 minutes were a blur to me. I remember taxiing to the runway and waiting for an incoming plane to land. My pilot spoke confidently into his microphone, informing all who may be listening that five-two-seven-niner-Juliet was "taking the active."
"Who is Juliet?" I wondered. Perhaps some girlfriend from his preflight days who had the good sense to bail out before he earned his wings? I bet Juliet was smart enough to bring her own parachute! Onward we rolled, and soon the engine was humming at a fevered pitch. The trip down the runway was fast and furious and I watched as the shadow of the bird grew larger and larger on the ground. We were up, we were climbing - we were climbing? A voice crackled in my ears and I adjusted my headset for better reception. The voice was faintly familiar. The voice was yelling "We're NOT climbing - we're NOT climbing!"
I hoped I was dreaming. Turning my head to the left proved I was not - my pilot was indeed mouthing the words. I shifted my attention to the front of the plane and became speechless. As the headwind changed to a tailwind, the branches of a million evergreens seemed to get closer with every turn of the prop. Just when I thought we would become a life-size Christmas ornament adorning a giant spruce, the plane cleared the pines. Blue sky - nothing but blue sky ahead - and a colorful sprig of green hanging from the tail!
The truth is that scenes like that have not been repeated since my initial flight. The hours we've spent in the sky have been relatively calm, with only an occasional bump to remind me that man may have been born to fly - but women should know how to land! And so I am off to take my first lesson in how to survive if your captain chokes on a ham sandwich over Chincoteague. My pilot has assured me that the instructor is a certificated, albeit scruffy, old dog who could fly himself out of the worst tailspin known to man.
Now it will be my turn to adjust the knobs, check the fuel gauge, and yell "CLEAR!" I'll let you know how it all turns out. "This is five-two-seven-niner-Juliet - taking the active. Oh, yes, the parachute is in the back!"
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