What’s that saying? "The three biggest days of your life are the day you meet your future wife, the day you marry her, and the day your first child is born." Or maybe it’s the day you see that spiffy red, white, and blue airplane; the day you buy her; and the day you pass the keys to her next wide-eyed owner. No? OK, what about the day you first soloed? Let’s start with that. Think hard, now. Wouldn’t you rate that first lonely flight, where nothing stood between success and failure but your own skill, tenacity, and determination, as right up there near the top?
Most pilots don’t. At least not the ones I’ve asked. Maybe it’s because their flights went so smoothly—just a walk in the park; a nonevent. But maybe, just maybe, it’s because their solo was like mine, and if it was, they probably counted themselves so lucky to have survived that they didn’t want to jinx their good fortune by thinking too much about it again. Like your first awkward kiss, sometimes it’s best forgotten.
Memories of my big day came flooding back to me while reading Stephen Coonts’ touching article about his belated first encounter with the yellow peril, better known as the Piper J–3 Cub (see "Come Fly with Me," April 1999 Pilot). Something over—ahem—30 years ago, I soloed in that venerable bird. But Mr. Coonts’ warm and fuzzy first acquaintance was somewhat more benign than my recollections of my early hours and, most of all, of that first fateful flight alone.
Roll back those 30-plus years. It was a fine summer’s day at the Lee Airport in Edgewater, Maryland, just southwest of Annapolis. My best friend, Laren, and I stood by the runway and watched airplane after airplane, engines roaring, wings rocking jauntily, claw their way into the invisible realm of the angels.
I was only 17 and about to start college, but I’d wanted to be a fighter pilot since I was five. Trouble was, I hadn’t even been in an airplane yet—money problems. What’s worse, Laren, funded by better-heeled parents, had just soloed—in three different airplanes! And all on the same day! He even made the papers!
Never mind that I’d worked all summer to save the money for tuition. I had to get some wind in my face, I thought, money be damned. So Laren took me by the arm and hauled me into the flight office, where he introduced me to Mrs. Florence C. Parlett, the silver-haired owner/operator of Annapolis Flying Service. She was bright-eyed, perky, and bursting with enthusiasm; there’s never been a better ambassador for general aviation. Before I knew it, she had me up in a Piper Colt for an intro ride. By the time we landed, I found myself thinking how I might postpone college for a few years and just...well, you know.
Oh, did I mention that Mrs. Parlett was also funny? In those days my nickname was "Happy," but for some reason with her this always came out "Lucky." I never figured out if she was joking or simply kept getting it wrong. After awhile, I just answered to Lucky where she was concerned.
"What do ya think, Lucky?" she asked as we taxied back to the ramp. I just smiled and said, "When can I start?"
Fast-forward a couple of weeks—or three. My training had gone swimmingly so far as my instructor, F.S. "Frank" Chess, was concerned. Though I couldn’t believe my ears, he was saying that it was time to go it alone, time to solo. I was ready, he said.
But I wasn’t so sure. My training, I reflected, had been a tad erratic. In the first four hours of training I’d had three different instructors. The first, Ed Sester, was an ex-P–51 pilot and instructor. Short and wiry, he puffed more smoke than an ailing radial and was a bit Prussian in his teaching style, but his legacy as a trainer of gallant fighter pilots instilled a great deal of confidence. I was delighted to have him. So I was a little disconcerted when, showing up for lesson number two, I was introduced to a new instructor. Today, I can’t read his name from the faded pages of my Sanderson Pilot Flight Log book, but from what I can make out, we did the usual early air work, straight-and-level flight, 360-degree turns, and the like.
Hour four is where Chess came in. A mountain of man with a big heart and gentle hand, Frank was almost too big for the Cub. Every time we got ready to fly, after he’d twirled the prop, he’d take several agonizing minutes shoehorning himself into the front seat. The Cub’s frame sagged woefully. "Crank in some nose-up trim," he’d yell. "And recheck your lap belt."
Then I’d line up as best I could while still trying to see the runway. Of course that didn’t work, always made me crooked, so Frank would bark, "Straighten it out! Straighten it out!" Yeah, Frank was high, wide, and handsome. I was delighted to have him.
As we’d start the takeoff roll—"Don’t cobb the throttle!"—he’d reach up and pull down the window from its latch under the wing root. We accelerated like a tortoise. Around the pattern we’d wallow, with me ruddering—"Stop skidding!"—and leaning from one side to the other. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Having no forward visibility was especially problematic to a fledgling like me during approach and landing, which we were now practicing with a rhythmic vengeance. Unless I slipped the Cub to the max, something I was still too timid to do, it was blind man’s bluff. Naturally, though, I got large doses of encouragement from up front: "Slip it! Slip it!"
So for the next two hours I did my best to fly by feel. Not a bad way to start, in retrospect—you really don’t need the airspeed indicator on the little guys; and Lindbergh, after all, flew the whole Atlantic without seeing where he was going. But, at the time, it seemed counterintuitive to have to do-si-do left and right to see the runway on approach to landing.
Back to my moment.... Taxiing to a stop after a landing on lesson seven, we sat there at the end of the runway, the 65-horsepower Continental ticking away with anticipation. Chess twisted around and pronounced me ready to take it up on my own. I gulped hard. Streamers of sweat came from nowhere, matting my hair. "But I’m not ready, Frank," I croaked.
"Sure you are, kid," he replied cheerfully. "Just do it like you’ve been doing." And he began to deplane.
Only I wasn’t ready. I shut her down. He sauntered over, gave me a look halfway between puzzlement and annoyance. Sheepishly, I said, "Don’t be mad, Frank." Feeling guilty and justified in equal measure, I explained to Frank that he was about to cut me loose with only seven hours, when in fact Annapolis Flying Service didn’t want students soloing with less than eight, at least that’s what Ed Sester had told me.
Frank apologized, allowed as how he thought I’d had more hours, and admitted he was glad I’d told him. I acknowledged that with all the different instructors I’d had, it was an understandable oversight. I must have sounded like a nervous Nelly—which I was—because Frank smiled knowingly as he said, "Next time, then." We put the airplane away.
Next time came too soon for me, as I was beginning to harbor severe doubts about my ability to get the airplane safely back to earth once I was in the air alone. Nevertheless, after only once around the pattern, Frank waved me to a stop and began to wrench himself free of the airplane. I knew what was coming. "Take her around," he said as he lumbered away.
But no, something still wasn’t right. I sat there frozen. I scoured the corners of my mind but couldn’t locate the source of the queasy sensation that held me. Frank waved his arms, throwing one over and over in an arc, like a catapult officer trying to launch a reluctant Tomcat. I felt like Maverick in Top Gun after Goose died: I just couldn’t "engage."
Finally, given the mounting number of snafus thus far—mostly caused by me—my pride forced me to proceed. I eased off of the heel brakes, edged the throttle forward. The propwash rattled the little window. This was it.
"Stop!" Frank yelled, running up to the airplane.
I jammed my heels against the brakes. He stuck his head in. "I forgot to sign you off. Got your student papers?"
I gave him my license.
"Where’s your medical?"
"Huh?" I suddenly remembered that he’d told me to see a doctor to get approved for solo flight before coming to this lesson. Yes, Frank had even given me the name of a physician. (In those days, the medical was separate from the student pilot certificate.) I didn’t have a medical and couldn’t solo without one. "I see your medical’s not all you forgot," he said, pointing at my midsection. "Oh! Seat belt," I mumbled. (In those days, cars didn’t have seat belts, so it was easy to forget; having a case of nerves didn’t help either.)
A stretch of bad weather ensued, with cold front after cold front churning up thunderstorm after thunderstorm. Several lessons had to be canceled. During this break from training, I had ample time to think. Too much time. Little gremlins kept whispering in my ear. What if the engine quits? Frank had said, "Just land like always. That’s why we keep the pattern tight." What if a wing falls off? "Stick your head between your legs and kiss...." Frank had a colorful way of putting things. But my biggest concern, my greatest What if, was not about some mechanical failure. It was about me. What if I failed to do everything right? What then? By the time Frank and I finally got together again for the main event, I’d built up an even bigger case of the solo willies.
On the appointed day, the weather was great. For the whole week prior, I’d tried to banish the mental gremlins by visualizing a happy outcome and chanting a solemn mantra to myself: Nothing will go wrong.... Nothing will go wrong.... Nothing....
The sky was bright blue, the wind calm. Frank was aboard and the trim was cranked in. All was right with the world. We completed two circuits, both of which seemed to end with less than the usual bouncing and to-ing and fro-ing. My big moment had arrived. I saw Frank undoing his seat belt. I mouthed the words even before he said them—t-a-k-e h-e-r a-r-o-u-n-d.
There would be no excuses this time; everything was in order. The Cub lurched up as Frank departed, as if eager to retake to the air. I took a big breath and held it for a long moment before exhaling, trying to stymie my encroaching case of hyperventilation. I wondered if they’d still call me "Lucky" after the next few minutes.
Nothing will go wrong. Nothing will go.... Throttle forward. Too fast. Nothing will.... What the—? The yellow devil leapt into the air as if jet-assisted. But I didn’t even do anything, I thought, as I screamed skyward at an angle sure to induce a stall. I pushed hard forward on the stick, but it resisted. Then, as visions of calamity flashed through my brain, it struck me—the trim! Without Frank’s weight, the airplane was a penny rocket, trimmed practically full nose-up.
I reached for the hand crank—bang! What? Bang! Bang! Bang! Free from its latch, the window slammed up and down, making a frightening racket. I took a couple of turns on the crank and reached for the window. The airplane banked abruptly. I slid across the seat—falling. Seat belt! The loose ends were flopping in the wind like dancing snake heads. My God! Had Frank taken my brains with him when he got out?
Fly the airplane! I was still climbing at a very steep angle. But hey, I could see the airspeed indicator perfectly now, though I didn’t need it to tell me I was dangerously slow. Forget the belt. Straighten up. Get back to trim. Pushing hard forward on the stick with my right hand, I cranked with my left.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Forget the window. At last, the nose was coming down, the airspeed building. For the first time I managed to look where I was. Almost in orbit! The altimeter showed more than 500 feet above the pattern and still climbing.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The incessant booming of the window was taking its toll on my fragile mental state. It had to be subdued. Get on downwind first, I thought. I started the turn. Whoa! The seat belt first, so I don’t fall out of the window. Got it! Meanwhile, the Cub, still not fully trimmed, continued its climb. Moments passed like eons. I looked for the runway. Already past the approach numbers. And higher than ever. Get it down!
Somehow, without Frank’s tender encouragement, I found it hard to slip the airplane, as I knew I should. Instead, I pushed over into a steep dive, banking as I did to try and line up on final. Not too bright, but as you can see, performance anxiety makes a horrible waste of a young mind. (The Cub, of course, had no radio, so at least I didn’t have Frank yelling in my ear.)
Bending it around to final, my brain started to reset its breakers. I leveled out momentarily to gauge things. Still too high. Now I’d slip it. OK. Come out of slip. Stabilize. I remembered Frank had said that when I was solo, I was to look at a spot on the ground and see if it went up or down in the windshield. If it moved up, it meant I’d crash—ah, land—before there. Moving down meant I’d land beyond that point. Just ahead were the utility wires along the road, a couple of hundred feet from the threshold. I fixed them in the windshield. They were coming up. Fast!
Back on the stick. Easy. Level out. Oops! I was looking up at the wires. Back stick again. Not too hard. The little yellow bear pirouetted over the wires, missing by what had to be nanometers.
But do you know what? The touchdown was Zen-like; I never even heard a chirp.
A small crowd had gathered to watch what they’d obviously thought was going to be an occasion for the CAB (Civil Aeronautics Board, pre-FAA, pre-NTSB) accident investigators. As I taxied up, everyone except Frank slunk away, shaking his or her head.
I put the window up, the door down, and got out. It was hard, because this time the airplane was almost too small to contain my pride-swollen body and me.
Frank walked over, white as runway striping. "Good job," he stammered.
Moments later I couldn’t stop chattering about my flight, even as Frank was ripping the back out of my shirt.
Yes, no matter how you slice it, soloing an airplane is a big deal. And if you count yourself among those who have soloed, no matter what your future aviation attainments may be, you deserve a great deal of respect. For you, my friend, are a pilot.
After about 15 hours of training, my flying career had to take an extended hiatus. It wasn’t until 10 years later that I was again able to take up the challenge of flight, when I had to go through the entire soloing process again with a different instructor.
Carlton W. Austin, AOPA 690669, is a CFI who has given more than 700 hours of aerobatic instruction. He currently publishes an aviation and aerospace Web site ( www.aerosphere.com ) and was featured by Senior Editor Alton K. Marsh, one of his former students, in "Hot Stick" (February 1995 Pilot).
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