My husband, also a pilot, had completed his flight review with a different instructor just a couple of weeks earlier. I tried to get him to quiz me, to test my knowledge about little-reviewed topics, but he wasn't interested in playing instructor. He kept telling me that the flight review was an opportunity to learn, not a test. Maybe. But it sure felt like a test.
After stumbling through the answers to some of the tougher questions - all three of us were stumped when it came to recalling the tower light signals used in lost communication situations - I was ready to fly.
Before we went out to the flight line, my instructor explained what we would do. He said the FAA had issued new guidelines for the flight review to include more simulated instrument time - a response to John F. Kennedy Jr.'s fatal accident. The FAA wanted to be sure that even VFR-only pilots could get out of the clouds alive by requiring more practice at navigation, slow flight, steep turns, and unusual attitude recovery under the hood.
After takeoff, my instructor told me to put on the view limiting glasses, level off at 3,000 feet, and turn to a heading of 210 degrees. I followed the instructions and contacted Sacramento approach to advise them that I would be doing maneuvers. With that out of the way, the instructor told me to roll into a steep-banked turn. Up to this moment in time I had only 1.5 hours, out of 175 total, of simulated instrument flying. Needless to say, performing steep turns with no outside references was not my strongest skill. It would be polite to say that I wallowed through the air, so accustomed was I to VFR flying. The instructor had me do another steep turn, this time in the opposite direction. It wasn't much better.
Then the instructor told me to use the airspeed indicator, instead of the vertical speed indicator or altimeter, to judge the quality of my turn and make corrections. What a difference that made. I pegged the airspeed at 95 knots, started the turn, and concentrated on keeping the airspeed constant. The quicker response time of the airspeed indicator helped me respond to changes more quickly and avoid overcorrecting.
Then it was time for stalls. I had really been dreading these because, like most pilots, I don't spend a lot of time flying around practicing stalls. In fact, I only do stalls when I'm with an instructor and he tells me I have to. To make matters worse, I had never done stalls on instruments. I was surprised and pleased to discover that stalls were actually easier under the hood because there were none of the frightening visual references that make you feel as though your nose is pointing straight up into the air and you're just waiting for the bottom to drop out. Instead, watching the airspeed indicator, keeping an eye on the slip/skid indicator, and listening for the stall horn reduced the adrenaline rush a little. This was a cool concept - stalls were actually easier when I couldn't see outside. Of course, my hands were still pretty sweaty by the time we were done.
At this point in the flight I was feeling good about myself. I was improving and learning. But my instructor wasn't done with me yet. He wanted me to experience disorientation - real disorientation that would teach me to get on the instruments right away and trust them. He also wanted me to discover how little time it takes to lose control of the airplane, especially when you think you are in control.
The instructor took the controls. I put my head down and closed my eyes while he performed a variety of maneuvers. He brought the plane back to straight-and-level flight, had me keep my eyes closed, and instructed me to keep the plane flying straight and level without looking.
The sensation was a little like walking through a dark room, feeling your way around with your hands and taking tiny steps, trying to avoid bumping into something.
I tried not to do anything radical, making only small control inputs. After what seemed like an eternity but was really no more than a minute or so, my instructor let me open my eyes and look at the panel. I felt like I had been in control the whole time, but I hadn't. One wing had dropped, and the nose was falling. After a second of blinking, I turned to the instruments and brought the airplane back to straight and level. With no visual information at all, I had had absolutely no sense of the airplane's attitude changing.
I suddenly understood how pilots not only get disoriented without visual cues, but also why a sense of fear and even panic might take over. Imagine that feeling if you were the only pilot in the plane, with no instructor sitting next to you to monitor the situation. It was a terrifying experience for me, even in simulation.
My instructor wasn't satisfied with the speed of my response. I had spent too long in denial, wondering how the airplane could possibly have ended up in that attitude. My mental state was bordering on helplessness. So we did it again. This time I knew what to expect. I knew that I could regain control. My reactions were much quicker the second time around. What a learning experience. I was deeply impressed by the impact of this exercise.
By this time, my sweat glands were working overtime. I was exhausted. But it wasn't over yet. Now my instructor directed me to find the airport and fly us home. Even though I had a general idea of our location, I didn't know exactly where we were. I took a deep breath. I grabbed the chart and started thinking about our location relative to the airport. Well, thinking is good, but quick thinking is better. "You'd better turn soon. We are getting close to the Buttes, and I am not kidding!" my instructor exclaimed. I looked up and quickly turned away from Sutter Buttes. I realized I would have to use VORs to get home.
In my personal flying, I used the Loran for most of my navigation, and I was clearly rusty on VORs. I dialed in the Marysville VOR and figured out a heading to it. Then it hit me to use the DME to find my distance from the VOR. All this good stuff that we know and are too lazy to use and practice.
Still wearing my view-limiting glasses, I was foundering around the valley, struggling to stay on course and get us home. My instructor was clearly not impressed. But this was meant to be a learning experience, not an ego-buster, so he gave me a break. He told me to take off my glasses and see if looking outside helped. It didn't. A layer of mist was forming, dropping visibility to marginal levels. I could see farmland directly below me, but little else.
Finally, I got myself properly oriented to the Marysville VOR and turned to an outbound heading that I hoped would take me home. Once again wearing the view-limiting glasses, I tried to stay straight-and-level. When the DME read 12 miles, I told my instructor that I thought we were getting close to home. He had me remove the glasses again, but I had trouble finding the airport. When I finally had it in sight, I realized we were in no position to make a clean pattern entry and I'd have to do a little maneuvering.
Between the mist and the weak sunshine of a late afternoon in winter, I couldn't see very well. I turned on the pilot-controlled lighting. What a flight. Man, was I tired. Then, on the downwind, my instructor pulled the throttle back and told me I had just lost my engine. Could he do anything else to me? I thought. I hit best-glide speed and turned toward the airport - a little too late. The instructor added a little power on final approach because I was turning close to the ground at a very slow speed. With that burst of power, I was able to make a reasonable landing. I desperately hoped that he wouldn't tell me to go around.
Fortunately he didn't, and we called it a day. During the debrief, he pointed out my weaknesses. I had been flying all over the sky at first. I clearly needed more simulated instrument experience. Using the airspeed as my guide, my steep turns improved dramatically; and a second try at unusual attitudes improved my reaction time. And, he explained, if I had really had an engine failure, I should have considered landing on the taxiway to make it easier to line up. But he also pointed out my strengths, saying that I was a good pilot and had performed well once I settled down.
I learned a lot - not only that I have much to practice and many opportunities to improve, but also that I have good basic skills. My fears of failing the flight "test" were unfounded. It really is meant to be a learning experience as much as a measurement of skills. Now I have some new skills to practice, and I'll use what I have learned to become a better pilot. Next time, I won't be dreading the flight review.
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