Now that's a rite of passage!
For me, it didn't occur until I was in my 40s. And like most rites of passage, it was not my idea. In fact, like most rites of passage, I was dragged to it. But even if I had to be pulled to my first lesson, it was love that pushed me from behind to this particular baptism into 100LL. No, not love of country, and, at the time, certainly not love of flight; rather, it was plain old love of spouse.
Now, my mother had always told me that love would make me do strange things. Somehow, though, I don't think she had learning to fly in mind when she counseled me before my wedding. And she never understood the symbolic tearing of my shirt after I soloed as a metaphor for circumcision. More simply, she said my flying solo symbolized my passage from sanity into insanity. But more about that observation later.
Back to the love stuff. My husband had finally fulfilled a lifelong dream-earned his pilot's certificate, started instrument training, and bought an airplane, a wonderfully forgiving Skylane. (The "forgiving" part is important, so remember it for later in my story.) After my first frightful ride with him, I realized how he loved it and how I didn't. Keeping my eyes closed made matters worse, as did hoping it would all go away like a bad dream.
Besides, he was already an initiate. He now preferred a flight bag to a briefcase; a bomber jacket to a suit and tie; a Timex Zulu watch with compass to a Seiko. And on the daily train ride from New Jersey to Manhattan, he was absorbed in a copy of Sporty's catalogue or AOPA Pilot rather than The New York Times or Fortune. You can see this was serious. I didn't want to be left alone, an outsider. So I decided to join his "gang."
But becoming a member was not easy for me. Throughout my training, I was convinced that wilderness camping in the jungles of South Africa was less risky. I much preferred my sorority pledging days to the months of studying, trying to get the "feel" of the airplane, trying to put the theoretical together with the actual-flying the airplane straight and level simultaneously. Looking back, joining a sorority was easy. We formed a circle, entwined arms, and sang "AEPhi, fair and true, in our hearts we belong to you...."
Learning to fly required a different mantra. Aviate, navigate, communicate. In that order. Another mantra, when in trouble: Climb, communicate, confess, comply-in that order, too. Which brings me to how I survived my rites-and flights-and frights-of passage.
It was not the day I soloed, nor my first short cross-country. Those events, although essential to my weaning, pale in comparison to the day I was signed off for my second short cross-country.
I took off after a thorough weather briefing, flight planning, and preflight. (Remember, I came to flying not wanting to, so I always scoured the airplane hoping to find it ineligible for flight.) My carefully marked chart showed my checkpoints, my frequencies, my route. All went well to my first checkpoint at Round Valley Reservoir. That's where I noticed that sky conditions were not what had been predicted. I had great vertical vision, but little forward.
Even in my student pilot state (which some, like my mother, have compared to lunacy or idiocy), I realized continuing my trek was unwise. Turning around, I set my VOR to 171, knowing that the airport was on the 171-degree radial from near my first checkpoint.
Knowing I was not supposed to be relying on any of the navigation instruments (besides my compass) didn't deter me from using all the help on board. It was then I discovered the VOR was inoperable. It was back to basic pilotage.
No reason to panic. Just use the compass and head 171 degrees home.
I remembered the mantra. Climb, communicate, confess, comply. I called home base and communicated. (Well, doing one out of four for a scared student pilot ain't all that bad!)
"I'm at Round Valley and coming back because of reduced visibility and an inoperable VOR." My instructor, my surrogate parent for the last few months, said, "Just use your compass. I'll see you on the ground in a few minutes."
"Easy for him to say. He's a real pilot," I heard my inner voice quiver. "He's just trying to keep me calm."
I tried that method of navigation ("method of fright" might be a more accurate expression) for the six minutes it should have taken me to see the airport. (See, I had been studying.) There was just this one problem. I didn't see it.
Still no reason to panic. Well, maybe just a little. I did a couple of three-sixties, but nothing below looked remotely like any ground I'd ever seen before. No familiar landmarks. I even used the chart to try to figure out where I was since I was not directly over the airport, which is where I was supposed to be!
Using student pilot logic again, I decided that I should retrace my steps. So I headed back to my first checkpoint again, which was, even in the worsening visibility, still big enough to see. "I'll just go back there and start over again," I said to calm myself.
I got abeam Round Valley Reservoir and turned myself around again. Checking my compass heading and my watch, I headed home a second time.
Time was up and still no airport. Then I remembered the first part of the mantra. Climb. I did. I also decided against heading back to my first checkpoint for a third time. Instead, I settled on widening three-sixties while I tried to study the chart and figure out where I was. But in my nervousness I found it too difficult to fly the airplane and use the chart. So I did what any klutzy student pilot would do in a similar situation: I threw the chart on the floor near the right seat. And, being better at math than at reading maps, I quickly figured out that in three and one-half hours, I would have to land somewhere.
This knowledge, however, did little to console me. So I prayed, and I kept up my three-sixties. Some of my life passed before me, and I wondered if I would ever get back to my family to celebrate Fourth of July. (How ironic to be in this predicament on our nation's celebration of independence. I would have given anything to be a little less independent in that cockpit!)
During this time, I had not forgotten the other parts of the mantra-communicate and confess. But my, "Dear God, help me," didn't bring an answer.
After about 25 minutes of what I realized later was my first holding pattern, I looked down and saw I was abeam a number I will never forget: 24.
"A runway! Thank you, God."
Only one more small problem: This not my home airport, where the runways are either 10 or 28. But I was not leaving this new hallowed spot. I couldn't reach the chart that I had deemed useless that long half-hour ago, so I finally did what the mantra had been trying to tell me to do all along:
I dialed 121.5 MHz on the radio and 7700 on the transponder, and I confessed: "Anyone on 121.5, this is Cessna 123, student pilot calling." (Why I did not call my home base I cannot explain. After so many three-sixties I thought I was a world away from there. But, hey, at least I called someone.)
I must have lit up all of southern New Jersey's radar screens, and I still remember the soothing voice that said, "Go ahead, ma'am."
"Sir, Cessna 123 was returning from an aborted cross-country flight and became disoriented trying to find Princeton Airport. I'm presently abeam an airport with Runway 24." (Talking about the airplane's becoming disoriented made it sound as if it were not my fault.)
"Do you know how to operate your transponder?" (This comment, of course, only added insult to injury.)
"Yes."
"Please put in 7700 and ident." (I was on the right track when I tuned to 7700.)
I did.
"How much fuel do you have?"
"About three hours, sir."
Then I heard, "I have her!"
"Ma'am, you're abeam Trenton Airport, about six miles from Princeton. What are your intentions?"
As if he didn't know!
"I'd like to land, here, sir."
Trenton Tower came to my rescue and said, "Ma'am, you're cleared to land, any runway."
I landed on my now and forever favorite numbers. The most wonderful landing I will ever have, I am sure. I received a progressive to the FBO, and when I shut down and opened the door, the most wonderful gray-haired gentleman helped me out and said, "You know, I got lost, too. Only thing was I was already a pilot when it happened. Why don't you get a Coke and give your instructor a call?"
I did. His suggestion was for me to rest a bit and then fly back to Princeton.
"Not on your life. If you want to see this airplane again, you'd best get over here and fly back with me." I was not ready to take a leap of faith again, alone, quite that fast.
My husband flew my instructor over, and my instructor flew back with me, without saying a word.
I didn't need him to direct me or fly the airplane. We both knew that. I just needed the company.
Learning to fly, and especially that day's flight, taught me much about life and self-reliance. Being able to get back in the airplane alone again-to transcend the fear-to complete my private pilot's training, earn an instrument rating, and transition to a high-performance single (a beloved P210) have convinced me that my mother was right-partially.
Love does make you do strange things; but true metamorphosis, true coming of age, occurs when you want to do them for yourself.
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