I believed I should be able to "get it." I could get that airplane to fly smoothly around the rectangular traffic pattern, climbing through takeoff, turning left crosswind, holding level at an altitude of 1,000 feet above ground level on downwind, and making a gradual descent on final approach. I practiced stopping the downward dive and leveling off in a flare at about 10 feet agl. Try as I would, I could not get the airplane to float gently onto the runway. If my flare was too high and I hesitated to add power, the plane would run out of airspeed and drop with a jarring bang onto the asphalt. If I flared too low or came in fast with no flare, the airplane would hit the ground and bounce back into the air, begging to return to the heavens. Many times I performed the triple-bounce - a three-in-one landing. Seldom was I able to coax the airplane to an easy touchdown. Close to a perfect landing, I would panic, my hands clenched on the controls. I could hear Roger, my CFI, coaching me in his calm voice, but not one word registered. In that state of paralysis, I forgot to be the pilot-in-command and ceased flying my aircraft. Both Roger and I were frustrated. Finally, he suggested we consult with the director of the flying school, Bob Mock.
Bob and I had flown together once, on a progress checkride. With his arms folded across his ample chest, using only his feet on the rudders, he had demonstrated a takeoff. "See how easy it is," he'd said, grinning as the plane climbed, precisely maintaining the runway heading. I admired his skill and liked his nonthreatening style. The first thing I noticed when we entered his office was the sign on his desk: God, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. It sounded like good advice. I shook his hand, sat down, and wondered how he would rule in my case. Would he find in favor of serenity or courage? Should I give up or press on? After we discussed the aerodynamics of good landings and I satisfactorily answered his questions, I whined my frustration. "What should I do? Should I quit?"
Bob leaned back in his chair, winked at my instructor, and turned to me. "How long have you been married? Twenty-five years? Well, that's great. So try to think of it like making love. Hold the plane back, delay, hang onto the ground effect. Float as long as you can, 'til you can't hold off any longer." My face burned. Such explicit language made me uncomfortable. I understood his analogy but was not about to argue a different viewpoint. I knew he meant I should keep pulling back on the yoke, gently and firmly holding the plane off the ground as long as possible. I was very glad when at last we shook hands and I was dismissed. In his own manner, I think Bob was trying to tell me to keep going.
Before I had my next appointment with Roger, before I returned to the left seat, I flew in the right seat with my husband at the controls. Cole had been a private pilot for five years. For the past three months he had been listening as I gushed about my accomplishments and groaned over my fail- ures. Time and time again he'd heard me wail, "Maybe I should just give up." He'd held me, let me cry on his shoulder, and assured me I could do this. But he, too, was baffled that I had not conquered landings.
One Sunday after church and lunch, he suggested, "Let's go up, around the patch a few times, and let me see if I can give you some pointers." Except for announcing the plane's position, Cole remained silent. On short final he advised me to just relax and be aware of all that was happening. Over in the pilot seat I had no responsibilities. Like a child just happy to be along for the ride, I was free to observe with no pressure to perform. Just before the squeak, squeak of the main wheels on the asphalt, Cole opened his mouth and gasped, "Ah...That's it! Did you feel that? In the seat of your pants. Did you feel that sinking feeling?" By then all three wheels had touched down, and the airplane was slowing. "No, I can't say that I did," I responded. "Let's try it again."
We taxied back for another takeoff. "This time I want you to notice it. Watch for the sink." As we came around, ready for our second landing, Cole reminded me, "As I level off, pay attention. I'm not going to do anything. I won't start to pull back on the yoke until you feel your seat cushion falling away from you. Now tell me as soon as you sense that sinking feeling." At 10 feet above the ground, as the tree tops at the far end of the runway appeared in the middle of the windshield, he stopped the downward dive of the plane and leveled off. "Say when," he reminded me, holding the yoke with just a light touch of thumb and forefingers.
"Oh, my gosh, that's it! Now!" I shouted. "Wow, it's amazing! I actually did feel it - right in the seat of my pants. It felt like someone pulled a chair right out from under me." I watched as he applied back pressure to the yoke, holding the plane off as long as he could and touching down with the main gear before letting the nosewheel drop. We practiced the feeling a few more times, and each time I grew more confident that the sinking feeling would be there. Like the magic eye on the supermarket door, it opened the way to confident and safe landings. No one had described the art of good landings in such terms. I was so grateful. "You are the best! You should be a teacher." I praised and hugged my husband.
I couldn't wait for Monday and my next lesson. I didn't tell Roger what I had discovered over the weekend. I just quietly waited, trusting that it would be the same as before, doing nothing until I felt the signal, then slowly pulling back on the yoke as far as I could until the wheels grasped the ground and rolled across the hard surface. After I performed three fairly decent landings, Roger clapped me on the right knee. "Congratulations, young lady. I think you've got it. Now do it again a few more times." I noticed he was no longer hanging onto the bottom of the seat, bracing for the impending impact. On my sixth touch- down, the beautiful screech of the stall warning horn rewarded us, like a "well done, good job" from above! With a grand total of 35 hours in my logbook, Roger finally said those magic words, "You're ready for your first solo. Take it around by yourself."
Roger got out and began walking back across the grass toward the terminal. My right hand reached over to lock the door, and suddenly I wasn't so sure I wanted to do this. Maybe I needed some time to think about it. But I couldn't sit at the end of the taxiway much longer. I determined that even if something tragic happened and I died doing it, I had to make my first solo. Now.
As the plane, lighter now by 170 pounds, lifted quickly from the ground, I found a new, unforeseen problem. Fear gripped my knees, shaking them violently from side to side. I fought back, struggling to keep my feet on the rudder pedals, pushing with my right foot, forcing the plane to keep climbing straight ahead. The shaking subsided to a tremble that moved upward, mingling with joy as it reached my chest and dissipating in a "yippee" smile as it flew on. I realized that I was truly the pilot - now in command of my own craft. The three perfunctory landings were quite acceptable and more than enough for me. As I taxied in, Roger came out to help me push the airplane into position and tie it down. He held his thumbs high as he walked, as if displaying the winner's trophy. I imagined God was waving a green flag!
We toasted my triumph over sodas and I longed to share my secret. But Roger was so proud of this accomplishment that I couldn't reveal that not all of the credit belonged to him. For his patience with this student he surely earned a rating of CFI-Saint!
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