I am a beginner. About two years ago, I decided to give myself a private pilot's license for my thirtieth birthday. For the first time in my life I had the drive, the time, and the necessary pocket change to finance my flight training in Germany, where I have been working for nine years. This cynic was going to finally realize a dream. On April 9, 2001, I passed my flight exam and was literally on top of the world. Shortly thereafter, my proud daddy was my first passenger.
On this beautiful Tuesday, I left Berlin airspace to the east and headed north, then west, tracing a wide arc around the city's busy airspace, which is dominated by the main passenger airport, Tegel. My approach at Kyritz was picture-perfect, as observers on the ground would tell me later. Twenty degrees of flaps, 70 knots, and sit back and enjoy the ride down to Runway 14 - 3,300 feet of asphalt just waiting for us to touch down.
What happened next makes me shudder every time I replay the event in my mind. The wheels touched the ground in what I thought was an excellent landing. But then something went horribly wrong. The plane took a hop. Then another, bigger hop. And another. And by the fourth hop, each bigger than the one before, I knew that I was in serious trouble. This wasn't going to stop by itself. The end of the runway was fast approaching, the fence and house beyond it getting bigger by the split second. I screamed "Going around! Going around!" before I realized that my finger had slipped off the push-to-talk button and no one could hear me. Full throttle, find the button, scream again "Going around! Going around!" Fight to hold the wings straight and level. Pull up the flaps, 10 degrees at a time. Get up there. Over the fence, over the house. Keep your wits. No reason to get nervous. Breathe. Now let's... just...try...that...again.
The second time around I gave myself a long final - more time to do everything right. There was one other student pilot in the pattern, doing touch and gos. But it happened again, and this time, the panic in my voice was clearly overheard.
Something was wrong, and I didn't know what it was. This had never happened before. Why was this happening? What am I doing wrong? I was panicking and knew that I didn't have the experience to deal with something like this. As I turned onto the base leg for my third attempt, frustrated, badly shaken up, facing the prospect of circling until my fuel ran out and then falling out of the sky, a kind voice on the radio asked "Hey EVIP, you need help?" My angel that day turned out to be the head CFI at the airport. He had heard my radio transmission and came out to the runway to see what was going on.
"Um, yes, " I answered, my voice a thin, weak line, my body soaked in sweat, and my nerves playing nasty tricks on me. Sitting in the left seat, alone, at 1,200 feet, circling above Kyritz, with barely six hours of post-exam flight time to my name, was really the last place I wanted to be at that moment. He told me to circle around again, just to calm down and get my head on straight again. I followed his every instruction slavishly, fully aware that this was probably my last hope of getting back to the ground in one piece. On final he coached and coaxed me down. "Less speed, more flap, check your rudder, that's it, pull up, pull up, keep your wheel up, flare, you got it, flare...."
Once the airplane was safely parked, the tears came unwillingly, in rivers; my hands were shaking so hard that I couldn't take a sip from my water bottle without spilling it all over me. My cool and collected exterior crumbled. The CFI came over and told me my mistake was that I'd made a three-point landing, way too fast. Seventy knots was way too fast for such a warm day and short runway. That was the reason for my "kangaroo."
After taking a break and inspecting the nosewheel for damage (none, I thanked the people at Cessna, once again, for building such a forgiving aircraft), I still couldn't bring myself to get back into the plane alone. My self-confidence was shattered, and I was afraid of flying back to Schoenefeld by myself. I asked the instructor to practice some landings with me, each attempt worse than the one before, my frustration increasing exponentially with every failure. He told me that it's normal for a beginner to have a phase like this, and it was OK, but it probably wasn't a good idea for me to fly home alone. I felt like an idiot - like I had regressed back to before my first solo, and like I should go off and put a match to my license. The dream of flying fell victim to a severe bout of self-doubt and sheer horror.
EVIP and I did get back to Berlin that day, accompanied by an experienced pilot in the right seat, and it took several months for me to be able to fly solo with confidence again. Though every instructor who flew with me told me I fly well, I still didn't trust myself. Even now, more than a year after the incident, I still think about what could have happened. Still, my love of flying and the freedom that I feel when piloting a plane eventually conquered the terror of that day.
I learned a few important lessons from the episode. First, there is a lot about landings I don't know yet, and every ounce of skill and attention is required for every single landing. The second thing I learned was to never fly with fear. But I think the most important lesson of all that day was what I learned about the first rule of general aviation. As a pilot friend told me a few days later "You watch out for each other. It's the only way you stay alive."
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