The unforgettable first solo cross-country - Part 4 of 5 of 'The Student Experience'
I bounced with excitement and relief in my seat as I established the airplane on a long straight-in approach to Runway 23, wiping a little sweat from my brow with a grin.
Flight training had been one amazing adventure, but I had especially looked forward to the cross-country phase of the curriculum. As a child, I was engrossed in stories of the early days of aviation and quickly became fascinated by how Saint-Exup¿ry, Mermoz, Lindbergh, and Earhart had navigated in the days before GPS and widespread radio navigation. Every one of those flights was an adventure, and soon I would be able to create my own using the same basic skills they had employed.
June 23 arrived, a bright, sunny, and clear New England day. It had been two months since I'd taken the leap and started training, and it was the day of my very first cross-country. Tyler, my flight instructor, helped me to plot a course from our base in Bedford, Massachusetts, to Sanford, Maine, using only pilotage -- the use of landmarks to navigate -- and dead reckoning, which consists of time, speed, and distance calculations designed to find your way and position at any point during a flight.
The route was straightforward, and after a few questions on new radio communication procedures and a last check of the weather, we set off on the new adventure. With a few clouds at 8,000 feet, moderate temperatures, and a slight wind from the northwest, we anticipated a smooth flight.
With the cockpit littered with charts, flight logs, and my flight computer, I turned northeast after takeoff, I opened the flight plan with the Bridgeport Flight Service Station, then called Boston Approach for VFR traffic advisories. The service, also known as flight following, meant that air traffic controllers would radio me if they saw on their radar screens any traffic on or near my route of flight, but I would still have to keep my eyes outside the cockpit to avoid any unwanted midair encounter.
We flew below Boston's Class B airspace, spotted the Lawrence airport, and climbed to our cruising altitude of 5,500 feet. From there the world looked spectacular.
With the day unusually clear for New England, I could make out small fishing towns nestled on the jagged shore and was enraptured by the awesome sight of Portsmouth and the estuary shining ahead in the late afternoon sun. Beyond the city, the coast zigzagged gracefully toward the northeast.
We found our checkpoints easily, but I forgot to note the times, which if I had gotten lost would have made finding my position by dead reckoning almost impossible. I didn't feel overburdened as I thought I would, but my forgetfulness made me question my abilities as a navigator. Finding your way in the sky requires discipline and attention, neither of which I was seemingly able to demonstrate, to my great displeasure.
We soon reached Sanford, where I did a quick touch and go.
"The weather ahead is bad and you have to divert to Manchester," Tyler announced during our climbout. "Oh, and your VOR's not working," he added with a grin.
I pulled out the sectional, looked for the New Hampshire airport in Class C airspace, and plotted a route that would take me there. As I tried to draw a line from Sanford to Manchester on the chart, the airplane decided to roll to the left. Blissfully unaware, I kept my head down to plan my revised route until Tyler's throat-clearing attracted my attention. I promptly corrected the aircraft's attitude and resumed my planning with a grunt.
"You had to have me do this on the climbout, huh?" He shrugged.
Turning onto my new heading, I soon spotted Manchester. Radio traffic was heavy, and I was terrified of interfering with other pilots' radio calls. I finally told Approach of my intentions to perform a touch and go before heading back to Bedford and was asked to report 15 miles from the field.
I listened to the ATIS, clumsily trying to monitor Approach in my headset and the recorded weather and terminal information on the cockpit speaker, and we switched frequencies to Manchester Tower when instructed. I felt I would never be able to handle so much work alone, especially in the high-pressure environment of a busy airport at rush hour. We landed behind a Southwest Airlines Boeing 737 and headed back to Bedford. The trip taught me a lot. Most of all: Flying someplace is fun, but a lot more work than I thought. But that realization could not wipe the smile from my face, and I looked forward to my solo cross-country trips.
August 7 brought with it clouds and the prospect of rain late in the day. After a review of my flight plan and a last check of the weather along my route to Groton-New London Airport in Connecticut, I walked out to preflight the airplane. I was nervous -- so nervous, in fact, that I had forgotten to have Tyler endorse my logbook for the flight.
I ran back inside the terminal and asked an instructor for his signature to allow me to fly legally. He insisted on checking my flight plan and drilled me with a few questions to make sure I was ready, then voiced his concern about the weather. Clouds had been rolling in all afternoon, but ceilings along the way seemed stable at about 5,500 feet, which was enough to allow me to fly.
After a final weather check, however, he let me go, and I was wheels off at 5:14 p.m. Eastern time, about an hour behind schedule.
The gray skies and cool temperatures made for smooth air, and 12 minutes after takeoff I found my first checkpoint: the small airport at Norfolk, Massachusetts.
With the knowledge that I was on course, I took a minute to enjoy the scenery. Boston stood behind me in a misty horizon, while the sun drew haphazard lines of light over and near Providence and the ocean beyond as only a precious few rays pierced the thick cumuli above.
As I approached North Central State Airport, near Pawtucket, Rhode Island, specks of white, red, yellow, and orange littered the sky. At first I couldn't make out what they were, but as I neared I realized that they were skydivers.
My navigation so far had consisted of pilotage and dead reckoning -- and I managed to be more disciplined about timing each leg, working out my speed over the ground and recalculating the estimated time to the next checkpoints and estimated time of arrival. The numbers seemed to match the progress of my flight, which filled me with great excitement.
Soon, I tuned to the Groton VOR and tracked the 050-degree radial inbound all the way to the airport, which slowly unveiled itself from the gray robe of this gloomy summer day. The feeling of having found the airport alone was phenomenal, and I could hardly sit still in my seat. I felt like a man left roaming the desert for days before finding an oasis.
After an uneventful landing and topping off the tanks, I took off again, hoping to beat the sunset as I was rapidly running out of daylight.
As I turned northeast to return to Bedford, I realized I might have other problems along the way. Rain was falling in thick gray sheets behind and to the left of my route, and to the east over Providence. I quickly considered several diversion options in case things got bad, but continued on course as my route remained dry -- for now.
Under clouds that seemed to be thickening, the ground darkened, and I worried about finding the checkpoints that would guide me home. But out of nowhere a single ray of sunshine broke through the overcast and shone on North Central State Airport, paving my return path with light.
As I approached Boston's western suburbs, I became confused and had trouble finding Norfolk in the dark mass below me.
My main worry was that of flying through Boston's Class B airspace. I could descend to fly below it, but would have to compromise better visibility to do so. I dropped to 2,800 feet, which still afforded reasonable visibility, and soon spotted Hanscom in the distance, enveloped in a dirty orange mist as the sun slowly disappeared beyond the horizon.
I took a deep breath, smiled, and closed the flight plan before contacting Hanscom Tower and completing what had become one of the most amazing adventures of my life. While minuscule in comparison to the many feats that have punctuated the history of aviation, I felt a strong sense of pride after that first cross-country and was already dreaming of many more as I headed back into the terminal.
While still rewarding, my second mandatory solo trip two weeks later did not carry with it the feeling of having broken new ground and the unimaginable sense of achievement that I experienced when the myriad pieces of the flying puzzle all seemed to come together and make sense.
Like my first trip alone around the airport's pattern, my first solo cross-country will forever remain fondly etched in my memories as one of those moments when flying taught me just how much one could achieve, no matter how daunting the challenge.
Mark Wilkinson was a Boston journalist when he learned to fly in 2004. He enjoyed flying so much that he decided to pursue a flying career.
