The discussion had not yet turned to an argument. There wasn’t any shouting or yelling, but it was clear we weren’t understanding one another either. It was one of those tense conversations that happen between two people who are close. Her questions were direct and purposeful, my answers curt. We had just taken off, and my wife, Sara, was flying from the left seat.
This was her first unofficial flight lesson. Apparently my fondness for red meat and ice cream led her to believe that she could someday be needed in an emergency, because a few weeks prior she had asked to learn some of the basics of flying. We had flown together many times in the past, and this would be a sort of scenario-based learning approach, so I glossed over many of the building blocks of the early training and went straight to taxiing and takeoff. I explained the process like I had many times before. “Push the throttle smoothly to full, keep the nose straight down the runway with your feet, and apply a little bit of aft stick when I say so.” I didn’t think directions could be any simpler. But there was mutiny from the beginning. “What do I look at?” she asked. “What speed do I pull back at?” The questions just kept coming.
Now at a few thousand feet, we had a chance to relax and talk about what had happened. “I need concrete direction,” she said. And then it hit me. Sara is a scientist. Her day is spent in a lab, poring over data, and solving complex problems with terms that I can’t even pronounce. Her world is logical and precise. Mine is full of gray areas and creative pursuits. Words such as “smoothly” and “pull aft” were undefined and ambiguous. She wanted to hear that it should take around three seconds to go from idle to full throttle, that it will take about 10 pounds of pressure on your right foot, and that you pull on the stick at exactly 55 knots.
Lessons since have gone much smoother, primarily because I’ve pushed myself to give her the information she needs to better understand her surroundings. Working on her terms has helped me be a better instructor, and has made it easier for her to assimilate the information.
As husband and wife it was only natural for me to teach her. But another new student has me questioning how well the student and instructor relationship works with divergent perspectives when that relationship doesn’t involve “till death do us part.” David is a CFI candidate, and, like Sara, is very driven by logic and reason. Already a proficient pilot, David is learning to fly all over again from the right seat. That allows me to observe without the ongoing need to intervene on the controls.
Landings are a challenge for David, something he says he struggled with in primary training as well. As he’s worked through the process, he has established hard and fast rules for where to look and what to do when. Since this isn’t my natural style of flying, I am at a loss for suggestions on exactly where he might look and when. Saying things such as, “You’ll feel the seat drop out from under you,” just doesn’t work with him.
Knowing that our learning and teaching styles are different, I’ve wondered if I’m somehow doing David a disservice. I never struggled with landings, but I’ve had to review aerodynamics dozens of times since I first started flying. My natural tendency is to fly by feel, while his is to make targeted numbers. Can a student who is driven by order and rules mesh with an instructor who prefers to fly more by aircraft feedback? I think they can.
Pilots are by and large in one of these two camps. Often what they do for a living will be a harbinger of their personal style, but not always. To make the relationship work, concessions must be made on both ends. The instructor first has to recognize such a situation exists, and second, has to be willing to give the student what he needs. It does no good to insist a student fly a certain way if it goes against everything he knows. On the other side, the student needs to accept that it’s OK to sometimes fly outside his comfort zone and experience the alternate approach. I’ve told David that his workload will be significantly reduced if he isn’t concerned with setting the power at exactly the right rpm and manifold pressure, especially when he’s concentrating on making better landings. In return, I follow his style when it comes to the last five feet above the runway.
The best pilots have balance—something almost all of us wish we had more of. They can nail an instrument approach in a jet and then hop into a Stearman and make beautiful landings. Perhaps learning from an instructor with a different style is the best way to achieve such a perfect yin and yang.
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