I had always wanted to learn how to fly, looking into the sky whenever I heard an airplane. When I turned 62, I knew it was now or never. I talked to my friend, Dale, a retired airline captain who gave me encouragement. With his advice I purchased a 1967 Cessna 150 and dedicated myself to study. I had taken a few lessons 25 years earlier, but now learning was much more of a challenge.
The anticipation of my solo cross-country gave me anxiety. At 6:30 a.m., I called flight service and found that both Maryland’s Easton Airport and Maryland’s Ocean City Airport were “wind calm.” My instructor set up an 8:10 a.m. meeting to review my wind variation calculations, and I was ready to go.
Driving to the airport I had the same feeling the day of my solo a year before. Was I really going to do this? Preflight went smoothly until I spotted a few strands of hay sticking out from under the fuselage. More careful examination revealed the entire engine area was a giant bird’s nest. A bushel of hay had to be removed.
At 9:15 a.m. I called the tower to ask permission to taxi out for takeoff. Before he answered I realized I was talking on the frequency to the tower and not the ground as I should have. “Two-Eight-Juliet, stay on this frequency. Proceed to Runway 4 via Alpha and Bravo.”
After the run-up and normal preflight I was cleared to take off. At 500 feet I banked to the right to magnetic course 114 and contacted Leesburg Flight Service to open my flight plan. At 2,500 rpm (full throttle) I climbed slowly to 2,800 feet in five minutes. Peering down at the Choptank River, I leveled off. My groundspeed was 101 miles per hour as I compared my airspeed to an automobile GPS I had borrowed.
Since I had taken off well after the sun had risen, the airplane was in a constant state of intermittent bouncing.
I had planned my trip in careful detail and I had plenty of time to look out the window, between glances at the airspeed, altimeter, and other instruments and gauges. There was Seaford, Delaware, just in the right spot. I glanced out far and saw the skyscrapers of Ocean City.
Time marched slowly. I had to have a drink of water; my throat was so dry. I reached for the bottle of water I brought and realized I had to open the screw top. This would take dexterity without taking my hand off the yoke. Open, yes! A gulp of refreshing water and I felt much better. I dropped the top! No cup holders in this 1967 Cessna. I placed the bottle between my legs. I was still in constant turbulence. My head hit the ceiling of the airplane on one bounce. I was just about to call Ocean City unicom when I heard, “Ocean City unicom, this is Three-Nine-Two-Four-Yankee seven miles north at 2,800 feet with plans to come to a full stop.” A female voice answered with the wind speed, saying Runway 14 was active. I examined the diagram of the airport; Runway 14 appeared to be from the east over the ocean on the chart.
“This is November Eight-Four-Two-Eight-Juliet, seven miles west at 2,800 feet. I plan to come in for a full-stop landing on 14,” I transmitted.
As I passed over the airport I scolded myself for not realizing that 14 was 140 in my perfect path to land from the west, but I was at 1,500 feet over it. I flew over the ocean and got into the pattern. The view of Ocean City was spectacular. I landed and taxied in. I noticed the bottle of water had spilled into my lap. I carried the chart and my logbook in the office with me to shield my wet pants. “You want me to sign that?” said the lady at the counter with a smile.
The ride back was still turbulent. As I saw Seaford, I was flying right over it, slightly off course. I corrected using the GPS. I could see Easton from way out.
Tuning the Easton frequencies, I used the other radio to close my flight plan on the way home. “Easton Tower, November Eight-Four-Two-Eight-Juliet is seven miles out coming in from the east for a full stop,” I said. The tower told me to make a right base for Runway 4 and advise at three miles. I had assumed I was going to do a standard left base and had to change course. “Two-Eight Juliet, you are cleared to land on Runway 4.” Two white lights to the left and two the right meant I was right on course for a smooth landing.
After another 20 hours and final cross-country flights I passed the FAA knowledge test and checkride a few months before my sixty-fifth birthday.
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