First flight

I allowed my mind to wander back through the years to that day. I was 40 years old in the photo. I gasped as I realized that the photo was taken more than 25 years ago. Somehow it seemed like only yesterday— and yet, at the same time, so distant that it was almost like a previous life.

The airplane in the picture was “Eight-O-Niner,” one of the four-seat airplanes owned and operated by the A&E Flying Club at Hawthorne Municipal Airport in California. My boyfriend at the time was a rich redneck who owned his own airplane. I dumped him shortly afterward, but he was the one who had taken me to the airshow where I met another woman pilot.

“You don’t have to be rich to learn to fly!” she said. “Most of us just give up a few things for a while.”

She convinced me that I could learn to fly on a budget. A single working mother for 18 years and now living by myself for the first time, I decided it would be my fortieth birthday present to myself. My dad, an Air Force reservist who had always wanted to learn to fly, used to take me to airshows frequently when I was a kid. I never really realized how much the thrill of flying and the roar of engines had gotten into my blood.

“Eight-O-Niner” had a brand-new paint job, and it stood there proud as a bird, with its bold orange-and-yellow tail design bright for all to see. The photo was taken on the day of my first solo flight.

It hadn’t started well. I was nervous, and it was difficult to coordinate my flight instructor, the airplane, and my own availability, especially since I was working full time in a high-pressure marketing job. To make matters worse, I had to fly on Saturdays, when everyone else wanted the airplanes. And with the airport so close to the coast, fog and haze were frequent barriers to being able to fly. However, the sky gods were smiling on me that day. Unlike the other two scheduled days, the weather was clear and I was finally going to be able to go up.

I showed up at the hangar early to allow myself enough time to carefully preflight the airplane. I wanted everything to be perfect, and I didn’t want to rush. I had just finished checking the fuel levels when a young man drove up, parked, and approached me.

“I need that airplane,” he said. “I’m doing my instrument checkride today.”

I looked at him in disbelief. Who was this jerk? Who did he think he was to talk to me like that? I stared at him for a minute, and finally said, “That’s not going to happen! I’m soloing today.”

The man stomped off, presumably to find another airplane. I was mad, but I couldn’t afford to let it distract me. I concentrated on finishing the preflight.

My instructor showed up. We reviewed things, started the airplane, and took off. Three practice landings, and my instructor got out of the airplane. “It’s all yours!” he said.

I gulped. Oh, my God, what had I been thinking? I couldn’t fly this airplane by myself! I only had 17 hours of practice. I was terrified.

When I was cleared, I took off, heart in hand; flew around the pattern; used the radio to call the control tower for landing; and somehow landed the airplane safely. I was exuberant. I taxied to the hangar, shut down the engine, and got out of the airplane. That was the moment another club member took that photo, right next to “Eight-O-Niner.”

The young man came back from his flight several minutes later, and we talked briefly. He acted nervous and apologized for his earlier behavior. He wasn’t such a jerk after all; in fact, he was kind of a nice guy. I guess my heart took flight that day, too, but it never occurred to me that I would later marry him. That was 25 years ago, and I haven’t been solo since.

Andrea Friedenthal, a private pilot since 1989, learned to fly at A&E Flying Club at California’s Hawthorne Airport.