Sunrise flight

The marine layer and fog have vanished with the daytime temperatures averaging about 85 degrees Fahrenheit. A few days reached into the mid-90s, even climbed to 100-plus degrees a few times. Along with the unusually warm temperatures, the visibility extended to the horizon. There’s an aviation acronym that describes these conditions perfectly: CAVU—ceiling and visibility unlimited.

The conditions continued into the nighttime hours. Those nights were crystal clear, with calm winds, and the sky was crowded with stars. The thought of a walk on the beach or a drive down the beautiful coastal highway was just too hard to resist. Normally, the marine layer and fog make the nighttime conditions too damp and cold to fully enjoy such activities.

But this was different. Truly different!

One of those warm nights found my wife and me driving south down the coast on Highway 1. We had the top down on her car, and the view over the edge of Highway 1 and across the ocean was breathtaking. As we approached the famous Bixby Creek Bridge, the sun had just begun to set, and we stopped to watch. While the giant orange ball slowly disappeared over the horizon it painted an orange glow across the ocean right toward us. That scene alone was worth the drive. The fleeting moment at sunset, when the last light fades into the horizon, has much in common with a sunrise. For me, there is a feeling of calm that exists, a sense of well-being that’s difficult to fully explain. I’m sure many of you have had similar feelings that defy explanation.

That sunset drive gave me an idea. Guess what it was—a sunrise flight, of course!

I went to bed, anxious for the morning to arrive. It surprises me that with more than 30 years of flying, I still feel that level of excitement for an upcoming flight. I guess it’s true: The 20-year-old kid is alive and well inside this worn-out 74-year-old body!

The next morning the air was still and cool. During takeoff the airspeed indicator came alive quickly and the acceleration was brisk. The climb rate of 1,200 feet per minute surprised me (lightly loaded airplane, just me and half tanks). That climb rate exceeded all the pilot’s operating handbook numbers for my 172. It seems the airplane was as anxious as I was to see that sunrise.

I had read about it, even been told stories about it, but had never witnessed it. “The green flash!”Soon I was tracing big circles over Chualar, California, and waiting. The sky began to show light on the eastern horizon, beyond the Pacheco Peak that lies just east of Hollister, California. As the sky began to change from a dim blue-gray to light orange, I turned to fly directly toward it. The faint orange light became a more vivid orange, then brighter still, when suddenly there was a green flash, and the tiny edge of the sun broke over the horizon. I had read about it, even been told stories about it, but had never witnessed it. “The green flash!”

The green flash can be seen at both sunrise and sunset, from anywhere in the world, but certain conditions must exist for the green to be visible to the naked eye. And it’s not really a flash, but more of a momentary glow created by light refraction.

Early morning flights are my favorite times to fly. The air is almost always cool and still providing great performance for light aircraft like my 172. While cruising in the still air, watching the sun break the horizon, you witness the new day at its beginning. It’s like a do-over, a chance to make this day better than the day before. I know, I know, I’m getting a little teary eyed too, but give it a try. Watch the weather, pick a day that is forecast to be clear and calm. Get up early and make that morning flight. After you land and put the airplane away, stop for just a moment and see if you don’t feel just a bit more positive about the day that awaits you.

Glynn Dennis flies a 1959 Cessna 172 in Carmel, California.