Be prepared

As I completed the brief before-takeoff checklist, an instructor walked over to the tube-and-fabric trainer and handed me a can of passion fruit juice and an opener.

“You might want these.”

Why hadn’t I thought of that?

Minutes later I was etching figure-eights over the ridges, a pristine beach sliding beneath one wing and then the other. Whales played a few miles offshore, and an occasional submarine from Pearl Harbor could be seen.

I turned on my portable radio and began soaring to my favorite music station. I was totally prepared for an afternoon of aerial bliss. Or was I?

About two hours into the flight, I began to sense a physiological necessity. This is when I realized that I was not as prepared as I had thought. I looked around the cockpit for a plastic bag, an airsickness bag, anything. There was nothing useful to be found. The smart thing would have been for me to land and start anew on another day, but who said I was smart? I was unwilling to give up the hours I had invested in this flight without putting up a fight. The pressure, however, continued to build, and I realized there would be no way to last another two hours without bursting.

I then remembered my can of fruit juice. All I had to do was drink the contents, and, voilà, I’d have a container.

I quickly opened the can and enjoyed the refreshment. But the rest of the procedure was more difficult than anticipated. That’s because there is so little room in the cramped confines of a glider to maneuver the human torso, especially a large one.

I released my shoulder harness and safety belt to give myself a bit more room. The updrafts and turbulence brought by the trade winds deflecting from the ridges below were a serious reminder that this might not be a bright idea, but I had little choice if I was to remain airborne.

This might not be the appropriate forum to detail the difficulties that followed, but suffice to say that this ordinarily natural process turned out to be extraordinarily challenging. Compounding the problem was the need to simultaneously maneuver the sailplane within the ridge lift.

Once the process began, I quickly discovered that the can was much too small to accommodate my offering. I had to arrest the procedure a few times in midstream, which resulted in quite a mess. I opened the canopy’s small side window and attempted to pour the contents overboard, a process that had to be repeated several times. And each time, most of what I attempted to pour out seemed to find my lap.

After five hours had mercifully elapsed, I popped the spoilers and descended into the traffic pattern at Dillingham Airfield (HDH). My torturous flight was mercifully about to end. I landed, rolled to a stop, and took a deep breath, but then noticed a group of people walking toward me. These were local pilots who had recruited a few “hula girls” to share in the celebration of my endurance flight. They brought leis, champagne, and glasses for everyone.

As the group neared the glider, one of the pilots stopped short, pointed toward me, and began laughing uncontrollably. The stained left side of the sailplane told the story of my flight. There was no place to hide. Nor did I dare exit the glider in this mixed company because of my drenched shorts. It was humiliating.

Although this story might seem like comic relief (no pun intended), such a problem can become quite serious.

No other experience has taught me more about preparedness. Before almost every flight, I ask myself what I might need, however unlikely it might be. This habit has paid handsome dividends. Such items invariably include snacks, water, first-aid and survival kits, and charts that cover areas beyond my intended route. I have definitely gotten into the habit of ensuring that my “brain bag” always contains a supply of Ziploc, heavy-duty freezer bags—you know why.

I have discovered that when prepared, I never seem to need these additional items. It is only when I fail to prepare that such needs inevitably arise. The God of Flight seems to enjoy playing such games with us.

BarrySchiff.com