CrimsonFlyer
Pre-Flight
The VASI is red-red. The airspeed has deteriorated to 60 knots. My aim point is now the parking lot of the Macy's, half a mile from the approach number. The previously mild turbulence now rocks the Warrior's wings up and down. I glance to the right seat, which is discomfortingly empty. Just a few minutes ago it was occupied by my trusty CFI. If I could take my vital signs now, I would be tachycardic and hypertensive. I'm solo. Solo. Oh, crap...
TWO WEEKS AGO...
I had finished all the solo paperwork for the CFI and the flying club, answered all the quizzes correctly. I knew the performance of the PA 28-161. I knew the boundaries of the surrounding Bravo and Charlie airspaces. I memorized the emergency checklists. After 3 weeks without flying due to work, I surprisingly nailed all the landings that day, even the ones that my CFI deliberately tried to sabotage. He would cause a balloon or step on a rudder during my flare or create an undesirable drift during my roundout. I corrected them all, with adjustment in the back pressure, with prompt opposite rudder, with smooth aileron. I kept the nose high during the touch-down.
"Are you ready for your solo next week?" my CFI asked at the end of the practice lesson as we landed back to our home airport across the Bay.
"Yes, I think so," I confidently replied. Man, this landing thing is not so bad. I'm ready. Or so I thought.
A WEEK AGO...
This was the day. After a few days of rain in this drought-suffering state, the sky returned to its usual blueness, interrupted by white streaks high-flying cirrus. The wind was calm. It was a perfect day to solo.
I preflighted with more deliberateness than usual. I rolled the airplane carefully to check all three tires. Fuel at tabs bilaterally. Oil at the right level. Even though I had always religiously followed the checklist from day one of training, each item took a bit more time today. My skin is more in the game today. Perhaps aviation, at least commercial aviation, is so safe because pilots have a good incentive to have an uneventful flight. If they can get their asses safely to the destination, the passengers will too. My field of work, medicine, has adapted the checklist culture, but only to a certain extent. Our skin is not really in the game. Sometimes it's a good thing. Otherwise, as an oncologist, I would have died a few times a week.
The CFI quickly filled out the solo form in my logbook. He checked my medical certificate. "I'll sign this just right before leaving the plane," he promised.
We took off into clear, calm air that caressed the Warrior. On our left was the narrow strip of land between the Santa Cruz mountains and the Bay, the so-called Peninsula that was home to Stanford University and some of the most ridiculously expensive towns in the country. Two-bed, one-bath house for 1.4 million dollars. Ninety-thousand-dollar Tesla Model S's jammed the freeway. Directly underneath our flying machine was East Palo Alto, with housing projects, poorly funded schools, and crime rates that had remained stubbornly high throughout the decades. Its brown and black residents babysat kids, cleaned toilets, trimmed the roses in meticulously manicured gardens of Atherton mansions owned by mostly white high-tech multimillionaires and billionaires. Beyond our right wing, across the bay, were neighborhoods that were a bit more affordable, by local standards, but still outrageously pricy by the rest of the country. Ahead, if I could see from the nose of the airplane, currently pitched up for its Vy, lied the San Mateo bridge and, further to the horizon, SFO and the city of San Francisco. As usual there were jets above us, displayed as arrows on my Stratus-equipped iPad.
We turned right at the Dumbarton bridge and continued our ascent, leaving the wealth disparity behind. From here, even barely above 1000 feet MSL, one could only see the beauty of the earth, the bay glistening in the sun, the stoic mountains on three sides, the colorful salt evaporation ponds, the green golf courses, the white rooftops, the tiny cars. There was no rich versus poor, no whites versus blacks, no employers versus employees. There was no daily worry, no anxiety, no stress. From here, flying, magically moving the air, though constantly scanning for traffic and monitoring the altimeter so we would not bust the Bravo above us, I felt like the luckiest person on earth. I was at peace. Beauty was all around us. And this old Piper Warrior, with its trusty Lycoming engine, was a beauty in its own right. My CFI was also quiet. Very quiet today. He sat back and let me do everything, the flying and the radio work. I wondered if he experienced the same magic of flying at that moment.
Our home airport tower approved the frequency change. We got KHWD ATIS, contacted tower, and requested left closed traffic.
"Let's do a few warm-up laps," muttered my CFI, meaning before my solo. I flew the straight-in approach as requested by ATC. The final looked good. On speed. On glide path. Over the number, I idled the throttle. Before I could start the flare, I heard a hearty thump. The damn airplane landed. Flat. The CFI smiled somewhat mischievously. I knew he knew that the landing would be flat, though not flat enough for him to take control, but he wanted to teach me a lesson.
Alright. It's OK. We all make mistakes. We gave full throttle from another go from 28L. A 650 foot TPA means a pretty fast circuit. Here comes the second landing. I flared at the perfect height, or so I thought before the plane dropped hard onto its rear wheels, shattering my confidence.
Maybe third time would be the charm. Hey, I had nailed all the landings the previous week. I can do this. I turned final. VASI warned red-red. I gave my baby some power, and it quickly got back up on the glide path. And promptly shot through it. ****. I reduced power, but it was too late. The number was approaching fast. We floated and floated and landed way down the runway and made a full stop.
After a quick dissection of the landings, my CFI concluded, "Let's practice some more today." No solo. In a way, I'm glad. There was no way I was ready.
We switched from the 650 foot left pattern to the parallel, much narrower and shorter runway, with an 850 foot pattern to practice more. I had to know when to start the descent sequence, depending on pattern attitude, whether our downwind was extended by ATC, My last few landings were good.
Solo next week? I think I'm ready again.
A FEW MINUTES AGO...
"Are you warmed up?" my CFI asked. I had done three not-so-great but safe and nose-up landings without much excitement. And I did all that while managing the radio work in a saturated pattern with ATC rapidly firing instructions. They had to turn away several touch-and-go requests.
"Yes. Let's do it." Of course I meant me. There would be no more "us." Just me. Scary. "Yes, I'm ready," I told him.
"Dropped me off there," my CFI pointed to the end of the taxiway. He went over what I had read on the Internet. The aircraft would feel much lighter. I would reach TPA much faster. Easier to balloon.
"It's OK to have some nervousness," he prepped me. He discussed the hand signals he might use. He would be monitor the tower frequency on his handheld and if I screwed up badly, he might say something. He asked for my medical certificate. After signing it carefully, he showed me to make sure things looked right.
"Oh, one more thing," he said then keyed the mike. "Hayward tower, Cherokee 12345."
"Cherokee 12345, say request."
"I'm sending my student for his first solo. If possible, please keep him in the left pattern." Ah, it was nice of him. The left runway is much wider and longer than the right one. Earlier today, we and other aircraft had been asked to move to the right runway after the left one was saturated. Tower agreed.
"Alright. Have fun!" he stepped out onto the right wing and slammed the door shut. I reached over and latched the door. The last thing I wanted on my first solo flight was a door popping open a few hundred feet in the air.
I released the brakes, taxied toward the assigned runway. "Cherokee 12345, cleared for takeoff runway 28L, make left traffic," tower came on my headset. I replied for the first time as pilot in command. No nervousness in my voice even though my heart was beating fast. No traffic on final. I lined up and applied full throttle. Right rudder. The engine roared. Fifty five knots. I rotated. And she flew and flew and flew. Wow. Cool. Hey, I'm flying. By myself.
Before I even finished crosswind, the altimeter was flying through TPA. I cut power back and turned downwind.
"Cherokee 12345, extend downwind. I'll call your base."
Come on. It's my first solo, and you're screwing up my pattern. "You'll call my base, Cherokee 12345." My nervousness increased. I flew past the usual landmark for base turn. Pay attention to traffic. Pay attention to speed. Pay attention to altitude.
Tower called my base. I turned base, then turned final...
TO THE PRESENT...
Oh, crap. I'm now slow and low with full flaps. I would much prefer landing on the 5000-foot runway instead of the Macy's parking lot. Don't stall. Don't stall. My training kicks in. I push the throttle forward a bit. Don't raise the nose yet. The airspeed increases smoothly. Back on the glide path. Sixty seven knots. I crab slightly to the left to compensate for the crosswind.
The approach now looks much better. Whew. The runway becomes bigger in the windshield. I sideslip to line up longitudinally. Above the number. Power to idle. I flare at the usual height. The aircraft promptly jumps up. Damn balloon. I knew it would do this and still made the same mistake many first solo student pilots have probably made. I ease on the back pressure. The Warrior floats slowly back down. It floats more then starts to sink slowly. I bring the nose higher and higher. More and more back pressure. Rudder left and right to correct yaw.
Amazingly, the aircraft settles with a not-so-loud thud on its back tires, then nose gear. I apply the brakes smoothly before letting it roll to the next turnout. On the taxiway, my CFI raises his phone. I check mine. "Not bad," he texts and advises me to flare not so high. I give him a thumbs up and taxi back to the runway. Yes, I survived. I didn't die. Yes, I can do this. I can become a pilot.
TWO WEEKS AGO...
I had finished all the solo paperwork for the CFI and the flying club, answered all the quizzes correctly. I knew the performance of the PA 28-161. I knew the boundaries of the surrounding Bravo and Charlie airspaces. I memorized the emergency checklists. After 3 weeks without flying due to work, I surprisingly nailed all the landings that day, even the ones that my CFI deliberately tried to sabotage. He would cause a balloon or step on a rudder during my flare or create an undesirable drift during my roundout. I corrected them all, with adjustment in the back pressure, with prompt opposite rudder, with smooth aileron. I kept the nose high during the touch-down.
"Are you ready for your solo next week?" my CFI asked at the end of the practice lesson as we landed back to our home airport across the Bay.
"Yes, I think so," I confidently replied. Man, this landing thing is not so bad. I'm ready. Or so I thought.
A WEEK AGO...
This was the day. After a few days of rain in this drought-suffering state, the sky returned to its usual blueness, interrupted by white streaks high-flying cirrus. The wind was calm. It was a perfect day to solo.
I preflighted with more deliberateness than usual. I rolled the airplane carefully to check all three tires. Fuel at tabs bilaterally. Oil at the right level. Even though I had always religiously followed the checklist from day one of training, each item took a bit more time today. My skin is more in the game today. Perhaps aviation, at least commercial aviation, is so safe because pilots have a good incentive to have an uneventful flight. If they can get their asses safely to the destination, the passengers will too. My field of work, medicine, has adapted the checklist culture, but only to a certain extent. Our skin is not really in the game. Sometimes it's a good thing. Otherwise, as an oncologist, I would have died a few times a week.
The CFI quickly filled out the solo form in my logbook. He checked my medical certificate. "I'll sign this just right before leaving the plane," he promised.
We took off into clear, calm air that caressed the Warrior. On our left was the narrow strip of land between the Santa Cruz mountains and the Bay, the so-called Peninsula that was home to Stanford University and some of the most ridiculously expensive towns in the country. Two-bed, one-bath house for 1.4 million dollars. Ninety-thousand-dollar Tesla Model S's jammed the freeway. Directly underneath our flying machine was East Palo Alto, with housing projects, poorly funded schools, and crime rates that had remained stubbornly high throughout the decades. Its brown and black residents babysat kids, cleaned toilets, trimmed the roses in meticulously manicured gardens of Atherton mansions owned by mostly white high-tech multimillionaires and billionaires. Beyond our right wing, across the bay, were neighborhoods that were a bit more affordable, by local standards, but still outrageously pricy by the rest of the country. Ahead, if I could see from the nose of the airplane, currently pitched up for its Vy, lied the San Mateo bridge and, further to the horizon, SFO and the city of San Francisco. As usual there were jets above us, displayed as arrows on my Stratus-equipped iPad.
We turned right at the Dumbarton bridge and continued our ascent, leaving the wealth disparity behind. From here, even barely above 1000 feet MSL, one could only see the beauty of the earth, the bay glistening in the sun, the stoic mountains on three sides, the colorful salt evaporation ponds, the green golf courses, the white rooftops, the tiny cars. There was no rich versus poor, no whites versus blacks, no employers versus employees. There was no daily worry, no anxiety, no stress. From here, flying, magically moving the air, though constantly scanning for traffic and monitoring the altimeter so we would not bust the Bravo above us, I felt like the luckiest person on earth. I was at peace. Beauty was all around us. And this old Piper Warrior, with its trusty Lycoming engine, was a beauty in its own right. My CFI was also quiet. Very quiet today. He sat back and let me do everything, the flying and the radio work. I wondered if he experienced the same magic of flying at that moment.
Our home airport tower approved the frequency change. We got KHWD ATIS, contacted tower, and requested left closed traffic.
"Let's do a few warm-up laps," muttered my CFI, meaning before my solo. I flew the straight-in approach as requested by ATC. The final looked good. On speed. On glide path. Over the number, I idled the throttle. Before I could start the flare, I heard a hearty thump. The damn airplane landed. Flat. The CFI smiled somewhat mischievously. I knew he knew that the landing would be flat, though not flat enough for him to take control, but he wanted to teach me a lesson.
Alright. It's OK. We all make mistakes. We gave full throttle from another go from 28L. A 650 foot TPA means a pretty fast circuit. Here comes the second landing. I flared at the perfect height, or so I thought before the plane dropped hard onto its rear wheels, shattering my confidence.
Maybe third time would be the charm. Hey, I had nailed all the landings the previous week. I can do this. I turned final. VASI warned red-red. I gave my baby some power, and it quickly got back up on the glide path. And promptly shot through it. ****. I reduced power, but it was too late. The number was approaching fast. We floated and floated and landed way down the runway and made a full stop.
After a quick dissection of the landings, my CFI concluded, "Let's practice some more today." No solo. In a way, I'm glad. There was no way I was ready.
We switched from the 650 foot left pattern to the parallel, much narrower and shorter runway, with an 850 foot pattern to practice more. I had to know when to start the descent sequence, depending on pattern attitude, whether our downwind was extended by ATC, My last few landings were good.
Solo next week? I think I'm ready again.
A FEW MINUTES AGO...
"Are you warmed up?" my CFI asked. I had done three not-so-great but safe and nose-up landings without much excitement. And I did all that while managing the radio work in a saturated pattern with ATC rapidly firing instructions. They had to turn away several touch-and-go requests.
"Yes. Let's do it." Of course I meant me. There would be no more "us." Just me. Scary. "Yes, I'm ready," I told him.
"Dropped me off there," my CFI pointed to the end of the taxiway. He went over what I had read on the Internet. The aircraft would feel much lighter. I would reach TPA much faster. Easier to balloon.
"It's OK to have some nervousness," he prepped me. He discussed the hand signals he might use. He would be monitor the tower frequency on his handheld and if I screwed up badly, he might say something. He asked for my medical certificate. After signing it carefully, he showed me to make sure things looked right.
"Oh, one more thing," he said then keyed the mike. "Hayward tower, Cherokee 12345."
"Cherokee 12345, say request."
"I'm sending my student for his first solo. If possible, please keep him in the left pattern." Ah, it was nice of him. The left runway is much wider and longer than the right one. Earlier today, we and other aircraft had been asked to move to the right runway after the left one was saturated. Tower agreed.
"Alright. Have fun!" he stepped out onto the right wing and slammed the door shut. I reached over and latched the door. The last thing I wanted on my first solo flight was a door popping open a few hundred feet in the air.
I released the brakes, taxied toward the assigned runway. "Cherokee 12345, cleared for takeoff runway 28L, make left traffic," tower came on my headset. I replied for the first time as pilot in command. No nervousness in my voice even though my heart was beating fast. No traffic on final. I lined up and applied full throttle. Right rudder. The engine roared. Fifty five knots. I rotated. And she flew and flew and flew. Wow. Cool. Hey, I'm flying. By myself.
Before I even finished crosswind, the altimeter was flying through TPA. I cut power back and turned downwind.
"Cherokee 12345, extend downwind. I'll call your base."
Come on. It's my first solo, and you're screwing up my pattern. "You'll call my base, Cherokee 12345." My nervousness increased. I flew past the usual landmark for base turn. Pay attention to traffic. Pay attention to speed. Pay attention to altitude.
Tower called my base. I turned base, then turned final...
TO THE PRESENT...
Oh, crap. I'm now slow and low with full flaps. I would much prefer landing on the 5000-foot runway instead of the Macy's parking lot. Don't stall. Don't stall. My training kicks in. I push the throttle forward a bit. Don't raise the nose yet. The airspeed increases smoothly. Back on the glide path. Sixty seven knots. I crab slightly to the left to compensate for the crosswind.
The approach now looks much better. Whew. The runway becomes bigger in the windshield. I sideslip to line up longitudinally. Above the number. Power to idle. I flare at the usual height. The aircraft promptly jumps up. Damn balloon. I knew it would do this and still made the same mistake many first solo student pilots have probably made. I ease on the back pressure. The Warrior floats slowly back down. It floats more then starts to sink slowly. I bring the nose higher and higher. More and more back pressure. Rudder left and right to correct yaw.
Amazingly, the aircraft settles with a not-so-loud thud on its back tires, then nose gear. I apply the brakes smoothly before letting it roll to the next turnout. On the taxiway, my CFI raises his phone. I check mine. "Not bad," he texts and advises me to flare not so high. I give him a thumbs up and taxi back to the runway. Yes, I survived. I didn't die. Yes, I can do this. I can become a pilot.
