BETTER AT THIS THAN I THOUGHT
I’m a low-hour jockey, a single-typer (Cessna 172), and still creaking toward that 100-hour milestone. There are far more experiences ahead of me than I’ve had already. As a result I often think, and tremble, about situations that might sneak up and clock me right over my fledgling self-confidence. I’m not talking about extra-evil events like engine-outs or wheels falling off. As a toddler pilot, not long past the feeling that any momentary release of the control column will result in a howling, screaming death dive, contemplating minor incidents is more than enough to raise the level of my dread reservoir to flood stage. Recently I came head-on, (bad term in an aviation article), with some hitherto imaginary scenarios.
I saw the biplane, a Waco, as I drove up to my home GA airport. What a sound, that warbling rumble, as he made a pass over the field. I found him less appealing later when I encountered him on the downwind in a busy pattern; he cut in front of me without a word. It’s G airspace so radios are not required but it was a disquieting first encounter with muted wings. This particular situation was unnerving because I didn’t know what was going to come next. In this case, he crossed right through the pattern from left to right then came weaving back to join the line-up. When contemplating this scenario from my La-Z-Boy I figured the thing to do was over-react and flee the pattern altogether. I was surprised at my actual reaction, which was measured, clear-headed, and completely out of what I thought was my character. Once I realized short-stack was gate crashing, I pulled back the power to offset the rapidly evaporating space between us while also putting out a radio call that I was slowing down.
I thought about call the biplane – “Hey! It’s not 1938 – you’ve got company up here!” But he was apparently wireless-less and I had other things to contemplate. Stall speed was lurking and my view of his empennage continued to grow in detail. So not only does this guy think he’s alone, he’s slow. But for me, the seedling, still no sign of panic. I kept my speed up, did some S-turns along the line and the danger abated. Where did that smooth pilotage come from? That’s something big-hour drivers do. I can’t do that. I’m still in double digits.
Another situation arose was when I was experiencing, all pilots would agree, the heaven of night flying in an empty pattern. The airport was in a rural area and the runway lights blazed out of the darkness, even with just three clicks of the mike button. Perfect. I love the serenity that comes with maximum visibility. All was routine, night-flying bliss until late final, about 50-feet up and 10-feet from the threshold, when the runway lights went off. Now I’ve often thought about that happening. I concluded through my easy chair-based investigation that anytime the runway vanished the thing to do would be immediately hit full power, go around, and remember to juice-up the lights before trying again. As it turns out, I was remarkably calm. I let the approach go on undisturbed, clicking on the lights just in time for flare. Well, that was easy. Where was the panic, the overreaction? When did Mr. Smooth arrive?
On a different night, I had just taken off and executed a crosswind turn. No problem so far. But the airport in question sits on the edge of civilization with plenty of ground references to one side, none to the other. So as I was mid-turn toward the wild frontier, all of my references were instantly….gone. Sure, I’ve done the hood time recovering from “unusual attitudes” but this was real. And sudden. There was no instructor to yell at me and then fix it. You instrument guys go ahead and snicker but for this situation I expected my reaction to be, “That’s it! We’re going down!” But yet again, another of what I consider a high-hour, or at least higher than what I’ve got, response. I ended the turn using the artificial horizon, (taking a term from the bi-plane guy), then cast about for enough of the ground to reestablish a solid comfort level. Wow. Not bad considering my expectations. Who is this guy? It seems the training did get through.
Potentially my diciest episode was one afternoon lifting-off after a touch-and-go. Weather conditions were perfect and I’d been running the pattern without incident for a half-hour. My 172 had just left the ground, about 10ft up, when the engine sputtered. All right then. This is the end of the world for sure. In a few seconds I’ll be upside-down in the scrub trying to recall the details of my insurance policy. But once again, no disaster. I don’t know where it came from but I instantly realized that on that touch-and-go I’d scarcely used any of the 7500’ runway and still had time to scotch the take off. I throttled back to idle and while I waited for ground-effect to stop frittering away the runway, I radioed the other pilots that I’d be cluttering up the place for a while yet. Once the tires were reacquainted with the asphalt, full back on the stick and firm brakes stopped me over 100’ this side of the grass. After clearing the runway I did a run-up and everything sounded fine. But having no interest in further encounters with possible death, I ended my day’s flying.
My handling of these minor events has been a huge confidence builder as trepidation of the unknown is replaced by the comfort of experience. Calm resolution of the small problems indicates that larger issues will not necessarily be met with panic. My assumptions of immediate overreaction are being, one-by-one, drawn into the open and exposed as….over-reactions. There’s nothing new in this. I’ve been reading and hearing about these sorts of revelations since before I became a student pilot. But now it’s me who’s realizing, hey – I can handle some difficulties, and, hey – I’m all right if things don’t go perfectly and, hey – maybe I’m better at this than I thought.
By Michael Ryan