First Solo

The first solo is one of the most celebrated rights of passage in the aviation world. While there are certainly higher aviation feats than this first major step, flying solo is one of the most celebrated.

Flying solo is the point where you and your instructor are comfortable enough with your skills in taking off, manuevering, and most importantly landing. (Taking off is optional, landing is mandatory as my instructor says.) It's the first flight you take without your instructor by your side (or behind you, depending on the aircraft). You're not a licensed pilot yet, and you're not allowed to have any passengers, but you can take the plane out by yourself to practice for your check-ride (essentially a driving test for the sky).

It was a beautiful Sunday when the first possibility of a solo had come up. We left Twin Oaks (7S3) and headed to the towered airport of Hillsboro (KHIO) which was about 5 minutes away. I contacted the tower (Hillsboro Tower, Cessna One-Size-Zero-Five-Eight, I am one-thousand two-hundred over Twin Oaks landing with information Indigo), and I got permission for a straight in approach to runway 30. I did a few touch-and-go practice landings (where you land and immediately take off, without stopping), and did one short approach. We did several landings, working on my techniques. I can land safely consistently now, it's just a matter of getting a much better technique.

We headed back to Twin Oaks, but by the time we got there we'd been out for 1.5 hours, and I was getting pretty tired. I don't know how it is for experienced pilots, but doing landing after landing is pretty draining. We both agreed I was ready, but we'd wait until the next time.

Next lesson comes around, and it's windy. 10 knots windy (about 12 MPH). To top it off, it was a tail wind. The runway is slopped downward from runway 20, so taking off from the other wide (runway 02) is not a terribly good idea, even with a 10 knot head wind. These were conditions I've never flown in, so that day was not going to be my solo day.

Even though it wasn't my solo, it was great practice. These were conditions I've never flown in and they were just outside my comfort zone when we started, but I got the hang of it by the time we were done. We got some pretty hefty gusts as I was taking off, and the turn out felt really weird as we were being pushed pretty fast. It felt like I was doing one of those car drifting moves.

I went out two days later in the early evening. The winds were calm, so this looked like it was going to be my day. Three good landings and one go-around was what my instructor wanted to see before.

Despite my snail-slow progress in the beginning, we decided I was ready to solo at Twin Oaks, with it's narrow and short runway. Some students solo at other, larger runway'd airports, before soloing at the smaller airports. For some reason however, I found the smaller runways easier. I tended to be sloppier on a bigger runways. Go figure.

So three landings and one go around were done. He made a few last critiques, mostly towards my propensity to relax after the plane is on the ground (keep the nose up on the ground roll for a bit significantly slows the plane down, to where you don't even need to use breaks).

We got out, Michelle hugged me, and he signed my log book, authorizing me to solo with certain restrictions. The ceiling has to be higher than 3,000 feet, winds can't be more than 10 knots, and the cross-wind component can't be more than 5 knots. I'm also only authorized to land at a few airports, such as Twin Oaks (7S3), Skapoose (KSPB), Hillsboro (KHIO), Aurora State (KUOA), and McMinnville (KMMV).

I took off, for the first time by myself. Oddly enough, I wasn't all that nervous. I had been terrified the first couple of flights, but by this time I was much more comfortable. It was also quiet. Usually my instructor and I would banter about. I used it early on to relieve a lot of my nervousness. On one occasion just after lifting off the runway, my instructor asked:

"What would you do if you lost an engine right now?"

"Shit my pants."

It was the only answer I could come up with, and I used the response to stall for time while I tried to figure out what the best option would be.

"OK, after you shit yourself, what would you do." I suggested returning to the runway, but we were at 500 feet, and he said that wasn't likely to happen. Not enough altitude. The correct answer is to find a field to land on, and we went over the emergency procedures.

My first solo landing (shown below) was a little more nervousness-inducing, but I was calm compared to my first takeoff. There was a few thermals throwing me around on final, and a very slight cross wind, but the landing was good.

Tony's First Solo Landing

I parked the plane and shut off the engine, with a huge smile on my face. "What happened?" My instructor asked.

"Huh?"

"You were supposed to do three solo landings!"

D'oh. I was so excited I'd forgotten to do the other two. So up I went, and did two more landings.

Afterwards, we did the honored tradition of cutting off the back of my shirt. This goes back to the days when the student and the instructor sat in an airplane with no intercom and open air. They couldn't communicate, except for the instructor (seated behind the student) could tug on the student's shirt in different areas to indicate direction. Once the instructor trusted the student's skills, the shirt was cut off to signify that the instructor is no longer needed.

So we took my shirt, cut off the back, and wrote the date, tail number (N19333), instructor, all that. It was a glorious day. I went from terrified at being the one in control to (relatively) calmly landing a plane on my own. Michelle and I promptly celebrated.

Apparently, I Actually Am Afraid Of Flying

May 31st, 2009

"You don't have to hold onto the controls that tightly", my flight instructor said. We were at 500 feet and climbing, having just taken off in a single-engine two-seater Cessna 150, and I was holding onto the control yoke like we'd drop out of the sky if my grip wasn't kung-fu tight.

"Yes, actually, I do" was my mental retort. I didn't say it out loud, of course. Rather, I made a half-hearted attempt to loosen my vice grip. I wonder if they'd charge me for having my finger prints imprinted on the handle.

I was actually quite shocked how terrified I was. After all, I've been a heavy user of the commercial airlines for a couple of years. Between January and May of 2009 I'd racked up 30,000 miles on United Airlines alone. I travel a lot for my work, and the crampt seats of an Boeing 757 or Airbus 319 were like a second home to me.

But here I was, holding on for dear life, as if the moment I let go of the controls we'd drop out of the sky (not true of course). To give you an idea of how frightened I was with the prospect of being the one driving (with my instructor watching over me of course), here's something I did where I wasn't nearly as terrified.

Well, at least they don't have frickin' laser beams
on their heads

That's right, scuba diving with sharks was less I'm-gonna-crap-my-pants inducing than flying a plane. By a pretty far margin.

All of this fear was pretty odd to me, especially considering a pretty good amount of exposure to aviation in general. In addition to hundreds of thousands of lifetime miles on the airlines, I've spent some time as a passenger on a general aviation twin-engine turbo prop as a teenager, and there was that time I went to Aeronautics summer camp. Yes, that's right, I went to aeronautics summer camp. And between X-Plane and half a dozen other simulators over the past 20 years, I could land anything from helicoptors to 747s to the Space Shuttle.

The difference of course, was that my ass wasn't on the line from my own actions. That seemed to be the biggest issue. Even with a skilled instructor on my right (to correct me on my many initial mistakes), it still felt I was taking my life into my own hands.

The fear actually hampered my learning quite a bit. By my 14th hour of flying time I wasn't anywhere near where I needed to be to solo (average time is around 20 hours, but I wasn't going to make 20 hours at this pace). Now, it's important to keep in mind that I wasn't concerned with soloing in a certain amount of time. If it took me 30 hours, I was fine with that. I was more concerned about soloing when I was ready. But even so, the slow progress hadn't escaped my attention.

Flight over Portland, OR

During takeoff, I would be timid with the throttle. It'd take me 10 seconds (and gentle encouragement from my instructor) to get me to full-throttle in even that amount of time (supposed to be a full throttle in 3 to 5 seconds). In my mind, I was doing everything I could to be ready to pull back the throttle and abort the take-off (not generally a good idea at 55 MPH with half the runway gone).

During flight, I had the odd sensation like I had to keep the plane level, less we'd "tip over". It was a completely irrational fear, yet I was still sweating buckets. Slow turns were nerve racking the first few times as well, since we were pretty close to stall speed with 40 degree flap deployment.

N16058

And of course, stalls. Having been introduced to aeronautics in high school, I knew what stalls where. Technically, stalls are when the angle of attack exceeds the ability of the wing to produce lift. Essentially this means the plane stops flying, and starts falling. They're something pilots know to avoid, yet as a student pilot you intentionally stall the plane to learn how to recover from a stall. So needless to say, I was apprehensive. On more than one occasion, my instructor asked "it's a beautiful day to do some stalls, you ready?" and my answer was "no". Finally, we did stalls, and they were so benign I was embarrassed that I dreaded them. The Cessna 150 takes a lot to stall, and when it does stall, the nose gently drops, stopping the stall almost by itself. A little bit of rudder action prevents a spin, and it's no big deal. Even when the plane drops, the big wings and low relative weight makes the plane fall more like a leaf than a brick.

And landings. The first couple of times where the ground is coming right at me was fairly intimidating. I liked the term "aim-point", which is the part of the ground that is dead center for where the aircraft his heading. The objective is of course to "flare out", which is to pull up right above the runway, stopping the 8 foot per second decent, level off, and gently drop to the ground as you lose airspeed.

The first few lessons especially, there was anxiety on the drive to the airport, anxiety during the pre-flight inspection, and lots of anxiety during taxi to the runway. There, the anxiety turned into near terror.

During all of this, my instructor was great. He was patient, encouraging, and always calm. I have to give him credit for being calm while a student with a vice grip and a terrified look on his face flew him around rural Oregon. "I learned how to sweat on the right side of my face", he said (instructors sit in the right seat in side-by-side trainers).

Eventually, my fear subsided. I'm no longer on the verge of terror-induced panic as the "aim-point" on the ground came towards me at 70 MPH on final approach. I getting a natural "feel" for takeoffs, when to rotate (point the nose up) and the proper pitch for climbing. As I got more of a feel for the aircraft, and what I could control (and couldn't), the fear subsided. Instead, as I learn and try new maneuvers, I have not fear, but more of a "cautious concentration". I'm still sweating, but I'm learning. As of today, August 11th, I'm just about ready for my solo.

Adventure Nerd

I'm a nerd. Who seeks out adventure. Pretty simple.

In the past couple of years, I've started flying lessons, scuba dove with sharks and sea lions, ran marathons on two different continents, swam in Pacific, Indian, and Atlantic oceans, and traveled the world. It goes without saying, I've been very fortunate.

This blog will explore the urge to seek out adventure, the triumphs, the failures, and the fear involved.