"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
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, ORDuring 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.
N16058And 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.
