The thrill that keeps on thrilling

This past Saturday was a momentous day. Not for me. Not directly anyway.

But something happened that changed a life for the better. And I got to stand on the sidelines, almost totally uninvolved but absolutely thrilled for the principal of the story. He achieved a goal that few ever attempt. I couldn’t be happier for him.

I experienced a similar moment of pride way back in October 1988. That was the day my CFI, a talented young man named Keir Johnson, stepped out of the Piper Cherokee we’d been flying to send me on my way. Alone. For the first time.

I soloed at Brainard Field in Hartford, Connecticut. An airport the local leadership has shown an interest in closing down in recent years. Thankfully, those folks weren’t in a position to have a negative effect on my plans back then. Who knows what sort of a lay-about loser I might have become had aviation not been available to me.

That’s no hyperbole. Without direction I would have been lost.

But on that clear fall day, with the enthusiasm of a young man who barely knew what sort of challenges might lay before him, I taxied out the hold short line of Runway 2. I can clearly recall what I perceived to be the incredible spaciousness of the cockpit without my CFI in the right seat.

My run-up complete I pushed the button and informed the tower I was ready to go. For the first time ever, to fly an airplane entirely on my own without intervention or input from anyone else.

My elation on lift-off was amazing. A sense of unfettered joy filled my being. The airplane came off the ground so quickly. It racked up more feet per minute than I’d ever seen — the light weight assisted by the thicker air of a chilly October morning.

It wasn’t until I turned downwind and leveled the wings that the nature of the daunting task in front of me became clear. I had to land this thing. Alone. With no input from my instructor who had always been there to right my wrongs.

My palms began to sweat.

I flew the pattern and made my radio calls, but I did not follow the procedures I’d been taught as well as I should have. On final I was high. Really high. With full flaps hanging out I gave my best attempt at a slip to lose altitude. Even now, 36 years later, I can recall the sinking sense of failure as I realized this landing wasn’t going to work out. A voice in my head reminded me “don’t force it.”

I called a go-around and set my mind to giving it another try.

On the second circuit I got more focused. I reduced power, trimmed up, and pulled in flaps at the appropriate time and place. My approach was more closely aligned with those I’d done with Keir in the days and weeks leading up to my solo. Things were looking good.

My grip on the yoke was tighter than it needed to be as I sailed over the dike that separates the airport grounds from the Connecticut River. But I flared well enough that the stall horn chirped a warning just before my mains touched the pavement.

I rolled out knowing I’d be expected to repeat that feat two more times. I was proud, but I held on to a somewhat uncomfortable level of nervousness. I was thoroughly embarrassed by my poor performance on that first attempt and was having a hard time shaking the feeling. Having to do a go-around on your first solo landing attempt didn’t strike me as an indication of greatness.

The tower called with instructions to clear the runway. Then the unexpected happened.

“Was that your first solo?” the tower controller asked.

“Yes, it was,” I replied.

The controller’s response has stuck with me for all these years. “Good job on the go-around,” he called back.

Any shame or embarrassment I had about failing in my first attempt at a solo landing left me. That experience became a valuable lesson.

Failure is only failure if you refuse to accept the situation for what it is and persist in doing something that isn’t going to work in a vain effort to protect your pride.

This past Saturday a young man soloed at my home field in Florida. A field I’ve instructed out of since 1991. He was flying a Piper Cherokee, not much different than the one I soloed in. Because of cell phones and miniature cameras with excellent quality I got to see him touch down and roll out with grace even though I wasn’t there in person.

I wasn’t his CFI. I can take no credit for any part of the desire, motivation, or persistence this young man exhibited while progressing day by day to this laudable achievement. My only contribution to this life-enhancing event is that I was fortunate enough to take him on his first flight.

We met by chance. His interest in aviation became apparent. I invited to him to fly with me and he accepted the offer. To his great surprise I flew very little of that first jaunt. Rather, I gave him the controls and directed him through the four fundamentals of flight for the better part of an hour. He did well. He came to believe he could be a pilot if he put in the effort.

This past Saturday he found out for sure that he’s on the right track. He’s a post-solo student pilot, on his way to becoming a private pilot. Who knows how far he’ll take it from there?

What I didn’t know 36 years ago when I took to the skies for the first time is that I would still get a thrill from seeing others succeed in their own attempts to fly. Whether I sign them off myself, or simply stand on the periphery and cheer them on, each of these individuals impresses me. Their flights take me back in time to my own first attempts.

Any one of us can open the door to a new way of life for others, if we choose to.

Whether we take them on that first flight, provide insight along the way, help them figure out the financial challenges, or tweak the technique they employ on a particular task, we can make a difference. And we can enjoy the process just as much as those we help.