My face gets very still…I know what is about to happen and strangely, I’m not nervous about it, which does make me anxious because then I’m wondering if I’m overconfident. Larry tells me two takeoffs and landings with a taxi back, and a third which will return me to the north ramp.

He smiles, hops out of the plane, tells me “good luck.” Before he went, he advised the tower that I was a student on first solo.

I spin the plane around, head back out and taxi to 17, managing to forget to acknowledge my taxi instructions. “Great. This is shaping up well. Maybe I can put the wreckage on the numbers, too.” I think to myself.

First time around the pattern, no problem. Landing bounced a little - not awful, though. I do my taxiback, do a quick check, and I’m cleared out again.

Second time around, there’s more traffic. Tower has me extend before turning crosswind, which is fine, then slots me in. I make my turns, put it down, and again, not a bad landing. Not a greaser, but not bad.

Third time around, I’m on downwind, getting ready to turn base. Tower calls up and says I’m number 3 to land behind a Maule. I look, see the traffic and call it in sight. As I get abeam him, I begin my turn.

And instantly realize that I’ve screwed up. Only I’m not sure how to fix it. Because the traffic I called in sight was not the Maule. And that means he’s still out there and I can’t see him and I’ve likely cut him off.

The tower advises me to turn north. I get a little flustered and delay answering by a couple seconds, because I’m basically ready to turn final, and the instinct to turn final is powerful. I’m also noticing that my airspeed is getting low and I’m not flying the airplane. I’m not doing anything and that’s a real freakin’ problem. Aviate, navigate, communicate. I know this, but for a couple seconds there, because I got confused, I forgot….everything.

“Turn north….go ahead and turn north” the tower says….then there’s a pause. I start the turn north.

“Okay, Cessna XXX, go ahead and climb to pattern altitude and turn to runway heading, (south) we’ll bring you around.”

This I manage to do, although I am embarrassed and flustered, I’m getting my head wrapped around what’s happening, and able to think clearly again. As I make the turn, I see the Maule pass below me to land. Mentally I extend an apology for screwing up his approach.

They call off my crosswind and base legs, and put me on a long final. In the back of my head, while flying, I’m running through how the hell I got in that situation to begin with. “It was the traffic you called in sight. It wasn’t the Maule…you just called the first plane you saw. Remember, he said you were number three, not two. Three.”

Yeah. That was it.

I manage to make a dynamite landing…touch down one main, then the other, kept it straight. They give me taxi instructions, and I thank them for their help to which I get a cheery “you’re welcome.” And as I taxi to the ramp, I hope there’s not a Maule pilot looking for me.

My CFI comes walking up with his wife as I’m buttoning up the plane for the night. He’d been in the tower cab with them, watching the whole thing. Apparently, the controllers were debating about whether or not to send me north and spin me around, or just bring me in over the runway and back to the pattern. The senior controller won.

We do paperwork, Larry cuts my shirt, but not too much because I’ve got somewhere to go. He heads out for another flight and I walk out to my car, but remember that I forgot to fill out the logbook on the plane and had to go back to the ramp.

I finally get back to my car and just sit there for a minute. My back and shoulders are tight, and I realize that there had been just a little bit of fear, but not much. And also, really…the solo was sort of anticlimactic. There wasn’t really any surprise - Larry had drilled good procedures into my head, and it was relatively straightforward.

I was tired, too. It’d been a long day.

So there we go. Solo with 13-ish hours in the logbook.

 So I’ve slipped em’ in mis-aligned. And I’ve side-loaded the plane on landing. And I’ve bounced, and I’ve ballooned. And this is, apparently, normal, although I’m glad the guy who owns the plane isn’t the guy who’s teaching me to fly it.

 But some things started working. We’ve figured two things out for me, and they’re both visual perception problems. The first was on taxi. I could never stay on the centerline. So Dr. CFI puts the plane on the centerline and asks me what I think. To me, it looks like we’re too far to the right. But it’s actually center, and I guess it’s just because I’m sensitive to parallax or something.

I’m having the same problem on landings. Because what looks “straight” to me is actually pointed left. And what’s actually straight, from my perspective, is pointed to the right a bit. Not a lot, but just a bit. It’s weird.

 So, basically, I need to compensate visually for this to land em’ right.

 I did, for the most part, land pretty well - I’ll spare you the horror story of the simulated-engine-failure-to-landing we did today. Suffice it to say that Dr. CFI had to take over when the left main gear was in the gravel.  (sigh)

 He thinks I’m pretty much ready to solo after tomorrow, and the prospect of this both excites and terrifies me. He’s not going to be up there with me to make gentle suggestions. I’m going to have to do it.

At the same time, I’m excited to do it myself.

I went into today’s flight knowing that I was going to make that airplane my bitch. After last time, with the bad flying and the bad feelings that went with it afterward, I knew today was going to be different.

We had around a 13-knot wind 20 degrees off the runway gusting to 24 at times. I got it up in the air, ugly, but roughly on track. We departed for the practice area. Rehashed some steep turns, which weren’t too bad - I fluctuated 60-80 feet on all of them, but my rollout was bad and I ended up either overshooting or undershooting the intended heading. Not too bad though.

Did some slips, which were bizarre, but fun. In a slip, you stomp on the rudder to one side and bank the wings the opposite direction…you do this, among other things, to lose altitude quickly without changing your airspeed. Trying to turn while in a full slip is equally bizarre - everything you know, inherently, is bass-ackwards when you’re trying to do this.

We did some simulated engine failures…

“Okay. Where are you going to land”

“That field over there looks good…”

“Think you can make it?”

I think for a minute, looking at my descent rate…”Dammit. No…where can I go?”

“How about that field over there?”

“Um…ok.”

“Let me show you.”

Dr. CFI puts the plane in a tight series of s-turns and banks to line up at what would have been our emergency landing field. We actually get down to about 300 feet when I say, “Uh…boss…you’re making me nervous here…”

“Yeah. Me too.” He adds full power and we climb out.

It was the pattern work where I triumphed. Because he whipped out the suction cup and covered the airspeed indicator.

I did my best flying today because of that. When you don’t have an airspeed indicator, you are forced to fly the attitude of the airplane by visual reference. And I nailed it, every time, within 5 knots.

My pattern work was decent. Not great, but decent. I’m not correcting enough for wind, and there was a radio call which sounded (to me) like I had traffic coming in on final right as I was turning to base leg which completely threw me off. Dr. CFI ignored it, because it was for an airport somewhere in Oklahoma, but it threw me all the same.

He demos a landing which we turn into a touch-and-go. Talks me through another which we never land, do a go-around instead. Then he says, “Okay. I’m not going to say anything. It’s your airplane. Take us around and land it.”

My turns were passable. I chopped power and trimmed the right attitude on downwind, corrected okay for the wind, but came in a little hot. During the flare, I bounced it, kept the nose up, and got it down without side-loading the gear too badly. Dr. CFI calls for full power and we go around again.

I flew a tighter pattern this time, didn’t correct very well for the wind on the downwind leg. That took me extra time to fix, so when I was setting up for the approach, I ended up on an extended downwind.

Dr. CFI says nothing.

I turn to base, and looking out the window, realize I’m too far away. I add power to arrest the descent and fly level a bit until I get closer to the runway, drop the power again and into full flaps.

Dr. CFI says nothing.

I get a gust which throws me a bit, but I correct quickly, keep a slight crab into the wind and let it drift right into the center line of the runway. My speed is actually a little slower than I’d like, but I’ve carried enough altitude to the runway threshold that it’s not a problem. The numbers slide under the cowling and I start to look down the runway, and level out.

Then I pull the nose up and chop the power. We set down ugly…no bounce, off-center, nose comes down with a little more authority than I’d like, but it’s down.

“Okay. A little right rudder otherwise we’re in the boonies.”

Right rudder applied, I get back to centerline and start slowing down. I make the taxiway, make the turn and stop.

“I just landed this thing, didn’t I?”

“Yep. You did.”

I don’t say much as I taxi to the fuel pump, add 7.9 gallons, and then push the plane back into it’s tie-down slot. We finish up, Dr. CFI signs the logbook, and we go over what we did today. He says I’m making great progress, and truthfully, I felt like I did very well today. My confidence is up.

As we’re leaving, I look over at him. “Hey Doc,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“I landed that thing tonight.”

He grins. I can tell he’s proud of me. “Yeah, you did.”

He gets in his car and leaves, and I stay behind, watching the sun set. I can’t remember if I put the gust locks on the plane or not, so I go back to it, double-check (I did put them on) and then stand there on the patio and smoke a cigarette while a Cirrus SR-22 makes a beautiful landing, taxis in, and ties up for the night. I want to run over to the guy and rave…”I landed tonight! I did it! I brought it down!” but I know he’d freak and never offer me a ride in the Cirrus, which I’d like some day.

I don’t fear the wind anymore, and I don’t fear turbulence. I did think, tonight, of the CFI and pilots who were killed yesterday en route to Abilene. I didn’t know them, but know people who did. And I wondered, for a moment, if my number may come up some day while I’m flying. God, I hope so - because when I go, it better damned well be while doing something I love. Dying at the DMV or while shopping would just be embarassing.

I felt like a real pilot tonight. I have so far to go and so much to learn. But tonight, I brought her down.

I did it.

And I will never, ever forget it.

About the only thing I did right today was the pre-flight and takeoff. Everything else fundamentally sucked.

I couldn’t get attitude of the plane adjusted right, I couldn’t get an airspeed nailed down. And today was the first time we flew during the day with crosswinds. And turbulence.

Christ, I was so far behind today, trying to fly the pattern and I never did catch up.

My CFI is very patient, but he had to save both of the landings I attempted today. I felt pretty dumb.

I know I only have 3.7 hours, but on the drive home, I found myself wishing for another shot at it.

(sigh)

I like pre-flighting. You look over the airplane, make sure that nuts and bolts and cotter pins are in their proper places. You make sure that ailerons and flaps move. That things whistle, ring and hum when they’re supposed to. You do this to spot potential things that could be a major problem in the air.

We lost the last of our daylight right about the time we were ready to start the motor - which didn’t, by the way. After a couple cranks the battery gave in. No worries, though, there was another plane we could use. Turned out to be a nicer one, too - a newer Cessna 152 II.

My God, what a gorgeous night. Dallas is finally starting to cool off in the evenings, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. We only had about 45 minutes to fly at this point because the runway is closing at 9pm every night for some construction. Smooth full throttle, a little right rudder, a little pitch up and off we go….

Night flying is better than day flying. Especially on a clear night. Below my gear, a brilliant red, white and gold carpet threaded with halogens, arc sodiums, mercury vapors and plain’ old soft whites and a God’s eye view of it all. The lights get denser at the horizon to an eternal solid yellow-gold line, and the deep greens and blues of stars circle above and around you while you waltz with fireflies.

Night flying is smoother, too. I’m used to getting bumped around in little planes, but we felt as solid as a heavy airliner. Der Instruktor started teaching me the finer points of attitude flying - that is, seeing and feeling what the airplane is doing by looking out the window. Noticing, when level, where the horizon visually touches the dash, and how much sky shows between the wingtip and the ground. Then he had me placing it at different altitudes, trimming it out.

I have a new appreciation for proper trimming. Like a golf swing, deft flying is a matter of subtlety. Trimming makes it possible.

We brought it in and shut it down, Der Instruktor handling the perfectly greased landing.

But my head was still above us, in the lights, circling around, finding that elusive reference to the horizon only looking at the instruments to verify what I thought I saw.

I re-flew it in my head that night as I fell asleep. Trying to remember the power settings, the inches I would pull the yoke, and feeling the pressure alleviate as I worked the trim wheel. Looking out the window and realizing that the volume on the entire world got turned down for a while - just me, and the plane and my mentor.

I think that’s how you know you belong somewhere. When the focus is effortless, when the moment is all-consuming, you’re exactly where the cosmos wants you to be.

I’ve had a couple lessons before. Nothing serious, and never more than two lessons consecutively. It’s a first lesson in what will be a string of them culminating, at minimum, in certification as a private pilot. It quickens my pulse ever so slightly.

I got into this topic with She Who Is So Lovely last night over the phone. And I did a bad job of communicating exactly what I’m feeling here - it goes way beyond the art and science of flying…it’s more like an antidote to something inside me, perhaps poisonous, that I’ve been able to draw a bead on. Something I might be able to eradicate. Therapy would probably be cheaper but not nearly as fun or satisfying.

I’ll revisit this topic later. I’m still having a hard time organizing my thoughts in this realm with any semblance of order. The closest I can come to it is that flying is simply the vehicle, the understandable construct of something less tangible that I have needed for a very, very long time. Something that no one can give me but me. Something which must be earned and which, ultimately, will give me the sense of self that I have lacked for three decades. I know that’s cryptic, and I apologize but it will have to be enough for now.

But my future looks and smells bright…fresh…like springtime is supposed to be. And I suppose that’s something.

I don’t know a pilot out there who didn’t want to fly from as early as he could remember. I think it’s a lot like being a musician - you wake up one morning with a burning desire to do…this thing. For me, I think the love affair with winged things began when I was about six. A kid I went to kindergarten with had a small birthday party - just three guests. His had had a ‘47 Stinson and he took us all for a ride.

I was hooked. First hit’s free, kid, but you gotta pay for the next one.

I did get a few more hits over the ensuing years - buddies of my Dad would take me up hither and yon, and when I officially Sold Out^(tm) and entered society as a productive worker bee, I spent a lot of time as a passenger. Still do.

The fates being the spiteful little bastards that they are closed many doors to me over the years and opened others. So when this one opened up to me I jammed my foot in the door like a Kirby salesman at the end of the quarter, pried it all the way open and stepped through the threshold.

It’s not the safest thing in the world, and it’s not the most financially sound thing either. But it’s my thing. And that’s precious. It took me three decades to figure that out.

I don’t think this site is going to be an according-to-Hoyle “I worked on slips and stalls. More to study! Aaaagh!” type of weblog. Rather, I’m really interested in the process of learning to fly and what it’s going to do to me. How it will shape the way I look at the world. What I’m going to learn about non-flying from flying, if that makes any sense.

I’ll try to keep it accessible to non-pilots, too. You never know who’s reading.

Watch this space.