| by |
Ned Nutt |
I was 47 when I did it for the second time one fall
Saturday
afternoon in Cessna 152 N93114. My instructor flew with me the
first
few times around then got out and let me take it. I taxied back
onto
the runway and took off, did three landings, taxied back to the
parking area and got my picture taken. During the flight I talked to
myself a little bit and asked God if he wouldn't mind coming along
which
He did because it went all right. But I was unafraid because I
was
prepared. The first time was a little different.
I was 19, living
in South Georgia, and had just finished my
freshman year of college. I
had a well paying summer job with Georgia
Power when I got a wild hair
and decided to learn to fly. You could
get an introductory ride in a
Cessna 150 for $5; I enjoyed it. I told
my parents that I wanted to fly
and they did not like this idea at
all. Dad, who had always pretty much
let my brother and me do what we
wanted as long as we paid for it or
accepted responsibility, tried a
ploy by saying that he would pay for it
if I would just wait until
next summer, hoping that I would lose
interest. But I wouldn't wait
saying that I wanted to pay for it myself
anyway.
The flight school that I chose was new and the owner had
trouble
finding CFIs that he had confidence in, so I actually had three
different instructors in the first 12 hours of my flying experience.
I remember the ground school was good, given by a guy brought up from
Florida but I don't recall very much on the mechanics or physics of
flight. More time was spent on regulations and things to pass the
private
pilot's test.
I remember doing a cursory walk around, but I do
not recall doing
a detailed preflight checklist. We did not run through
emergency
procedures. I do remember using flaps for landing with one
instructor
but not the others. My third instructor was a friendly guy in
his mid
50's who was technically a good pilot with one flaw. He drank. He
actually did not drink while flying with me but I know he would take
a drink before going up himself because he told me so.
Back then
student pilots bragged on how quickly they got to solo.
For example, a
couple of years later I talked to a girl at the
airport in Athens,
Georgia, who was very proud of the fact that she
had soloed with only
four hours of lessons. Now I know that there is
no way that girl could be
safe to do anything but go around in a
pattern at an uncrowded small
airport. But back then as I started on
my 12th hour of dual flying with
my third instructor, I was beginning
to feel a little slow.
We
did a few maneuvers, shot a few landings, and then taxied back
to the
flight school hangar. The instructor jumped out and said "You
take it
around." I said, "Gasp!" I mean, "Ok," and took off (almost
literally)
down the taxiway. I realized that I was going too fast
almost too late. I
jammed on the brakes and slid broadside onto the
runway. The engine
stalled and shut off. I ducked thinking that some
incoming plane was
going to land on top of me any moment!
I couldn't remember how to
start the engine but fear of failure
(and of being hit by a landing
plane) moved my hands, so I started
pushing knobs and twisting switches
and the engine jumped up with a
roar! I pushed the throttle in full and
away I went down the runway
and up into the air!
By now I
realized that I had to get a hold of myself and fly this
airplane. I
still couldn't remember anything, so I pretended that the
instructor was
in the seat next to me after making sure the
microphone was not on so
that no one on the ground heard me and knew
how scared I was. I literally
talked to the seat next to me.
Things started calming down as I
discussed the different legs of
the landing pattern and the altitude. I
started down on final but
could not quite get the plane to touch down,
instead pushing in the
throttle and doing a go around, still talking to
the phantom
instructor. Again, I did OK until the flare (probably just a
little
too high), chickened out, and gave it full throttle only a few
feet
above the ground and went around the second time.
Now, I was
determined that I was going to land that plane. I
turned onto final the
third time and there was a Southern Airways
plane on the end of my runway
about to take off, sitting right where
I was to come down! Oh, My God, I
hadn't been told what to do if this
happens! I turned on the mike,
summoned my calmest voice, and told
airport control that I decided to
"break out of the pattern and fly
around a little bit." And that is what
I did. Flew out a couple of
miles and circled around until I saw the
Southern airliner takeoff
and clear the area.
By golly, I was mad
and tired of this silliness. It was time to
show them. This plane was
going to land. I took it back and reentered
the pattern, executed the
flare (still just a tad too high), and put
her down with a bit of a
bounce. But I was on the ground and safe
with an audible sigh of relief.
I taxied over to the hangar and
shutdown the engine. The instructor
opened the door, shook my hand,
and said, "Great job."
In
Valdosta, Georgia, if your parents belonged to the Country
Club, if you
were a reasonably good kid and in college, you could buy
a beer if the
bartender liked you. So, in celebration, I took the
instructor out to the
Country Club (he didn't turn me down),
introduced him to Robert the
barkeeper who liked me very much and
said it was OK. We drank a couple of
beers and the instructor told me
stories but I never told him the whole
story of that landing.
About a week later I had another lesson
and we landed just before
the rainstorm. I jumped in the car and fastened
my seat belt,
something I had not done until I started flying. The click
of the
buckle must have clicked something in my mind and I must have
thought
that I was still flying. I took off down the road, went around a
curve too fast just as the pavement became wet, and wrecked the car
in
the ditch, a total loss.
A family behind me saw the wreck and
gave me a ride home. The
little kid in their backseat said, "He's not too
good at driving,"
and I agreed. I went directly to my father and told him
that I had
totaled the car. Years later Dad said that he was very proud
of the
way I accepted full responsibility, but you couldn't tell it at
the
time. I was so disgusted and ashamed that I exiled myself from flying... until I was 47.
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