To fly! To soar above the earth, high enough to see the beauty, but not the
ugliness ... to glide over obstacles as though they didn't exist ... to
enjoy the freedom of the birds! People have dreamed of this since they first
noticed that some creatures could fly. Icarus tried it and failed. Orville
and Wilbur Wright tried it and succeeded. And so did I.
I think I was born wanting to fly. I can remember, as a little girl,
watching the birds and wishing I could fly to school instead of walking.
My desire to fly was intensified by my first commercial flight as a
teenager, even though the experience might have had the opposite effect on
some people. My mother and I had taken the boat to Catalina Island, and flew
home. The runway on Catalina was created by slicing off the top of a
mountain. When you take off, it seems that the plane just keeps rolling
until there isn't any more runway, and then it's in the air. Some people
might find that terrifying, but to me it was exhilarating.
For almost thirty years I pushed that desire into a back corner of my mind,
while I got on with my life, but it was always there, a little spark waiting
to be ignited. Then one day a friend took me up in his little 4-seater, and
that tiny ember became a raging conflagration. I found that the difference
between flying in a commercial plane and a small plane is roughly the same
as the difference between riding on a bus or in a Ferrari.
We flew over different areas of Ventura County, and my friend pointed out
property belonging to various celebrities. Then, as we headed back toward
the airport, he pointed ahead and said, "And that's mine. That's Newbury
Park, where I live."
My immediate response was, "When you're up here, it's all yours!" I wanted
to fly so badly I could taste it. A few days later the local adult school
catalog arrived, and when I looked through it I saw that one of the courses
offered was Private Pilot Ground School. For the first time in my life I was
in a financial position to follow my dream, so that seemed like an omen.
Since it would involve a lot of time and money, I consulted my husband
first, but he was agreeable. After all, he'd seen my enthusiasm come and go
for such varied hobbies as crocheting, cake decorating and candle making.
I'm sure he thought this would be the same. He didn't realize that flying
isn't a mere hobby or an interest - it's a passion, and it doesn't go away.
I loved every minute of my flying lessons. Well, except for the hood work.
In order to qualify for a license you have to spend a certain amount of time
flying (with your instructor at the other set of controls) wearing a plastic
hood that comes down over the top part of your face and is shaped so that
you can't see anything except the control panel of the airplane. This is
necessary to train you to react properly - i.e., trust your instruments - in
case you find yourself flying in conditions where visibility is limited.
It's hard to believe until you experience it, but when you can't see
something (like the ground) outside the window to give you a point of
reference, you literally don't know which way is up.
Since to me the real joy of flying is what you can see from the air, I hated
every minute I spent under the hood - but I was grateful for that training a
few months after I got my license when I took my mother-in-law up for her
first small plane flight on her 80th birthday. The flight went fine until
almost the end. Then, as we neared the airport, I accidentally flew into a
cloud. Aside from the fact that this was illegal, as I was not instrument
rated, it was also dangerous because I couldn't tell if there was another
plane in there with me. White-knuckled, I did my best to appear calm and
confident as I followed my training, trusted my instruments, and performed
the necessary maneuvers to get us out of the cloud as soon as possible. My
MIL didn't say a word until we were on the ground. Then she said, "The only
time I was at all scared was when we were in that cloud." I never told her
how terrified I'd been, or how grateful I was for that hated hood work.
Eventually Jim realized I wasn't going to get tired of flying, and the time
finally drew near for me to take my flight test. One evening as we were
planning a family trip to Salt Lake City, and trying to decide how many days
it would take us to drive there, I impulsively said, "If I get my license in
time, what would you think about my flying us to Salt Lake?"
Jim didn't say anything for a few seconds; then he just said, "Let me think
about it." I had expected a flat "No!" so that's how I interpreted his
answer. Imagine my surprise the next day when he said, "If you're going to
fly us to Salt Lake City, I think I should take a few lessons so I could get
us on the ground safely if anything happened to you while we were in the
air."
When I had recovered from the shock, I told my instructor what he had said.
She said, "Oh, yes. A lot of pilots' spouses do that. We call it a crash
course."
Since aviation is primarily a man's world, I was pleasantly surprised to
find that I was never treated as anything less than an equal by any of the
pilots I meant - including some who earned their living by their flying. The
only instance of male chauvinism I encountered during the years I was flying
occurred on the trip to Salt Lake City - and it was second hand.
Although the airplane we had rented for the trip could have made the 5 1/2
hour flight from Camarillo to Salt Lake City in one jump, the humans didn't
have that much endurance, so I scheduled a stop about every two hours. Our
first stop was in Bullhead City, Arizona. After I parked the plane, all four
of us walked across the tie-down area to the office to use the facilities.
Then I inquired about refueling, and was told to taxi the plane to the fuel
tank next to the office. The kids decided to stay there and stretch their
legs a little longer, while my husband and I went to get the plane.
As we taxied toward them, my daughter heard a man standing nearby say, "By
God, there's a woman driving that thing!" Another man replied, "In the
*left* seat? She's the *pilot"?"
Irene was quite indignant when she told me about it, but I thought it was
funny. As I pointed out, "After all, this is BULLhead City."
In late 1984 Jim was diagnosed with lung cancer, and as we began to spend
more and more time and money on doctor visits and medical treatments, I gave
up flying. I will always be grateful that I followed my dream, even though
it was only for a few years. During those years I built up a treasury of
wonderful memories that nobody can take away from me.
One of those memories is of the day my instructor and I flew from Camarillo
to Fox Field in Lancaster (both in Southern California). A storm the day
before had washed the air crystal clear and left a blanket of snow on the
mountains and high desert. The view as we flew to Lancaster was absolutely
breathtaking! The trip was made even more exciting by the fact that we were
ten minutes away from the airport before we knew whether they'd have the
snow cleared off the runway so we could land. As we headed back home and
were flying over the San Fernando Valley, I suddenly realized that I was
seeing a weather condition that is seldom seen in this part of the country.
It's called CAVU - clear air, visibility unlimited. We could not only see
all the way to the coast (20-30 miles), we could see the sparkling blue
ocean all the way out to Catalina Island (26 miles)! That memory is one of
the brightest jewels in my treasure chest of memories.
Of course I'll never forget my first solo. It's a lot harder learning to fly
when you're in your 40s than when you're younger, and it was a long hard
struggle to reach the point where I was ready to solo. The day I expected to
take the plane up alone for the first time, I was terribly disappointed to
arrive at the airport and find there was a strong wind blowing across the
runway. Crosswind landings are very tricky, and not something to be
attempted by a novice pilot on a first solo.
Then my instructor suggested we go to Santa Ynez, where weather conditions
might be better. When we got there we found that it was clear and sunny,
and what little wind there was, was blowing straight down the runway.
Conditions were ideal for a first solo. We landed, and my instructor got
out, telling me to fly three times around the pattern.
As I pulled back on the yoke and felt the plane leave the ground I thought,
I'm actually doing it! I'm flying an airplane all by myself. Then I thought,
I'M ALL BY MYSELF IN AN AIRPLANE! THERE'S NOBODY HERE TO FIX THINGS IF I
MAKE A MISTAKE!
Then I realized I wasn't alone at all. All my family and friends who has
supported me through my struggle were with me - and so was the little girl
who used to watch the birds. I sat back and enjoyed being in control as I
flew over beautiful green, rolling hills with cattle grazing. That is
another memory I will never forget.
Many people have tried to put into words what flying means to those of us
who love it. I think John Gillespie Magee, Jr. said it best in his poem,
High Flight:
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds--and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
Posted 11/21/1999