The Worst Man-Eating Spider in the World

It started as a peaceful day. 

Just the No 1 daughter and I, chilling at home together.  

Creating some wonderful Mother-Daughter memories, building mutual trust and respect for each other after somewhat slipping in the Mother Of The Year stakes when we had our Nearly Drive by Shooting.

She was in the kitchen preparing something yummy for us to eat (probably chocolate for her, vodka for me, I can’t recall the finer details), and I was in the lounge lovingly cataloguing my Duty Free collection.

All of a sudden a blood-curdling scream emitted from the kitchen and quite possibly a couple of swearwords.

“OMG Mum, look, LOOK – a fucking huge spider!”

Not the best words to bring out my mothering skills and for a moment I contemplated a temporary disability.

“Where?” I bravely yelled from behind the couch.

“OMG here, on the wall.  Come and see.  Is it dead?!!”

“Yep I’m sure it will be.  Lets just leave it to a dignified burial.”

“Um, mother… you need to come and see this.”

As I limped out to the kitchen holding my leg, I prepared myself for what I was sure was a little jumpy spider.  Then remembered I was in Australia.  I grabbed the nearest bottle to me and ingested some courage.  Turns out Bacardi is quite nice straight.

I rounded the corner and saw The Daughter backed into the corner of the bench, pointing towards the dishwasher.  Which was actually sitting on top of the bench, so she was sort of pointing towards the ceiling.

And I saw it.

“What the FUCK???”  I stifled down a scream, but not very successfully.

There, spread out in all its glory, was a huntsman.  A massive huntsman.  A huntsman the size of a dinner plate.

Well, not quite, but  ALMOST the size of a dinner plate.  It was big enough that I could see it looking at me with it’s fangs and let me tell you…. there was malice in those eyes.

“It’s dead, aye Mum?  Aye?  Mum??”

I returned again from the lounge and remembered at that moment that Baccardi is not quite the same percentage as wine.

“Um, well…. it COULD be dead?  But I don’t think it would still be stuck to the wall like that if it was?”

“Mother!!  It’s DEAD!”

“Uh…” feelings of breaking news of a beloved pet death or impending natural disaster rise to the fore.  “Not yet it’s not missy…”

“Well, I won’t be sleeping in the house tonight while that’s there, so you need to do something about it.”

I look behind me wondering who she was talking to.

“Uh… me?”

“You’re the MOTHER, you’re supposed to protect me!”

“Yeah, well if anyone tries to break into our house, I’m all over that shit.  Now go and get the fly spray and kill that spider for Mummy.”

Looks reminiscent of when I told her how Tyra was made flitted across her features, and her jaw dropped.

“It’s there, under the bench, right over there by the dishwasher.  Good girl.”

Still no action and I’m beginning to think I raised some pretty disobedient children.

“I expected more from you Mother.”

Yeah, well… I bought her a cool phone for nothing so I’m comfortable with this.

“You are going to OWE me.”

“Of course!  Now there, there it is, under the sink.  Go.”

She tentatively creeps over to the cupboard, eye on the Dinner Plate Spider the whole time.  I’m ducked behind the bench (on the safe side of course) keeping lookout, ready to warn her if it shows any signs of impending attack.

She grabs the fly spray and slams the cupboard door shut.

“Don’t SLAM IT!!  It’ll lose its grip on the wall and run towards us!!”

I think I got an eye-roll and the words she called me weren’t exactly complimentary.

We come across a logistical roadblock right about now.  The Dinner Plate Spider is above and behind the dishwasher, sitting about eight feet high.  The Daughter is only about four foot tall.

Never mind, a problem shared is a problem halved.

“Spray it!  Just aim the can in its direction and spray it!”

She aims the can in its general direction and sprays.  It reaches about six inches in front of her.  At least we can be assured there’ll be no spiders on the floor that night.

“MUM!!”

“Hmmm, yes, oh sorry what missy?” I manage after swallowing my mouthful of Baccardi.

“God Mother….”

God is right, I realise how terrible I’m being and feel a pang of guilt.  “Here you go” I say and offer the bottle to her.

She’s still standing there staring at me, and the spider is still suctioned to the wall waiting to kill us.  I need to come up with a plan.  I’m all about thinking on my feet and being spontaneous, I nearly passed ¾ of an Air Traffic Control course, I can do this.

“Here missy, use this” as I pass her a bar stool.  “Stand on this and you’ll get closer to it.”

My brilliance amazes me sometimes.

Another icy stare, then it finally sinks in to The Daughter that she has to be the hero in this scenario.  I have too much at stake to risk being eaten by a spider.  I haven’t even been dumped at this stage (twice) so I’ve still got lots of life to live.

She takes the stool and places it 3cm closer than where she was standing for the first blast.

“Get CLOSER!  You need to be right up there!  You need to be nearly touching it so that you make sure you KILL IT!”

No OSH considerations even enter my head as my No 1 daughter, my baby, my pride and joy, precariously tries to hike her four foot frame up onto a three foot bar stool.

I mean, I COULD have helped, but that would necessitate getting closer to Dinner Plate Spider so really, that’s a moot point.

As she teetered precariously on the three-legged stool with a bung leg, I retreated to a safe distance, using my massive IQ to work out what was going to happen next.

It didn’t.

The spray still only reached about six inches in front of her.  Which was still about eight feet away from our enemy.

“You need to go CLOSER!!” as I stand up from behind the bench (the safe side, where the Bacardi is).

“OK” she says, bravely inching the stool two inches forward.

“Oh my GOD Maz!!  Grow some balls!  Get in there and really SPRAY that bastard!!”

Still no luck, and I come to the realisation that this is going to require close-quarter contact.  My military training kicks in with a plan.

I drink more Bacardi.

“Righto missy.  There’s no dodging this.  You’re going to have to be pretty much ON TOP of that spider, sneak in from the rear, take it by surprise, ambush it.  GET that MOTHER FUCKER!!”

I might have whooped at this stage, but if I did it was the Bacardi talking.

The Daughter gets down from the bar stool and leaves the kitchen.

“Uh… what are you doing?  Where are you going?  There’s still a Dinner Plate Spider on our wall.  That’s going to eat us.”

“I’m going to get protection.”

I raised her so well.

Ten seconds later she’s back with a t-shirt in her hand. 

“Um, what are you going to do with THAT?  Like, throw it over it or something and carry it outside??”

Over my dead body.

“I’m wrapping it around my head to cover my mouth.”

“Oh…. of course.  To protect you from the fly spray fumes.”

“No??”  She looks at me like I’m dumb.  “In case it falls off the wall into my mouth.”

Back she climbs onto the stool with co-ordination that would make Cirque de Soliel go out of business.

Then she climbs back down. 

"Where are you going??"

30 seconds later she reappears.  With a set of binoculars and wearing sunnies.

"I need to check out whether this thing is alive or dead, and exactly what I'm dealing with.".

Of course.  I'm a little embarrassed that I didn't think of it first.

"And the sunglasses?"

"In case it falls into my eye."

Up she gets back on the stool.

We’re pretty close now – and by “we” I mean “her” – and the can is within eight feet of Dinner Plate Spider.

“Get closer!”

“I don’t want to!”

“Lean in, get closer!”

“I can’t!”  A short burst of spray follows, simultaneously accompanied by a large squeal.  The daughter may have squealed as well.

“Get closer, you didn’t get it!”

It’s hard to convey in words how actually brave I was being from behind the kitchen bench.

“You can DO this missy, go, spray it, spray the little fucker, GO!”

“Oh my god oh my god fuckthisshit!”  Another short burst of spray follows, simultaneously accompanied by an even larger squeal.  The daughter may have squealed as well.

When I uncover my eyes I see that's she's leapt off the stool and is cowering in the corner on the safe side of the bench beside me.

Still no luck with hitting our target, and as the minutes pass by I swear Dinner Plate Spider is growing into Roasting Dish Spider.

“MAZ!!  Just get IN there!  You have to move in REALLY really close and just nail this son of a bitch for once and for all!”

I get the death stares for about the tenth time, although I’m still struggling to understand why.  What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.  That’s all I’m trying to teach her.  I’m a good Mum.

Bless my No 1 daughter, my baby, my pride and joy… she picks up that stool, moves it so close that she can see her reflection in Roasting Dish Spider’s eyes, and she gets back up armed with her can of fly spray ready to go.

“GO MAZ, GO!!  GO YOU LITTLE BEAUTY!!”

She lets forth with one huge continuous spray that not only hits the target, but redecorates our kitchen walls white at the same time.

What we’d failed to anticipate in our assassination plan was that Roasting Dish Spiders that are subjected to Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Warfare attacks find it quite difficult to maintain their suction on kitchen walls.

As it began its descent to sure death, which played out in slow motion to both The Daughter and I like a scene from… well, the SCARIEST horror movie EVER, it shrivelled itself up into a cannonball profile in order to make itself the best trajectory possible.  And this projectile was heading our way.

The Daughter screamed.  I screamed louder.  The Daughter screamed again and grabbed me.  I screamed again louder and wet my pants. 

Roasting Dish Spider continued his descent then suddenly changed course.  Like something out of the Angelina Movie where she bends bullets.  

Roasting Dish Spider disappears behind the dishwasher.  Where we can’t see a thing.

The Daughter and I paused screaming and urinating for a second to look at each other, then we looked back at the dishwasher.

“How do we know he’s DEAD??”

“Mum?”

“Mummy…?”

I take the bottle out of my mouth to answer her.

“We don’t.”

The only thing left for us to do is go behind enemy lines to check the medical status of our Prisoner Of War.

And by “us” I mean “her”.

“Go look under the dishwasher.  See if you can see it moving.”

“YOU go look under the dishwasher.”

“Um, I’m busy doing…. Oh Murmie!  You need feeding?  Hang on, of course…”

“YOU go look under the dishwasher.”

“Um, didn’t you hear?  I have to feed Murmie.”

More words followed that I simply cannot repeat, and eventually I was guilted in to looking under the dishwasher. 

Which, I might add, was pretty brave given that SHE had attacked this innocent spider and no doubt pissed it off, and now I was the one having to do the dirty work of either negotiating with it, or *fingers crossed* recovering it’s cadaver.

Although even that’s a lie.  We all know there’s no way I’m touching any kind of spider, dead or alive.

After investigation, it appeared that Roasting Dish Spider was well and truly roasted.  Either that or he’d decided to have a little rest for a bit while his eyes stopped stinging.   Just to be safe, I made the executive decision to leave him there for the time being, rather than being accused of burying someone alive.

I nominated Maz for sentry duty.

“It’s all good missy.  Mummy is just going to get back to what she was doing before you freaked out about this silly little spider - but that’s OK please don’t be embarrassed - and you carry on with what you were doing.  Which, I believe, was cooking me dinner.  Make sure it's something that goes will with Bacardi.”

The Best First Solo in the World

The day dawned bright, early I rose, anticipation in the air, nerves aflutter, my heart skipping a beat when I contemplated the enormity of the task ahead of me.

Actually, I was Just-Turned-17, full of teen arrogance and a sense of immortality, so none of that meant anything at the time - but I would come to realise it years later.  And a glimpse of it, briefly, 4 hours later.

Just how close to death I came.  I mean, really. 

I had been taking flying lessons on the weekends for a couple of months now, the last week becoming disheartened by the fact that I had not yet gone solo - despite my vast experience and the wealth of knowledge I had thus far accumulated.

I had been coaxed out from under the protective wing of my main, but junior, instructor.  I now had all my skills wrapped together into one expensive-but-flowing performance and I’d been jujjed better than any straight guy by any queer eye; I was ready for my debut with the senior instructor and an encounter that would change my life forever.

And if it all went terribly wrong, the lives of the unsuspecting residents on the approach path to Napier Airport’s main runway.

While I flew one more imaginary circuit in my head, The Mother and her partner armed themselves to the hilt with a camera and about 28 rolls of film, and we headed off to the airport.

Upon arrival at the Aero Club, it was confirmed that I would be flying with the King Pin instead of Baby Instructor (aptly nicknamed “Shorty” because he looked about 12.  That, and he was about three foot four).

 

Flying with King Pin has unspoken expectations:  you will be going solo today – IF you’re good enough.

No pressure.

After the mandatory pre-flight briefing, pre-flight airworthiness check, and pre-flight nervous pee, we headed off on our merry way.   

After a few outstanding circuits (in my mind… apparently they were “safe” in the instructor’s mind, but what would he know?) he casually said “we've landed too far down the runway to touch-and-go, lets back-track and start again”.

DAMMIT, I chastised myself… I thought that was a great landing.

 

King Pin makes a call to Napier Control Tower “Foxtrot Charlie Quebec mumble mumble blah blah blah mumble”.

For a minute I'd thought I’d lost my understanding of the English language – not one word outside our call sign had I understood.  Only when we got back to holding point Alpha did it begin to dawn on me the reason for this incoherent jargon.

The next 8 minutes of my life seemed to whiz by in a blur, but to the best of my memory the one-sided conversation and associated thoughts went something like this:

King Pin unbuckled.

[Hey – what the fuck are you doing??]

King Pin keys the mike “One circuit.  Full stop. You’ll get airborne sooner than usual because my fat arse isn’t on board.” 

[Jesus, you’re not seriously leaving?? Get that fat arse back here!!]

King Pin takes his headset off and opens his door.

[Um… I’m not so sure about this, did you SEE my last landing??]

King Pin gets out, raises one finger, smiles, then walks to the side of the runway.

[WHAT THE EFF?????  He's SERIOUS?????]

Suddenly from Napier Tower I heard “Foxtrot Charlie Quebec, cleared for takeoff runway 34 grass, remain in the right hand circuit, full stop.” 

Holy Shitballs.  He’s serious.

Jesus christ.  There were people on the deck at the Aero Club watching, I had to do this.

Pre-take-off checks.  

Not in my mind, no no no… I sit in my wee cockpit saying all of these out loud.

“Trim, set for takeoff.  Throttle nut, firm.  Mixture, rich.  Carb heat, cold.  Pitch, fixed.  Fuel, on.  Flaps, set for takeoff.  Instruments,

*pause*

instruments... shit… um, they’re all there.  Hatches and harnesses, I’m buckled, both doors shut. Controls, full and free and moving the way they should. Lookout, yep, don’t mow down the instructor.”

Christ.  There was nothing wrong with the plane ergo there was no feasible excuse to taxi back to the club house.

“Runway?  Compass check, says 340, the white paint says 34 - I’m on the correct runway.” 

“Windsock?  Pointing towards me, headwind, awesome, tower aren't trying to kill me.” 

“Radio call?  Sweet Karo, lets go.”

“F-F-F-F-F-Foxtrot Quarlie Chebec cleared for take-off, right hand circuit, full stop”.

Shit.  

Here goes nothing. 

Throttle in, full power, over the count of four; keep straight with rudders; eyes outside, pick a point on the horizon, preferably one straight in front of me; check RPM, revs in the green, great, the engine is working; check airspeed indicator, speed increasing; eyes on the horizon, find another point because I forgot the first point; maintaining slight back pressure on the controls, feels right; quick check of airspeed indicator again, speed still increasing, that’s a bonus; eyes back outside, on the horizon, find another point because I forgot the second point;  I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.

Oh my god, he was not freakin kidding.  I was airborne before I even had the chance to contemplate backing out and faking some sort of serious medical issue.

This was not cool.  STUPID AEROPLANE.  Now I had no choice but to finish what I'd started.

Keep calm.  I've done this before and I’ll do it again, there is nothing to worry about except not landing this $80,000 piece of machinery.

As the aircraft continued to climb like it should, despite my best attempts to yaw, roll and dive all over the place, the ground got further away from me, and so did any chance of getting someone else to do this for me. 

200 feet approaches, and I check the vertical speed indicator.  Just in case my eyesight was deceiving me, I had to double-check that we were in a positive rate of climb and not wallowing, or even worse, descending.  With the VSI pointing at 600 feet per minute rate of climb I realised just how fat Fat Arse must actually be. Happy that I was not getting closer to the ground, I leaned over and raised the flaps, adjusted the back pressure as the nose dropped, and re-trimmed for my correct speed.

When I say "correct speed" what I really mean is "whatever speed the aircraft happens to be doing at the time".  Let's not complicate things too much.

500 feet approached, and before making my turn to the right I leaned forward; placed my throttle hand on the dash; and did a good lookout; left and behind, right and behind.  No other wayward students out there attempting to kill me, no unsuspecting Air NZ flights full of passengers waiting to be killed.

Wait a minute.  I did that without thinking…  Both the lookout AND the hand on the dash. 

And there started a career-long habit – one of them good, one of them that would get me rapped on the knuckles with a ruler throughout my Flying Instructor rating.

The throttle hand must remain fixed to the throttle at all times until one is sufficiently experienced in finding that throttle again in a heartbeat should one find themselves in an emergency. 

I decided this little part of my circuit wouldn't be retold over beers in the clubhouse.

Making a gentle turn to the right, I checked the balance ball as the instructor’s famous one-liner runs through my head - “a little bit of rudder wouldn't go amiss” - and completely surprised myself to find the ball is dead-centre and I’m not about to enter a tail slide.

Picking a point on the horizon to roll out on, I realise I’m pointed straight out to sea, and unfortunately Los Angeles is a little too far away to use as a reference.  Dammit.  That little blue bit of sky would have to do.

Approaching 900 feet a lot quicker than I anticipated, because Fat Arse isn't on board, I panicked and realised it's lookout time again.  Hand on the dash, left and behind, right and behind.  

No Skyhawks have appeared in the circuit to escort me down so I must be doing OK.  I've got this shit down pat.

I looked at my altimeter and discover I'm 200 feet higher than I should be.

Not at all ready to turn a corner AND stop the aircraft climbing at the same time, I was faced with a dilemma.  

Continue to track towards Los Angeles while I level off, or completely bust circuit height while I turn downwind?

Fuck it.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  Turning downwind, I guiltily pretend not to notice the altimeter creeping towards 1,300 feet.

Picking a point on the horizon was a little easier this time; I aimed for the hospital.  I figure it's better than aiming for healthy people in the surrounding neighbourhoods.

Once I was pointing in the right direction it was time to sort my height out. Pushing forward on the stick, I take a moment to compliment myself out loud on how well I was leveling off 300 feet higher than I should have been.  

Although it wasn't really that much of a challenge, some might have argued later over beers in the clubhouse.  When you can't remember how to fly an aeroplane, remembering which acronym to use is the the next best thing, so long as you don't confuse the "coming in to land" acronym with the "taking off into the air" acronym.

PAT.  That's the one I'm after!  Power, Attitude, Trim.  

Wait... wait a minute.  Having already eased forward on the stick, settled the nose in the cruise attitude, throttled back to 2300rpm, waited for the speed to adjust, then corrected the trim, I realised I had gotten PAT and APT confused.  

Fortunately, only in my head, not in the plane, so the hospital victims would live to have their next morphine hit.

I decide this little part of my circuit won't be retold over beers in the clubhouse. 

Unsure whether or not to try and mash my way back down to 1,000 feet - where I was supposed to be - or continue at 1,300 feet - where I was not supposed to be - took a fair amount of dithering.  Finally, breaking every rule in the 10 Hours Of Experience book, I push the nose down and shoot back down to 1,000 feet.  

Which of course, means I was going faster than I should have been, which also means I was further downwind that I should have been.

Now might be the time to explain the intricicies of "The Circuit" and it's co-relation to "Students Who Know Nothing".

Circuits are designed to elicit the most amount of luck out of people with the least amount of skill whilst teaching them the very basics of flying an aircraft.

Notice my omission of the word "well" or "safely".

A circuit consists of the take-off leg, a 90 degree turn onto the crosswind leg, another 90 degree turn onto the downwind leg, another 90 degree turn onto base leg, and a final 90 degree turn onto finals.  

Preferably followed by a landing.

The circuit is a rectangular shape, and most baby students will only fly in perfect weather conditions where the wind is straight down the runway and not too strong.  This ensures that most of the markings of the circuit, ie where to turn onto each leg, and the size of the circuit, remain relatively constant.

And of course, most baby students have absolutely no idea how to practically apply variations in wind speed and direction to adapt the circuit accordingly.   

In other words, every baby student will turn right over the house with the green roof, put flap down for landing over the house with the kidney shaped pool, and make the downwind radio call overhead the house where the lady hangs out the washing naked.

Unfortunately for me it was May and not a terribly warm day. 

Around the point where I should have been ready to start descending, I did my downwind checks.

"Brake (pumps feets on brakes) um, yep they're there.  Phew, that's gonna make landing a little easier"

"Undercarriage, fixed.  Wait, wait, I'd better look (mashes faces up to window to peek down at the wheel) um, yep they're there.  Well, one is, anyway"

Then I started to panic about doing an asymmetric undercarriage landing.

I don't even think there IS such a thing as an asymmetric undercarriage landing. 

I ran through the scenario in my head about what radio call I'd make and how I'd land over the little ditch between the runways so that my one undercarriage would hang into the ditch, and my wings would ever so gently come to rest on either side of the ditch, thereby keeping me upright.

By the time I'd completed my asymmetric undercarriage landing, been rescued by hot firemen, received an award for extreme bravery, and accepted a position in the RNZAF as a formation leader jet pilot, I was 3/4 of the way downwind and still pointing at accident victims.

"Shit, shit, what's next?  Mixture!  Mixture is, there.  No wait.  Mixture is rich, carb heat cold."

"Pitch, pitch is fixed.  The propeller is still spinning and it's attached to the aircraft.  That's good too.  Next."

"Fuel (touches fuel cock) fuel is on, plenty in the tank.  *sharp intake of breath*  Well, there WAS when I pre-flighted, what if someone with a vendetta against female formation leader jet pilots sabotaged my aircraft???"

Deciding I'd cross that engine failure when I come to it, I do my last check, then make my downwind radio call.

"Hatches and harnesses, secure and the doors are still closed.  Excellent.  Now call the tower."

"No, you call the tower."

"Call the tower now.  They're waiting for your call."

"Bitch."

The voices in my head are at their most petrifying when there's a Push To Talk switch and RF frequency nearby.

"Napier tower, Foxtrot Quarlie Chebec *FUCK* is downwind, touch and go *FUCK* grass 34."

"Foxtrot Charlie Quebec..."  what sounds like stifled giggles but I know that Air Traffic Controllers are far too mature for that "...full stop, runway 34 grass, number one."

"Number one, grass 34, Foxtrot Quarlie Chebec"  *FUCK DOUBLE FUCK*

I decide this little part of my circuit won't be retold over beers in the clubhouse. 

Looking over my right shoulder to see if I was 45 degrees past the threshold of runway 34, I prepare myself for landing.

Shit oh shit oh shit.  This is the hard part.

Anyone can make a Cessna 152 take off.  Anyone.  Taking off is the easy bit. Staying in the air is also relatively easy.  

In fact, the C152 is such a beautifully designed aircraft, made for the lowest common denominator of student, that even attempting to cause chaos and mayhem in one is decidedly difficult.

In fact, there wasn't one way in which I didn't attempt to kill or seriously maim Burney and myself while we were training to become flying instructors in later years.  Unintentionally mainly, but we decided that little part of our training wouldn't be retold over beers in the clubhouse. 

Getting an aircraft back on the ground whilst simultaneously not causing any structural damage or losing any body parts is the difficult bit.

APT.  APT.  APT.

SHIT!  I fell for that last time.  PAT.  Power.  Attitude.  Trim.

Doing one last lookout with my hand on the dash just to make doubly sure there were no Skyhawks in the circuit with me, I slowly close the throttle reducing the power to 1700rpm.  

It suddenly went very quiet.

Fuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckiwishidtriedthatsexthingthateveryonetalksaboutfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck 

Wait a second....  I mean *cough* standby.

The aircraft is trimmed at the right attitude, the airspeed is in the white arc, and 10 degrees of flap has been lowered.   

I look around the aircraft to see if I've been hijacked by some anti-terrorists who snuck-in under cover of my blood curdling death-screams.

Failing to notice any additional person's on board, I figure I must have been momentarily in one of those fear-induced fugue states.  Nothing wrong with that when you're flying alone, but I decide it probably won't be retold over beers in the clubhouse.

Noticing that the hospital was getting closer both horizontally and vertically, I leaned forward; placed my throttle hand on the dash; and did a good lookout; left and behind, right and behind.

After the all-clear of seagulls, gliders and people on out-of-control parasurfers, I begin my gentle turn onto base, then remember my instructor telling me something about about turning while descending at low speeds, and something to do with stalling and spinning.

I make a mental note to ask him about it later, I've got more important things to do right at this particular moment.

Noticing my speed has decreased to 70 knots, I lower my flaps by another 10 degrees, tell myself to relax, then reach over and lower the aircraft flaps to 20 degrees.  Easing forward on the control column and trimming to the correct attitude and airspeed was done without thinking, and I knew then I was all over this shit.

Then notice that I'm not descending.  

Not like I should be anyway.  Not according to all the books and all the lessons and all the stories retold over beers at the clubhouse.

DAMN THAT FAT ARSE!!!

Throwing caution to the wind, and quite possibly an insurance policy, I pull back on the throttle a little more just to see what would happen.  My nose dropped and I sped up.  

Fuck.

I pulled back on the stick a little just to see what would happen.  My nose came up and I slowed down.

Fuck.

I spend the next 30 seconds pulling and pushing and twisting every control, knob, lever and button in the cockpit to try and sort myself out.  I think I may have even retuned the two radios and programmed the navigation aids while I was at it.

I decide this little part of my circuit won't be retold over beers in the clubhouse.  

Eventually, my speed, my height and my picture out the window all look like they should do.  I breathed for the first time in seven minutes.  

Then I realised it was time to turn onto finals and lower more flap.

I leaned forward; placed my throttle hand on the dash; and did a good lookout; left and behind, right and behind.  

Turning onto finals, I'm internalising a really complicated situation about exactly how I'm going to manage to pull and push and twist every control, knob, lever and button exactly the same way to ensure my survival and safe passage down to the ground.  It's like that old electronic game "Simon", where you have to remember every beep and light in the exact order it was spat out to you, except I couldn't take the batteries out and start again while no one was looking.

Just as I come up with an acceptable solution (get low enough then jump out) I'm startled back to reality.

"Foxtrot Charlie Quebec, wind three five zero degrees, zero one knots, runway 34 grass, cleared to land"

What the FUCK?  I'm landing ANYWAY, what did she mean CLEARED??

Then I realise I've got a crosswind.  Every female pilot's nemesis.

I don't even know what a crosswind is yet, nor have I been taught how to land in one.  All I know is that my runway is THREE FOUR ZERO DEGREES and that bitch in the tower just told me that the wind was ten degrees OFF that.  At one knot.

Jesus, am I going to have to work hard to rise to this challenge.

"Cleared to land, Foxtrot Quarlie Chebec."

*FUCK DOUBLE FUCK MY FUCKING LIFE*

Suddenly everything is happening all at once, and I take stock of the situation - quickly.  My airspeed is looking relatively similar to that in all my past circuits, I'm getting closer to the ground instead of further away, there's a mown bit of grass directly in front of me that looks long enough to stick an aeroplane on, and my spinning thing is still spinning.

One hand on the throttle, one hand on the control column, feet on the rudder pedals and eyes outside.  My aiming point is getting closer, the piano keys are getting bigger, I can see the ground getting closer.

Righto.  This is it.

Eyes outside still, pick a spot in the distance and keep it there.  Start raising the nose, keep the spot there, raise the nose, keep the spot there, the aircraft is slowing right down, it's now or never.  

I close the throttle, the stall warning goes off in the cockpit *OH FUCK FUCK FUCK* [turns out that's a good thing]. I raise the nose even more and can no longer see a single thing out the front of my aircraft.









Then I realise my main wheels are on the ground.  My nose wheel lowers and before me is the remainder of the runway in all it's splendor.  As well as a fully functioning propeller.

"YEAH BOI, FUCK YEAH!! WHOOP WHOOP, who's the MAN???!!"

I can't BELIEVE I just said that.

The tower make a call, but to be honest I'm over listening to that bitch.  She didn't just land an aeroplane all by herself, she can wait.  She's only telling me something about taxiways and Air NZ planes, so I brush her off dismissively.

As I spend the next ten minutes taxiing the full length of the runway, I wave merrily at the B737 captain lined up and holding at the edge of the apron watching me taxi past at 3 knots.  

Wow, this ATC bitch really isn't doing a very good job.

As I make my way back to the clubhouse, I'm going over the circuit in my head and praising myself on my ability to stay calm and controlled in a very mature and life-threatening scenario.  By the time I park the aircraft, shut everything down, and write in the log book, some club members have made their way over to me to congratulate me and tell me how wonderful I am.

"How did it go?"
"Congratulations!"
"Did you fuck anything up?!"
"Were you nervous?!"

"Pfffft.  Nah.  It was nothing.  Piece of cake really."

"Um, Karo...?" says my junior instructor.  "Did you forget anything?"

I run through my pre, during and post checklists.  I run through my shut down checklist and look around the cockpit.  I've got my log book and my headset.  I've got my dignity and a dry pair of jeans.

"Haha, nah!!  You're trying to trick me!  Did you listen on the radio?  I did everything I needed and didn't forget a thing!"

"What about the instructor you left standing out on the runway?"