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”.
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.”
*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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?"
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?"
