Wings

As a child, I dreamed of being three things: a train engineer; a pilot; and an astronaut. The most precious aspects of young dreams are the innocence with which we develop our initial abilities to believe, and the boundless possibilities therein. I fantasized about flight, became fascinated with airplanes and aerodynamics. I could lose hours pretending that my comb, toothbrush, pencil, spoon were magical instruments of flight. I’d glide and buzz around the house enjoying a whimsical flight of fancy aboard my craft. As I grew, at some point those sessions faded as the early dreams melded into kernels of subconscious thought.

Mid-twenties, as a young college graduate starting my career I’d drive along the moonlit lake shore at night. The routine, background phenomenon of a jet on final approach over the lake to its landing at the regional airport at some point became a haunting awakening of my earlier dreams. Mostly content in my new career, I’d contemplate many times what the lives of those pilots must be. I imagined a life of adventure and excitement as they ferried passengers on their own flights of fancy toward exotic destinations. I recall feeling as if there was something I’d missed out on. Feelings of sadness and almost regret began to bubble up inside as I longed to experience the magic that once seemed so real but now belonged to someone else. Many a subsequent moonlit night, as I drove that beautiful lake shore and noted those jets on their final approach path did I endure an overwhelming thought of, “There’s something I’ll never do.”

I sat, alone, nervously clutching the yoke of my Cessna 150. Engine idling, gentle cross wind blowing, pre-takeoff checklist completed, impatiently awaiting take-off clearance from runway 14 of Shreveport Downtown Municipal Airport……….there I sat. I sat…focused, poised, ready, remembering all the training I’d completed in preparation for this day. There is only one first solo as a pilot. This moment would never again be lived. And today, this was mine.

All previous flight hours, including take-offs, landings, emergency maneuvers such as take-off and landing stalls, spins (now those were really fun!), engine failure had been carefully and patiently supervised by my flight instructor. He was always there. Sitting in the right-hand seat of the plane, a position of “assistant” or “second in command” he was always there. Granted, as I progressed through training he rarely intervened in any way other than to gently verbally suggest, “You may want to lower your flight speed going into that stall recovery” or, “More right rudder!” Still, he was there. On this day, October 4, 1987 the seat was empty.

I heard it, “Cessna 49G, cleared for departure runway 14, do you copy?” Skillfully handling the radio mic as I prepared for take-off roll with my right hand on the throttle, I quickly, confidently repeated my instructions, “Downtown tower, Cessna 49G cleared for take-off runway 14.” This was it. My moment was here. Free to go. Free to “spread my wings” for the first time. Free to do what I had diligently prepared for, and what I knew was the necessary next step in becoming a licensed pilot.

As I eased the throttle slowly forward, feeding the bird its power, I steadied the yet earthbound machine straight down the paint: a little right rudder, no more left, ok now more right. Gaining speed, engine howling with delight, my heart pounded as my hands skillfully feathered the yoke backward, coaxing the plane upward into flight. Repetitive, meticulous training etched into my brain took over as I maneuvered the plane through the prescribed student first solo routine: circle the airfield at 1500 ft.; precisely follow the instructions of the local air traffic control tower as they authorize clearance for landing; land, and repeat the sequence three times. My heart now returned to normal rate and rhythm, my head clear, my spirit still soaring, I taxied the plane safely back to home base. I see my instructor proudly standing on the tarmac as I slowly guide the craft to its port.

Plane safely stowed, I return my steady feet to mother earth. My instructor approaches wielding scissors, and a smirk. He reaches out, issues a firm handshake and speaks congratulatory words. I’ve passed the initiation, joined the fraternity. One final detail of an unforgettable morning remained on the agenda: the time-honored tradition of “clipping my tail feathers.” (see photo below: on the day of the solo, which is always a secret, the instructor cuts off the shirt tail of whatever shirt the student pilot has worn that day). Many hours of training followed. There were cross-country solo flights, night flights, more emergency procedure training, more honing of skills. At the conclusion of the journey, I earned my ASEL rating as a new private pilot: airplane, single-engine, land designation. Free to fly where and when I wanted. Tail feathers clipped, mission accomplished.

As I guided my Cessna on final approach one serene, beautiful moonlit evening over the lake, I wondered if there was a young man driving that lake shore looking up, noticing my plane, and dreaming of one day fulfilling his fantasy of flight.