A Pilot's First Lessons
Note: This was written immediately after I took my first two lessons, and tweaked only a little for grammar.
Flying, I've come to find, is challenging, but not impossible. Mark (the coworker who got me hooked in the first place) referred me to a flight instructor at the Squadron Two Flying Club in San Jose. He then gave me a price listing of what it would take to get a pilot's certification flying a Cessna 152--the cheapest rental plane in the fleet. It wasn't bad, so after a two-hour phone call, we set up lessons. There would be an hour of ground instruction, and then I was to get into the plane and fly it. As simple as that.
I sneaked out of work at four and met my instructor at the flying club, in what used to be the old San Jose Airport. While The instructor explained the syllabus (wow, things go by fast--I do my first solo flight when?), a steady line of jets rumbled by the front window on their way to the runway. We covered preflight, including preflighting the pilot, then grabbed the keys and trotted out to the lot to meet "my" airplane, 714VT.
Despite its nickname, "Vicious Terrible," the small yellow-and-white plane looked unintimidating enough. After a long, step-by-step preflight, we towed the plane out of its parking space, strapped in and started it up.
Here lay the first challenge: taxiing. Unlike a car, where you steer with your hands and control speed with your feet, in a plane you steer with your feet on the nose wheel/rudder pedals and control speed with your hand on the throttle. There are also brakes at the tips of the rudder pedals. This took some getting used to, and under my "control," the plane wobbled drunkenly all over the place. Also, with my hand on the throttle, I got the impression I was running a lawn mower with wings.
We finally got into position by the runway and did our final check on the engine, electrical systems and controls, and then it was our turn to take off. I managed to get Vicious Terrible off the ground by myself, and as we were climbing straight out, the radio went dead. Unconcerned, the instructor left me to fly the plane while he whacked at the radio--brave guy. He got it working somewhat, and we turned to the mountains over Palo Alto and began maneuvers.
The first lesson consisted of very simple stuff: straight and level flight, making shallow turns, climbs and descents, and trimming the nose (there's a little wheel or crank you adjust to set up back pressure and make flying easier). The only thing that made flying difficult at this point was the setting sun, which was right in my eyes, and I'd forgotten my sunglasses. Oh, and I had to keep my hand on the throttle at all times, which was rough on my shoulder. This is, I was told, to establish a habit that will eventually protect me from a sadistic inspector during my checkride--with my hand there, the inspector can't "inadvertently" push in or yank out the throttle without my knowledge. That's encouraging.
Again, the radio futzed out and The instructor started whacking at it again, and decided to call it a day, but at least the radio worked enough for us to get landing clearance.
Landing... the syllabus didn't say anything about my landing the plane, and here I learned my first true lesson of the day: expect the unexpected. We turned over downtown San Jose and approached the airport, dropping altitude, and the instructor still doesn't have his hands and feet anywhere near the controls. The runway looms closer, and he still hasn't said, "My airplane," meaning I give over control. The ground is getting closer, and suddenly some bumpy air starts knocking the plane arou-aaaAAAAAAA! "Don't get ground-shy," The instructor says. Ground-shy? I don't wanna hit the ground! One more hard bounce, and The instructor takes over.
The lesson ends and I drag myself home at nine o' clock, giggling insanely. I flew the plane--that's so cool! The instructor hadn't touched the controls for nine tenths of the trip.
Lesson Two... was not so good. I'd spent an incredibly crummy day at work, and I felt as if somebody had worked me over with a two-by-four. I should have called and cancelled, but I'd been looking forward to this lesson all week. All I know is that if I ever feel like that again, I'm staying on the ground.
Ground instruction was a bit more vague, and we talked a bit about the dynamics that keep a plane in the air. What I missed, and what I think the point to the lesson was, is that the plane is designed to fly, and it wants to do this, so my job is to keep it in optimum conditions to do this. I had to learn it the hard way.
We flew a different plane this time, since Vicious Terrible's radio was still not working right. This plane was not as "friendly"--more beat-up and seemingly squirrely in the air. Taxiing was close to impossible, and with a healthy crosswind, it took a lot more of The instructor's cooperation to get airborne. This time, I wasn't flying the plane, I was wrestling with it. I mashed the rudder around and had a death grip on the yoke, every muscle and tendon hard as a rock. We wobbled all over the place, battling every stray wind that hit the plane.
The instructor felt it might be better if I got some more taxiing practice, so we landed at an nontowered runway in South County, about thirty miles south of San Jose, and spent a lot time just trundling up and down the taxiways until I could quit staggering the plane and stop it with both brakes at the same time. I felt like such an idiot. In the meantime there was some pilot on the radio with a heavy accent, and The instructor was convinced he was Japanese. "Quick," he said, "Tell that guy something in Japanese. Ask him if he's enjoying flying today." I was busy trying to keep us off the grass, though. No time to do that. Besides, I hadn't heard the other guy.
Finally, we took off again and I stopped battling the plane in the air. That's when The instructor decided we were going to do stalls. Oh great. Stalls--that's when the plane stops flying, isn't it? I'd been reading this little FAA booklet on stalls and spins. Nope, wasn't ready for that today, but stalls were what we did. The instructor put the plane in slow flight. The stall horn sounded off. The stall horn on a Cessna is a little hole in the left wing. When the plane reaches stall speed, the resulting air pressure makes this little opening whine, and it sounds like a long-winded squeak toy--unintimidating at first. The closer you are to stall, the higher and louder and more urgent this whine gets. The instructor dropped the speed to fifty, then forty knots and had the horn shrieking by the time he punched in the throttle and recovered the plane from its stall. Next, my turn. I got a moderate whine out of the horn at about fifty knots before I pulled it out. Probably get to practice more of this next lesson.
The sun was setting and jet traffic was picking up, so we turned and headed for home. I had a terrible time finding the airport with the sun full in my face, but managed to fly the plane down to the ground this time around. We finished up tired and sweaty and greasy--this particular plane seemed to spray a lot of gas and oil, and let's face it: you sit behind the engine and beneath the gas tanks. I think much of it was my own problem, but the plane was intimidating--squirrely and susceptible to these awful roaring noises in the air (because, I found out later, I was manhandling the rudder). I'm still looking forward to the next lesson, though.
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