Main | The Passing Away of a Father-in-Law »
Solo Flight
By Deborah | August 15, 2001
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 wind-swept 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.
John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
The first time I saw this poem I was in the LaPorte, Texas FBO’s (fixed-based operator’s) front office waiting for my instructor to surface from a four-hour aerodynamics class. Boring stuff, to say the least, but all of us knew we’d better understand it if we wanted to get our rating. You’d think I was getting ready for combat the way my knees were shaking. It was the day I would solo.
A solo flight for a student pilot is a major milestone. It’s the point of being accepted into a fraternity that few women find themselves wanting to belong. “Today is the day,” I kept repeating to myself. The more I tried to stay calm, the more my knees would shake. Reading High Flight was the only thing that seemed to calm me. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful poem I had ever read. I felt every word as if they were my own.
Flying for me began with my uncle who owned an old Stearman, PT-17 in Houston. He’d take me up to practice barrel rolls, snaps, lazy eights and stalls. That open-cockpit was an amazing experience. The wind blowing in my face as I peered down from 10,000 feet was like nothing I had ever seen. It was addictive. My uncle didn’t have much use for female pilots, much like most his age, but he was fascinated with my thrill at taking the stick.
He explained to me that flying was not a sport suited to women. Nonsense, I thought. Just look at all the great women aviators, Louise Thaden, Bobbi Trout, Amelia Earhart, Fay Willis and Marjorie Brown. These women started their own race when the Bendix Race wouldn’t allow women in 1929. They called it the Women’s Air Race, which was later dubbed the Powder Puff Derby by Will Rogers. These were women not afraid to take on a challenge and I was determined to join them.
Little did I know when I set out to get my pilots license that I would be scared to death to solo. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have the training. I met the 40-hour requirement and had done well in most of my sessions. There was just something about the instructor leaving the plane that made me nervous. I knew if he was there, nothing could go wrong no matter how badly I messed up. Now, there would be no safety net. It was all up to me.
Around the corner came my instructor with a happier than usual demeanor. He was thrilled that I was about to solo. We quickly did our pre-flight check and jump in. After taking it “around the park” (within the landing pattern of the airport) he told me to taxi over and let him out. He said, “you’re as ready as you’ll ever be!” I was trying to play it cool, but the perspiration above my upper lip gave me away. I kept thinking, “he really doesn’t know what I don’t know. If he did, he wouldn’t let me take this plane up by myself.” I felt like my bluffing finally got the best of me. I had fooled my way into an awful situation. I thought I would embarrass the heck out of my self by wrecking the plane, or worse yet, I’d die. I even imagined friends and family mourning my passing from this solo flight.
As I taxied to the take off threshold, I took a deep breath and gave the throttle a quick push forward and away I was. The plane hopped right up to 400 feet with a gentle wind lifting the Cessna’s wings. The freedom was amazing. It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. I was actually having fun. The only problem was that I had to come down, and preferably in one piece.
I entered downwind and began my approach checklist. I kept going over the High Flight words, those that I could remember anyway, in an attempt to calm myself. I checked things two and three times just to make sure I didn’t mess anything up. Coming in on final approach I barely took a breath. I felt I was a bit high for the runway and quickly adjusted. I was so busy at this point that I didn’t have time to be scared. I landed without much more than a little wobbling from ground effect.
I taxied over to my instructor who had a big grin on his face. He got in and said, “you didn’t think you could make it, did you?” He was right. He had more confidence in my than I had in myself. Since that day, every time I hear High Flight I think of that February afternoon and the words that got me through the most frightening hour of my life, my solo flight!
About High Flight: An American pilot and officer serving with the Royal Canadian Air Force composed High Flight. He wrote this poem in September 1941 and died three short months later from a mid-air training collision. This poem was mailed to his parents and has been associated with great airmen since World War II. In fact, President Reagan quoted from it during the Challenger disaster.
Topics: Short Stories | No Comments »