Kid Passed, C+ Average

Before I tackle everything that needs to be discussed here, my first priority is to acknowledge that we should probably change the title of this page to, "Come Neglect To Update The Blog With Me." Yes, it's been awhile. It's a minor miracle that it's even happening. Be thankful, be thankful. But I'm here, alive, with plenty of stories to go around. Let's recap the last few days of flight school:

If your family doesn't celebrate half-birthdays, you're really only cheating yourself. The origins of such a holiday are unclear, but I do recall leading riots and mass protesting on the streets in response to my older sister's birthdays, so perhaps my mom felt obligated to create pseudo-happiness for me by declaring a half-birthday. Whatever the case, the half-birthday should be commemerated as such: you should only receive half the normal allocation of 'happy birthday' phone calls, half the gifts, and generally submit half the effort required for your regular birthday celebration. Why partake in the phantom celebration? Well, for starters, sometimes twelve months is just too long to wait. An even greater reason is that the half-birthday offers the opportunity to celebrate in a different season and setting, for example, if your normal birthday parties fell during the summer months, having a half-birthday provides ample reason for your teacher and classmates to lavish attention upon you. Regardless of when your actual birthday is, I highly recommend the half-birthday experience. I recently had my half-birthday this past Friday, August 21st. How did I choose to celebrate this year? I did what any reasonable person in flight school would do: I took my private pilot checkride.

The actual event was bumped back one day due to abnormal factors well beyond my scope of control. (note: if you are an important person, it's advisable to avoid slamming your car door shut on your $300 glasses-they will be destroyed instantly) I had already spent the entire previous night agonizing over what felt like the biggest test I'd faced since the time I had to choose between Fruity Pebbles or Golden Grahms. Waking up at 5 A.M. was the easy part-I'd been restless ever since my nightly foray to the refridgerator several hours earlier. I quickly inhaled some breakfast while reviewing my checklists and study notes, then headed upstairs to begin filing my paperwork with the CFI. For what seemed like an eternity, I sat and waited, questioning myself as to whether I had prepared enough, if there was something I'd missed. Flipping open the nearest textbook, I quickly began to quiz myself. It was futile. My brain, already on overdrive and seemingly ready to explode, refused to allow any more learning to transpire-it had to save storage space for the upcoming NFL season, I'm convinced.

The examiner finally called me into the briefing room, invited me to sit, and immediately started interrogating me as though I were on the F.B.I's 10 Most Wanted List. Describe your aircraft's engine. What instruments operate using a vacuum system? How many fuel sumps does your aircraft have? Where were you on the night of the 13th? He barely paused long enough to digest my answers, then moved on to the next question, leaving me to doubt each response for accuracy and clarity. Like a mouse trapped in a python's cage, I kept waiting for the moment of impending doom, for that one questions that I didn't know the answer to. It never came. Thirty minutes later, I emerged, caked with sweat, but victorious. I had conquered the oral exam, only to walk outside and see the vast dark clouds that had swept in. Thunderstorms, which meant more waiting, more pacing back and forth in my apartment. More restlessness, more anxiety. Few things in life are as difficult to endure as waiting for something you've spent so much time preparing for. After a few hours, I finally gave in and began playing video games. I made a milkshake. I went to the bathroom about 47 times. These are the things I did to survive.

The examiner gave me the go-ahead to start getting ready. With my hands shaking, knees weak, and sweat dripping down on my suit, I had one last pep talk with the CFI, then began the preflight process. Having checked everything twice, I climbed aboard, strapped myself in, and said one final prayer. The examiner climbed in, and in an instant, a wave of confidence washed over me: I can do this-it's just another flight. I flipped a few switches, contacted ground control, and rambled down the taxiway, all while the examiner thumbed playfully with his iPhone. Nice. Either he is trying to acquire a 10% stake in Vandalay Industries, or he's feigning disinterest to see how I react. As I steered the plane just off the runway, he finally spoke: "Flaps 10, soft field takeoff." My mind reacted, reaching over to alter the flaps setting, mentally running through the checklist of what needed to be accomplished. By now, I may as well have been a participant in the World Sauna Championships; the sweat glazed my face, pools of perspiration formed in places I didn't even know I had places. As we took off, the examiner immediately reached for the yoke on his side, as though I'd done something wrong. I continued to climb, staring out of the cockpit with one eye, glancing over at his side with the other. I began verbally going through the appropriate checklists, making sure each step was heard by the person who ultimately controlled my fate. I performed the correct time and fuel calculations, and took a long-overdue deep breath. I had survived the first five minutes. The next seventy were still to come.

A few landings at a nearby airport. Steep turns. Simulated emergency. Radio navigation. Power off stalls. With every completed manuever, the end grew closer in sight. His demeanor made it impossible to gauge my performance; by my estimations I was somewhere between highly proficient and grotesquely incompetant. I actually thought I'd done well, but here's the thing: silence is intimidating. There would be no feedback, not here, not now. With my flying livelihood resting firmly in the contents of his notebook, he finally directed me to head back towards Arlington.

I landed, waited for taxi instructions, and located a parking space. Nervously, I rested my hands on the yoke and waited for his verdict...the dry lump in my throat grew to increasingly resemble the Sahara desert-part of me considered gulping some engine oil just to stave off dehydration. As I turned the engine off and monitored a few gauges, he broke the silence: "Meet me inside in a few minutes." I tied down the aircraft, gathered my headset, maps, and other flight equipment, and headed towards the the briefing center.

I don't remember the next few minutes. The CFI came ambling over, asking about the flight, but I could hardly speak. I don't know what I told him, he just sort of laughed. I just knew that it was over. Pass or fail, I could at least relax. In reality, I just wanted to shed myself of this now-drenched suit, grab a Gatorade, and find a recliner somewhere. After a few minutes, the examiner called me into the briefing room, handed me a slip of white paper, extended his hand, and said, "Well done." I'd passed. Euphoria. I instantly broke into a huge smile, thanked him, and focused my remaining energy on restraining myself from giving him a bear hug.
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I'm not entirely sure who General Tso is, but if I ever have the chance to meet him, I'll be sure to tell him how much I enjoy his chicken. I'd already made up my mind that if I passed the checkride, I'd celebrate my new pilot status by devouring as much Chinese food as possible. Unfortunately, my stomach has been conditioned over the past two months to believe it belongs to a field sparrow. Suffice it to say, it was a disappointing performance at the buffet. I'm almost embarrassed to say I could only make two trips. It won't happen again.

I am now a pilot. While my privilidges are fairly limited, it is the first milestone in my journey. With the first hurdle cleared, my thoughts gravitate towards what's ahead. Over the week, I'll continue to fly to exotic locale such as Tulsa, Houston, and Shreveport. Another shipment of textbooks and aircraft manuels has already arrived, and, as I switch from the single-engine Cessna to the multi-engine Seminole, a harrowing thought is at the forefront of my mind: my next checkride is 15 days away. Does anyone have a birthday I can borrow?

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 49