Endings

"All endings are actually beginnings, we just don't know it at the time." -Mitch Albom

Has it really been three weeks since I finished flight school? Gulp. I can just about imagine how many people actually still read this: it's probably the same number of people who've successfully paid me to fly their airplane so far: zero. I started writing this shortly after I passed my final checkride, and somewhere between driving 3100 miles and having the egg-nogg IV inserted into my forearm, I lost track of the blog. Who knows how much longer I'll keep this up now that my formal training is finished. The important thing is to at least share the conclusion, right?

No matter how long a particular journey is, there's always a myriad of emotions when it's finally over. But is there a certain way one should feel? Whatever the manual says, I don't think I followed it properly: there were no victory parades, no celebratory champagne toasts, and not even the obligatory trip to the Chinese buffet. I'm still not sure what happened. Did I really do this? Is it actually over? It still doesn't seem real: I'm still waiting for the FAA to storm my house in the middle of the night William Wallace-style, take all my pilot certificates, then set everything ablaze on their way out. But it really is over. Hard to believe. Look, I hate cliches as much the sandwich artists at Subway hate it when I ask for extra spinach, but it really does feel like yesterday I packed up my house and moved to Texas. And now it's over? I feel many things, but above all else, I am relieved. I'm glad that my sixteen hour study days are over, and happy that the late night sim sessions are through. Grateful that I survived the grueling pace, and thankful I made it my original goal: I'm now a certified flight instructor with 220 hours in the logbook. I scraped and clawed for every single one of those hours, and could have compiled some awfully disgusting statistics about if I'd kept track. I'm excited that I'll now have the freedom to decompose on my parent's couch while not feeling too guilty about not studying.

It took way too long for my body to detox from eating nothing besides sandwiches and noodles. For the first few days I kept reaching instinctively for sandwiches, even while Mom did everything short of strapping me to a chair and pouring pureed steak and chicken down my throat. The good news: I survived without contracting any communicable diseases and while keeping my sanity intact. The bad news: I lost an inordinate amount of weight and successfully convinced my stomach that the food pyramid is nothing but an elaborate hoax. I'm sure I'll develop some form of mutation later in life because of this.

My last checkride was largely uneventful. Back in the single engine Cessna for the last time, I took this one out of the right seat, and played the role of flight instructor. The examiner was cheerful and full of conversation, almost exceedingly kind, like he knew just how hard I'd pushed myself to get to that point. I flew a variety of maneuvers, mostly ones I'd performed before, talking through each as though I were teaching a new student. It was almost easy. On my final approach to Arlington, some 400 feet above ground, a fuel track inadvertantly drove out on the runway, parked itself, and forced me to make an emergency go-around. The odds of this happening had to be something like 227,000 to 1. I mean, my roommate and I had wasted hundreds of hours practicing this exact scenario, only because we both loved throwing unmitigated disasters at one another to see how we'd react. But who, besides terrorists, drives a fuel truck on an active runway? As I jammed the throttle forward and began to climb, I called the control tower to notify them of what was happening, and in a matter of seconds, chaos ensued. Controllers could be heard over the frequency yelling at one another, wondering how such a colossal breakdown in airport security could occur. Phone calls were made, and the words 'FBI' and 'arrests' were audible over the radios. Either way, I was soon out of the traffic pattern, and planning for the return landing. In a matter of moments, I was back on the ground, and I had passed my final checkride. As for the fuel truck guy, I think it's safe to say he didn't pass his checkride.

For the last time, the examiner shook my hand and forked over my temporary certificate. I think even someone as experienced and proficient in the airplane as he is can appreciate just how far I've come in five months. Or maybe he was lamenting the fact that I'd no longer be making trips to the ATM for the express purpose of bolstering his bank account. Did I really give the examiner $3,675? Yes. Hopefully he's enjoying that two week yacthing expedition off the Caribbean islands. You're welcome, sir. I'd prefer to not think about that money.

Thank you for reading this journey, for following along as I struggled first with a new environment and grasping the intricacies of flying an airplane, for growing with me as I flew by myself for the first time, to encouraging me during the instrument phase, for listening as I wondered if I'd ever make it, and for putting up with a ridiculous sandwich count at the end of every posting, all the way to seeing and hearing about the finished product. In a way, you are all pilots too. I may be leaving flight school, but I'll still be blogging, and since I'm writing this retroactively, there's a new journey already happening that I'm anxious to write about. In the meantime, here's a short clip from one of my favorite movies that sums up the last 5 months better than anything else I could have said:

CFI School, Part II

As the long days of instructor school turned into weeks, our collective resolve gradually began to diminish: the TV, which had been neglected for most of the first 10+ days, now found its way back into the routine. The ocean beaches, which we stared after lustily at first, soon became too enticing to pass up. And the piles of textbooks, which had ingrained themselves into every fiber of our existence, soon sat in far corners of the condo, longing to be picked up and held again. Combined, this was substantial evidence that either we had offically reached burnout stage, or that we were ready for our checkrides.

The worst part of the first ten days? The uncertainty of not knowing when it would be over. Anyone can withstand pain, torture even, when there is a clear end in sight. Just ask Detroit Lions fans. But when it seemingly will go on forever? That's when hope is lost. Eventually, word was passed down from the higher ups that our checkrides had been scheduled, giving us moderate rejeuvenation to regain our strenuous study pace.

Soon after, I was informed that I had indeed escaped 'The Executioner' for my initial flight instructor checkride and was instead scheduled with a gentleman named Walt, who also happened to be the lead ground school instructor. I couldn't have been happier. My classmates all remarked that I'd hit the lottery, and I agreed. After all, Walt was the 70 year-old grandfather figure who spent years working for the FAA, and now, in retirement, found great joy in helping future generations of pilots achieve their dreams. He purposefully sought out us students, often gathering around during coffee breaks and sharing one of his famous one-liners. He was, in all senses, a walking encyclopedia of aviation knowledge. I'd lost count of the times he'd seen me diligently reviewing his lecture notes or preparing lesson presentations and stopped by to offer his insights. This had to be a good thing, right? Having spent four years accumulating brownie points with my professors in college taught me that one can never have enough goodwill stored up-you never know when it might come in handy.

As I spent the final few days prior to my checkride making sure I'd left no stone unturned, Walt continued to help me fine tune my efforts, combing over my power point slides with the same care he used to guard his beloved Taco Soup recipe. I couldn't believe it: my examiner was actually helping me pass the checkride. He told me to let him know when I wanted to get started, and on a rainy Saturday around 8 AM, we decided to go for it.

Now, up until this point, most of my checkride orals lasted 30-45 minutes, at the most. I knew this would be different. A few of my classmates had taken theirs the day before, with one oral exam lasting 7.5 hours. Did we have to know everything? Apparently, yes. As I gathered my materials and lesson presentations, I made sure to pack my 900+ page book of aviaion law, which, ironically, my examiner Walt wrote 1/3 of.

Checkrides are a funny thing. Pilots who've successfully passed through multiple ones say that they're no big deal. To a beginning pilot though, a checkride felt like life or death. At this stage of the game, I'd become accustomed to the process, wasn't very nervous, and wanted simply to pass this one, gain my instructor's certificate, impress Walt, and go home.

Here's the thing: in the aviation world, the initial flight instructor checkride is, by design, one of the hardest to pass. It's not merely a test of skill and proficiency but also of knowledge, safety, and the ability to teach. I've heard the national average pass rate hovers around 40%. None of that mattered to me; I wanted this one bad. It's sort of like playing cards with my Gramma-at first, she's happy just to be playing, but then, after winning the first few games, she's transformed into a ruthless, win-at-all costs competitor. I'm the same way with these checkrides. It's not enough that I made it through the first five without a bust; I want to pass them all.

It didn't happen. Though I blasted through the 3.5 hour oral with few problems, the flight almost instantly turned into a disaster. Walt took it upon himself to fluster, bewilder, confuse, and intimidate me, and it worked. I lost sight of an airport. I nearly breached a restricted airspace. I botched radio calls. My maneuvers, which had been crisp only the day before, withered like a decaying garden eggplant. During the most crucial hour of my flight training, I fell apart. I had failed my first checkride.

We flew back to the departure airport, and debriefed the flight. He wanted to know what happened; I didn't have an answer. Even chipmunks could have flown better than I did that morning. Just like that, $575 down the drain. It was the most disparaging of all possible outcomes.

A few days later, after I'd cleared my head and regained my confidence, I went out and flew like Red Baron, and earned my flight instructor certificate. After all the hardships I'd endured over the past few weeks, it was more relief than anything else. Soon, I found myself back on a plane, bound for Dallas. Instructor school was finished. Only one more week of flight school.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 167

CFI School, Part I

The flight school machine may have taken a four day vacation in honor of some of the greatest Pilgrims I know, but that doesn't mean there hasn't been plenty of material stored up for another blog entry. Since I'm a freshly minted commercial pilot, the next logical step was to earn my flight instructor's certificates. After a quick trip home to Minnesota for some much-needed turkey and family time, I was told to be at the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport a few Sundays ago with all of my textbooks and study materials by 1PM. My training partners and I begrudingly packed our suitcases bound for military boot camp, disguised as certified flight instructor school. We'd heard the horror stories from classes before us: 16 hour study days, impoverished living conditions, brutally indifferent instructors, and a checkride with an examiner nicknamed 'The Executioner'. I prepared myself for the worst.

After two weeks of nothing besides sleep and studying, I can only confirm this: I'm exhausted. Each morning when the alarm clock sounds my body groans in disapproval, rebelling against the grueling pace that I've established. I keep wondering when the end is in sight, when I'll get to take my instructor check ride and fly back to Dallas. In the mean time, life is on hold: calls to my cell phone go unreturned, emails neglected, bills upaid, friendships stranded. Make no mistake: this has been some of the most awful two weeks of my entire life.

Living in hamster-like cages with 3 other students lends itself to madness. Few are the moments when I question not only my sanity but that of those around me. Annoyances fester beneath the skin until one of us erupts like some overwhelmed Kindergarten teacher during Show & Tell gone awry. GET YOUR AIRPLANE FLYING HANDBOOK OFF MY BED! Who will reach their breaking point first? It doesn't matter; we all already have. I want to go home, and I'm not even sure what that means anymore. Texas? Minnesota? I just know it's not here.

How much longer can I take it? Who knows. In the meantime, a few stories, good and bad, from the epicenter of it all:

-Delayed in Dallas for over an hour, we sprinted to make our connecting flight in Charlotte, only to have our bags left behind. Faced with the prospect of sleeping without my packed sheets and blankets, I scavanged around the unfurnished townhouse and only found a thin, shredded-up Pocahontas beach towel. Sleeping without any blankets is awful. What did I use to keep warm that first night? Let's just say that I can now paint with all the colors of the wind.

-With no time to go to the grocery store before our first day of class, I splurged and went to Subway with a few of the others in the class. One girl came along, but didn't buy anything, instead plowing some donated crackers with the intensity of a squirrel hoarding acorns before winter. When asked what she had against $5 footlongs, she replied that she only had $3 to her name. $3? No credit cards, no parental assistance, no war bonds she could cash? Nope. I was incredulous. If you're ever wondering why pilots are arrogant, it's because of what they've overcome to get where they are. I'll bet you an oven-roasted chicken breast on Honey Oat that she will never forget how poor she once was, if that airline dream of ours ever comes true.

-One of my first flights here was a required 'Spin Training and Recovery' flight. In layman's terms, a spin is the result of an uncoordinated stall, resulting in the airplane plummeting to the ground as it faces nose-down and rotates around its center axis. In other words, something I don't want to ever happen as a flight instructor. We are required by aviation law to learn proper recovery technique and procedure before earning our instructor's certificates. This was by far one of my favorite flights. The sight picture was a little scary at first, but after I developed proficiency it became a game to see how quickly I could recover. Good to know I'll be able to survive the types of disasters my future students might put me in, just like my instructors overcame my ineptitude just a few months ago.

-Being a native of Minnesota has taught me a few things about winter; namely, that people should not leave the house from Thanksgiving to St. Patrick's Day, just to be safe. The one redeeming quality of being lampooned here in Jacksonville is that I'm able to parade around in shorts and a polo while the locals bundle up with fur coats and scarves. If you need to find me, just look for the guy embracing 55 degree weather by going for late night jogging excursions.

Back to the present: to repeat the mantra I learned very early on in flight school, I'm taking this one day at a time. It's a struggle, especially as I begin to wonder if I'll be finished up by Christmas, but I'm a pilot, and therefore I'll figure things out.
PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 162