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