I used to love looking at maps. As a kid, I'd pull out the biggest road atlas I could find, then try to pick out towns that appeared to be the furthest apart, and guess their distances. I'd look up the most remote locations, and estimate how long it'd take to get there. I spent hours staring holes into these maps, simply because I enjoyed it. In a related story, I also wore braces, had no girlfriend, and spent considerable time trying to pry myself out of school lockers. But as I pored over these maps, I kept coming back to Texas, and was always dumbfounded that a state could be so big. I deduced that one could spend an entire day driving from one corner to the next, and yet still not make it out of the state. Factor in the scorching heat and you're looking at a solid 12-14 hours of desert misery, which is infinitely different than dessert mystery. Fools, I thought. I'll never drive that. What a waste of time.
As I'm learning lately, elements of my past are continually creeping into the forefront of my life. Despite my best efforts to be 'drafted' by the company location I most desired, I got word late Monday evening that I would be headed out to Long Beach, CA. Goodbye Atlantic Ocean, hello Pacific. No more Jacksonville, but plenty more driving: including a straight shot through (yep, you guessed it) the heart of southern Texas. I spent most of that night ignorning Mapquest's driving directions page, instead choosing to focus my energies on procrastinating anything that resembled packing up my Jacksonville apartment. The next day, I trudged wearily into the company offices, hoping there had been some form of paperwork error or misinformation. Nope. It would be Long Beach. Almost on cue, one of the company executives laughingly pulled up the route, and cheerfully announced, "Wow, 38 hours, have fun with that trip." Thanks, man. Getting Long Beach as a base was like being named CEO of Waffle House-sure, you're excited to have reached this point in your career, but there's definitely some obstacles to overcome. After all, it was only a week earlier that I'd made the fateful joke about being 'banished to some random place, like Long Beach.' Well, here I am. Long Beach, California. Gulp.
A few snapshots from my life on the road:
-I alluded to it before, but as it turns out, Texas is really, really big. Crossing the Louisiana-Texas state line, I encountered an ominous road sign: El Paso, 857 miles. In moment of self-denial, I quickly reached for my atlas, hoping that somehow, that wasn't my route. Nope. I settled into the driver's seat a little bit deeper, relaxed my grip on the steering wheel, and took a deep, deep breath. This was going to be one long drive.
-Because I'd been driving since 9PM the previous night, I knew my stamina was about to reach the 'disgruntled fast-food employee' level quickly. I drove for a few more hours, then settled in to a Motel 6 just past San Antonio. As always, my thoughts turned to food, and I starting salivating towards the thought of a hot breakfast bar the next morning. Of course, when I woke up and inquired about said spread, the lady at the counter chortled and replied, "No, there's no breakfast here, but we do have free toothpicks!" Awesome. Thanks for all your help. The next time I'm driving 38 hours across the country and starving to death, I'll be sure to stop by your hotel and clean the food particles out of my teeth.
-Apparently there's not one Chinese person in all of Mississippi or Louisiana. I scoured the freeways for the better part of 5 hours as I transversed their states in vain for a Chinese buffet, but couldn't find one. I kept driving and driving, hoping that each subsequent exit would deliver. I wanted a Chinese buffet. Eventually, as the hunger pains began to take their toll, I resigned myself to pulling over at a Subway. Sure enough, at the first exit heading into Texas, just moments after finishing my sandwich, was a Chinese buffet. Next time, I'm using Mapquest to highlight every Chinese establishment in a six-state radius, just to be safe. I havn't been that disappointed since Home Alone 3.
-In the barren wasteland that is New Mexico, it's not uncommon to travel for long stretches without seeing any signs of life. Ordinarily, this isn't a problem, but when the Silver Tauras' gas light's been on for twenty minutes, a sense of panic ensues. After all, I've made plenty of jokes throughout this blog about pilots being eaten by wild animals. The last thing a traveler wants to have happen is run out of gas on the Interstate in a strange, lonely place. I couldn't remember the last roadsign I'd seen. How far was the next town? Once again, I instinctively reached for the road atlas, hoping to find some off-the-beaten path joint with gas services. No luck. I reduced my speed to a more fuel-efficient 55 MPH, hoping to stave off the impending doom as long as possible. I began to sweat and curse myself for not filling up an hour ago, when I had 1/4 tank left. Finally, out of nowhere, a small outpost appeared on the horizon. "Separ Gift Shop." (Note: this town was so tiny it's not even ON a map. It's true.) I could see the fueling station pumps from the exit ramp, and my I finally exhaled after nearly a half hour of terror. But, as things often seem to be for me, the town of Separ did not have fuel that day. Only the tattered remnants of a once-proud establishment remained. Incredulously, I walked inside to the gift shop, and demanded to know where they were hiding my gas. The poor counter-lady couldn't have been more distraught when I told her how long I'd been driving on empty, how I was SURE there was gas here. Despite her best efforts to sell me some moccasins and cowhide vests, I told her I really needed gas, and asked what the nearest place was. All she could muster was a consolitory, "Honey, if you want GAS, you're looking at TWENTY MINUTES, at least."
Now... it was pouring rain. I had neglected my atlas. My car hated me for subjecting it to a 3rd cross country drive in less than a month. I was hungry. Nobody else was around. Sunset was just around the corner. Thanks to some poor planning, my cell battery was waning. The odds of this story turning out good were about the same as me starting a gardening enthusiasts club. I did the only thing I could: got back into the car, began to pray that I'd miraculously make it to the next town, and kept driving west. As I crept back onto the Interstate, my car bellowed at me like one of those African water buffaloes. Pretending to be deaf, I stepped on the gas pedal, set the cruise for 55 MPH, and kept praying. Soon, a mile passed. Then five. So far, so good. I counted out ten miles, and now I was feeling it, like a high-roller who hits a hot streak at a Craps table. My atlas showed a sizable town, only 11 miles away. I used a Post-It note to cover up my fuel indicator, defiantly protesting against its indications. Another mile down. More prayers. By now, my situation was less dire: if the car died here, at least I was closer to fuel. In the end, it didn't matter: a few minutes later, my car coasted with relative ease to a large fuel station, and in my mind, onlookers and other passerby were cheering and applauding one of the greatest moments in New Mexico transportation history. Somehow, someway, my 15 gallon fuel tank managed to take 15.7 gallons of fuel. I think I'll frame the receipt. The Silver Tauras, and God, had conquered fuel starvation. The name of the town? Lordsburg. Some things were just meant to happen.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Training Days
Of all the Rat's nest, this is horrible things about life, few can stand up to the excruciating monotony of searching for a job. The agonizing periods of waiting, the endless recording of information minutae, and especially the rejection letters-of-doom all add up to some fairly undesirable feelings. More than a few people can relate, especially given the economy. As I neared the flight school finish line, more than anything else I dreaded the long days of trolling the internet for possible job openings and submitting resumes to unnamed human resource personnel in far off places I never dreamed I'd consider living. Fortunately, for all parties involved, I didn't have to wait or search long: while spending the afternoon after my final checkride cleaning the apartment and packing my car, I received an email from the HR department of my flight school, wanting to know if I'd be available for a phone interview later that afternoon. I cleared my schedule (read: there was nothing to be cleared) and prepared myself for what she might ask. The interview came and went, and a few hours later, I had been offered a job as a flight instructor, and I'd be headed back one of my least favorite U.S. cities: Jacksonville, FL.
My disdain for Jax runs deep, stemming from an encounter with a disgruntled taxicab driver back in October and continuing on with my epic two week CFI school imprisonment shortly before Christmas. Throw in the fact that it's one of the most sprawling cities around (count on thirty minutes of driving to get anywhere), obscenely high crime rates, and an overwhelming surplus of overpriced Publix grocery stores and one might begin to form an idea of why even Cleveland ranks higher on USA Today's "Top 10 Most Desirable Getaways" List. I made that last part up. But, still.
Some decisions are hard in life, like determining which breakfast cereal to eat, or whether or not Ben Affleck wears a tupee. Accepting this job wasn't one of them. In aviation, a sure-fire offer on the table always trumps what could be out there. I originally had grand visions of working as a bush pilot up in Alaska, or spending a few years overseas as a missionary pilot. And perhaps someday those plans will still come to fruition. But with a concrete offer on the table, I elected to go with the sure thing. For now, I'm thrilled to be working for the flight school I attended, and even more fortunate to be receiving a paycheck FOR FLYING AIRPLANES. Six months ago, when I first enrolled, completing school on time and exiting with a job offer in hand would have been the absolute most desirable outcome. I like how things turned out, even if I'm in Jacksonville, although it's not entirely awful living three miles from the ocean on 70 degree January days. Somebody has to do it-might as well be me.
It's not been easy. Compressing the amount of information I just learned into a 5 month, 150 Day program was intense, but the company's standardization training has obliterated anything I've ever encountered. It's like brushing your teeth at the bottom of Niagara Falls-just a catastrophic amount of excess pressure everywhere you turn. The demands placed upon me as a salaried pilot are taking their toll. Each day has been chock full of training sessions, simulator prep work, and a ridiculous amount of hours spent in the company business center, where we counsel prospective students on the perils of enrolling in our school. Before we are unleashed to one of the company's 25 nationwide locations, however, we must pass five thorough simulator evalation sessions and two flights with the Chief Instructor. It is here where I ran into my first major obstacle.
Flying in any simulator is the classic double edge sword illustration. You're performing the same checklists, announcing the same callouts, and configuring the device as you would in the air. The value of spending time in a simulator is definitely tangible. However, most sims are often labeled as being squirrelly, or difficult to fly. The obvious difference is that, in the air, you're able to 'feel' the aircraft as changes are made, and compensate accordingly. The reality is, there's simply no substitute for the real thing. Now, I'd succeeded in the sim before, but in my first attempt to pass the evaluation sessions, I crumbled under the pressure and received an unsatisfactory rating. Failing the sim session meant I lost my instructor seniority and was moved to the back of the line. I watched as the four people I was hired with plowed through their sim blocks with the ease of someone loading up their plate at Old Country Buffet. For two weeks I languished in uncertainty, wondering when I'd get another chance. In the meantime, I began pulling even longer days, spending two or three hours in the morning running through procedures and operations and another few hours at night flying in the simulator. Soon, I'd pushed myself to exhaustion and had to take a step back.
No disrespect to anyone who may have, at one point, ran an illegal dogfigthing operation, but these really have been the dog days of my fledgling pilot career. Moments of doubt, mixed with frustration and impatience, are the defining elements of my new struggle. I knew climbing the ladder would be tough, but until you're a few rungs up, you really don't know how far it is to go. Like I used to lament back in my private pilot days, it seems as though everyone is a better, safer, and more experienced pilot than I. And it's true: they are.
I remember thinking, back a few months ago, that when I finished flight school, that THEN I would celebrate and enjoy my hard work. I would lay around, basking in the glow of being done. I would be lazy. Sleep in. I would get fat. These were the things I looked forward to. I distincly recall telling myself to feel proud of what I'd accomplished, that I'd finally 'made it'. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The reality is I am a rookie, that I really don't know too much about anything, and this is the part of my life where I take my lumps, early and often. Responsibility has increased tenfold-I'm no longer the trainee-and it's all on my shoulders. The company has a saying, "If you see it, you're responsible." These days I'm seeing everything. There's no time to be lazy, and get fat, because I've got a flying career now. I am responsible. It is an incredibly sobering thought, that I know just enough to legally teach someone how to fly, and not much else. It's enough to keep me dilligent in my studies, and more than enough to motivate me towards give my everything to the students I'll be teaching.
Fast forward to a few days ago. With all that extra practice time built in, I breezed through the final few simulator evalutations, passed my initial recommendation flight, and now am readying myself for one final flight. Then, I'll wait, for my name to be called, for the final word on where I'll begin my flying career. Early word from HR is that I'll be headed to Indianapolis, or possibly Atlanta. Like an NBA Draft prospect awaiting his fate, I'll be anxious to find out where my Silver Tauras will deliver me next. I only know one thing: it will be someplace other than Jacksonville.
My disdain for Jax runs deep, stemming from an encounter with a disgruntled taxicab driver back in October and continuing on with my epic two week CFI school imprisonment shortly before Christmas. Throw in the fact that it's one of the most sprawling cities around (count on thirty minutes of driving to get anywhere), obscenely high crime rates, and an overwhelming surplus of overpriced Publix grocery stores and one might begin to form an idea of why even Cleveland ranks higher on USA Today's "Top 10 Most Desirable Getaways" List. I made that last part up. But, still.
Some decisions are hard in life, like determining which breakfast cereal to eat, or whether or not Ben Affleck wears a tupee. Accepting this job wasn't one of them. In aviation, a sure-fire offer on the table always trumps what could be out there. I originally had grand visions of working as a bush pilot up in Alaska, or spending a few years overseas as a missionary pilot. And perhaps someday those plans will still come to fruition. But with a concrete offer on the table, I elected to go with the sure thing. For now, I'm thrilled to be working for the flight school I attended, and even more fortunate to be receiving a paycheck FOR FLYING AIRPLANES. Six months ago, when I first enrolled, completing school on time and exiting with a job offer in hand would have been the absolute most desirable outcome. I like how things turned out, even if I'm in Jacksonville, although it's not entirely awful living three miles from the ocean on 70 degree January days. Somebody has to do it-might as well be me.
It's not been easy. Compressing the amount of information I just learned into a 5 month, 150 Day program was intense, but the company's standardization training has obliterated anything I've ever encountered. It's like brushing your teeth at the bottom of Niagara Falls-just a catastrophic amount of excess pressure everywhere you turn. The demands placed upon me as a salaried pilot are taking their toll. Each day has been chock full of training sessions, simulator prep work, and a ridiculous amount of hours spent in the company business center, where we counsel prospective students on the perils of enrolling in our school. Before we are unleashed to one of the company's 25 nationwide locations, however, we must pass five thorough simulator evalation sessions and two flights with the Chief Instructor. It is here where I ran into my first major obstacle.
Flying in any simulator is the classic double edge sword illustration. You're performing the same checklists, announcing the same callouts, and configuring the device as you would in the air. The value of spending time in a simulator is definitely tangible. However, most sims are often labeled as being squirrelly, or difficult to fly. The obvious difference is that, in the air, you're able to 'feel' the aircraft as changes are made, and compensate accordingly. The reality is, there's simply no substitute for the real thing. Now, I'd succeeded in the sim before, but in my first attempt to pass the evaluation sessions, I crumbled under the pressure and received an unsatisfactory rating. Failing the sim session meant I lost my instructor seniority and was moved to the back of the line. I watched as the four people I was hired with plowed through their sim blocks with the ease of someone loading up their plate at Old Country Buffet. For two weeks I languished in uncertainty, wondering when I'd get another chance. In the meantime, I began pulling even longer days, spending two or three hours in the morning running through procedures and operations and another few hours at night flying in the simulator. Soon, I'd pushed myself to exhaustion and had to take a step back.
No disrespect to anyone who may have, at one point, ran an illegal dogfigthing operation, but these really have been the dog days of my fledgling pilot career. Moments of doubt, mixed with frustration and impatience, are the defining elements of my new struggle. I knew climbing the ladder would be tough, but until you're a few rungs up, you really don't know how far it is to go. Like I used to lament back in my private pilot days, it seems as though everyone is a better, safer, and more experienced pilot than I. And it's true: they are.
I remember thinking, back a few months ago, that when I finished flight school, that THEN I would celebrate and enjoy my hard work. I would lay around, basking in the glow of being done. I would be lazy. Sleep in. I would get fat. These were the things I looked forward to. I distincly recall telling myself to feel proud of what I'd accomplished, that I'd finally 'made it'. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The reality is I am a rookie, that I really don't know too much about anything, and this is the part of my life where I take my lumps, early and often. Responsibility has increased tenfold-I'm no longer the trainee-and it's all on my shoulders. The company has a saying, "If you see it, you're responsible." These days I'm seeing everything. There's no time to be lazy, and get fat, because I've got a flying career now. I am responsible. It is an incredibly sobering thought, that I know just enough to legally teach someone how to fly, and not much else. It's enough to keep me dilligent in my studies, and more than enough to motivate me towards give my everything to the students I'll be teaching.
Fast forward to a few days ago. With all that extra practice time built in, I breezed through the final few simulator evalutations, passed my initial recommendation flight, and now am readying myself for one final flight. Then, I'll wait, for my name to be called, for the final word on where I'll begin my flying career. Early word from HR is that I'll be headed to Indianapolis, or possibly Atlanta. Like an NBA Draft prospect awaiting his fate, I'll be anxious to find out where my Silver Tauras will deliver me next. I only know one thing: it will be someplace other than Jacksonville.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Endings
"All endings are actually beginnings, we just don't know it at the time." -Mitch Albom
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:
Sunday, December 20, 2009
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.
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
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
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.
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
-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
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Will Fly For Food
I like to cook. Unusual hobby, sure, but it's healthier than constantly eating greasy burritos from Taco Bell 24/7, and it saves money. Unfortunately, the flight school diet has consisted of far too many sandwiches and oatmeal over the past few months, but on occasion I splurge and head for the bulk meats section of the nearest Wal-Mart supercenter, all in hopes of stockpiling the ground beef for making Hamburger Helper. If you have the discipline to ration the portions refugee-style, one can usually get 2-3 meals out of this. Even though I'm now very proficient in making this meal, it always baffles me how it's able to come together. At first it's just a lump of red, raw meat. Fifteen minutes later it's an unrecognizable scramble. Douse it with a few cups of water. Maybe add in some milk, throw a few noodles in it. By now it's all I can do to keep my creation from overflowing the pan and causing a big mess. There's nothing about it that resembles a meal, not even close. It's at this point I mix in the seasoning sauce, and that only furthers the perception that I'm cooking vomit. The discolored blob of ingredients hardly looks edible. But soon, after a few stirs, and enough time over the hot stove, the liquids settle in, the noodles begin to cook, and the pan starts to become one. An aroma flows through the air. Soon, with a little care and effort, my dinner's ready. Now, no one here would argue that Hamburger Helper is a gourmet meal. Point conceded. But there is something special about taking something ordinary and seeing it come to its full potential. Maybe it tastes better because I went through the effort of making it. Or maybe I've gone senile over the past few months and somehow decided that writing a paragraph on Hamburger Helper was a good idea.
No matter, I can't help but draw parallels from one of my favorite low-budget meals and my experiences here. One of my first recollections about this crazy journey comes from back in early May, when the first crate of aviation textbooks and supplies arrived at my house. As I sifted through the boxes, feelings of being overwhelmed consumed me. The materials were things I'd never seen before, never knew they existed. I flipped through a few pages of a training manual and thought, "What did I get myself into this time?" It was a disaster.
Over the next few weeks, little by little, I threw myself into the books. My free time was spent learning things that, even just a few months prior, never envisioned myself caring to learn. And as summer approached, and my flight school date grew ever closer, I realized there was no going back. The beef was now brown.
My arrival here in Texas was met with more books, more uncertainty, and an even greater overwhelming feeling. I remember my first night here: exhausted from the fourteen-hour drive, hungry and in dire need of a shower, I met a few of my training partners and collapsed onto my bed, wondering if I'd made the right decision. The life I'd left behind suddenly seemed remarkably appealing. Was it too late to change my mind? As I stared at the heaping pile of books and aeronautical charts on the table, I wondered how I would ever make it.
The next morning, while eating the first of the PB&J sandwiches for breakfast, I pored over the syllabus, which outlined the next 150 days of my life, almost down to the hour. I'm the type of person who likes to take things one day at a time. I thought I'd accidently stepped into a military prison camp. I felt more out of place than Captain Crunch at a quilting convention. That night my classmates and I studied until midnight. If the first day didn't kill me, I thought, maybe there's a chance I can do this.
Eventually, my classmates and I fell into a routine: wake up, study, go flying, study, sleep. And that's how it went for me for the first month. Before I could blink, I'd been here a month. The reality that I was chasing a dream sprung me out of bed each morning. Soon, after about six weeks, I'd earned my private pilot's license. A few weeks later, I'd added a multi-engine rating. Who knew I had it in me?
Slowly, but steadily, I progressed though the grueling instrument stage. If there were ever a time to quit, this would have been it. These were long days, often starting before 6 and ending well after midnight. I wanted to kill my instructor. He probably wanted to kill me. If Vegas had been taking bets on survival, odds would have been pretty much even.
Time has been on fast forward ever since. I spent two weeks flying around the country, building my hours. I took three written exams in seven days. Just last week, I conquered two commercial checkrides in one weekend, making me qualified to fly for hire. Somehow, someway, the ingredients all came together. I am now a real-live pilot. The end is near. In a few short hours, I'll board a U.S. Airways flight for Jacksonville to begin certified flight instructor school. Two weeks of grueling study and preparation for a checkride that determines my immediate flying future. After being separated for most of the past three months, my classmates from our private pilot days are joining me for this final push. If all goes well, I'll be back to Dallas and done with the program in three weeks. The end is near.
In one of my very first posts, I broke down my ambitions as plainly as possible: I just want to fly airplanes. While I've attained that goal, I'm ready for the next challenge: I want to teach people how to fly airplanes. I'm still not quite sure how this happened, but I never want to go back.
No matter, I can't help but draw parallels from one of my favorite low-budget meals and my experiences here. One of my first recollections about this crazy journey comes from back in early May, when the first crate of aviation textbooks and supplies arrived at my house. As I sifted through the boxes, feelings of being overwhelmed consumed me. The materials were things I'd never seen before, never knew they existed. I flipped through a few pages of a training manual and thought, "What did I get myself into this time?" It was a disaster.
Over the next few weeks, little by little, I threw myself into the books. My free time was spent learning things that, even just a few months prior, never envisioned myself caring to learn. And as summer approached, and my flight school date grew ever closer, I realized there was no going back. The beef was now brown.
My arrival here in Texas was met with more books, more uncertainty, and an even greater overwhelming feeling. I remember my first night here: exhausted from the fourteen-hour drive, hungry and in dire need of a shower, I met a few of my training partners and collapsed onto my bed, wondering if I'd made the right decision. The life I'd left behind suddenly seemed remarkably appealing. Was it too late to change my mind? As I stared at the heaping pile of books and aeronautical charts on the table, I wondered how I would ever make it.
The next morning, while eating the first of the PB&J sandwiches for breakfast, I pored over the syllabus, which outlined the next 150 days of my life, almost down to the hour. I'm the type of person who likes to take things one day at a time. I thought I'd accidently stepped into a military prison camp. I felt more out of place than Captain Crunch at a quilting convention. That night my classmates and I studied until midnight. If the first day didn't kill me, I thought, maybe there's a chance I can do this.
Eventually, my classmates and I fell into a routine: wake up, study, go flying, study, sleep. And that's how it went for me for the first month. Before I could blink, I'd been here a month. The reality that I was chasing a dream sprung me out of bed each morning. Soon, after about six weeks, I'd earned my private pilot's license. A few weeks later, I'd added a multi-engine rating. Who knew I had it in me?
Slowly, but steadily, I progressed though the grueling instrument stage. If there were ever a time to quit, this would have been it. These were long days, often starting before 6 and ending well after midnight. I wanted to kill my instructor. He probably wanted to kill me. If Vegas had been taking bets on survival, odds would have been pretty much even.
Time has been on fast forward ever since. I spent two weeks flying around the country, building my hours. I took three written exams in seven days. Just last week, I conquered two commercial checkrides in one weekend, making me qualified to fly for hire. Somehow, someway, the ingredients all came together. I am now a real-live pilot. The end is near. In a few short hours, I'll board a U.S. Airways flight for Jacksonville to begin certified flight instructor school. Two weeks of grueling study and preparation for a checkride that determines my immediate flying future. After being separated for most of the past three months, my classmates from our private pilot days are joining me for this final push. If all goes well, I'll be back to Dallas and done with the program in three weeks. The end is near.
In one of my very first posts, I broke down my ambitions as plainly as possible: I just want to fly airplanes. While I've attained that goal, I'm ready for the next challenge: I want to teach people how to fly airplanes. I'm still not quite sure how this happened, but I never want to go back.
PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 143
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Break In The Action
They say no man is an island, but flight school can sure make you feel like it. Inhabiting the basement floor often leaves me wondering if indeed the rapture has happened and I've somehow been forgotten. These are dark and quiet days, with few demands on my schedule besides a few hours of flying each day. While it's a nice respite from the grueling pace of the program, the abundant downtime leaves one with a prevailing feeling of guilt. Even tasks once viewed as a productive expenditure of time, like laundry or composing emails, now offer a chance for my conscious to challenge my diligence. You should be studying or getting ahead right now. That's what living each day on flight school autopilot will do. After all, since I first stepped foot on the tarmac way back in July, I've been bludgeoned repeatedly with one assignment, project, or test to prepare for. And now, at least until I leave for instructor school, the exams are finished and ground lessons done, giving me ample time to realize I'm not accustomed to having ample time.
Fortunately, I've combated this by purposefully scheduling early morning flights back in the Cessna and plenty of textbook review. Simply staying on guard against complacency consumes a tremendous amount of energy, especially without an individually assigned instructor for this phase of my program. There are positives and negatives to this, with the major advantage being I get to see and hear several different critiques of my performance in a relatively short period. The major downside, of course, is that I usually end up being tossed around like one of the Kardashian sisters. Since every instructor is different, each has their own idiosyncrasies that can't help but be encountered during a lesson. A checklist flow method that generates applause from one instructor might result in a tongue-lashing from another. Trying to keep them all straight almost requires the use of Microsoft Excel. Today's flight was spent with the most experienced instructor our school has, a guy with nearly 1,700 hours on his resume and enough confidence to salvage a middle school homecoming dance. His penchant for crazy unusual attitude training notwithstanding, the guy knows his stuff and is an excellent instructor. It's hard not to feel intimidated around the more experienced, battle-tested pilots. I look forward to the day when I'm considered a peer, rather than just another student climbing the ladder that seemingly lacks a top step.
A quick glance at my logbook says the 200 hour mark is fast approaching-the minimum benchmark when applying for a commercial pilot's license. Training for the commercial checkride really is a lot less awful than, say, drinking a sewage-flavored smoothie. The new maneuvers aren't all that difficult; it's mostly a refining of the basic skills I learned back in my private pilot days. What's mainly giving me trouble during my training flights is a maneuver responsible for the majority of botched checkrides at this stage, known as a power-off 180. Simply put, it's a simulation of a failed engine while in the traffic pattern of an airport. While parallel to the landing zone, approximately 1,000 feet off the ground, I cut the throttle to idle and begin turning the aircraft back down towards the runway, with the goal to put the wheels of the plane down exactly on a pre-determined spot. Sound easy? The margin for error here is +200 feet, -0 feet. If I land it a foot short, too bad, it's a failure. Also in play: accounting for the wind factor. At no point am I allowed to increase the throttle-my only weapons are adding flaps or performing S-turns while I lose altitude. It is a constant blend of determining position and airspeed while slight adjustments to align the aircraft correctly. To be honest, the few times I've successfully pulled it off so far could be attributed to minor miracle. And even while demonstrating it to me, the instructors repeatedly botch it as well. The moral of the story: hope for a checkride day with zero wind and pray for leniency from the examiner. It's more than that, and with two training flights before the moment of truth I'm sure my proficiency will increase, but it'll be interesting to see how I perform. From this point on, I'm calling it the $400 maneuver. To see it done at a passing level, click here.
There are days I'd love nothing more than to sleep in and lay around, but both of those are incongruent to the ultimate goal and the magnitude of what's at stake here. Seeing the big picture requires loads of discipline, but I'm getting weary. In my downtime I've realized how much I miss family and the structure of normal life. This is the longest I've gone without seeing any of them-4 months. And all the things I miss about my 'normal life', like sleeping in a bed long enough for my 6'4" frame. Morale remains high, and the end is in sight, but man, I am ready for some home cooking. As I finish my final few weeks of training, the sandwiches are rapidly beginning to lose their flavor. Marked on my calendar after this week's checkride: a trip to China World's massive buffet. Motivation for passing never tasted so good.
The other day, a fresh new batch of students came in, all excited and ready to get started with their private pilot program. It strikes me as fascinating that my two classmates and I are now the self-proclaimed big dogs around here, the ones who supposedly know the drill and are viewed as the wise old sages. Let me be the first to say that I feel grossly unprepared for that mantle. What's even more alarming to me is that after Friday of this week, barring a complete disaster up in the air, I will be qualified to begin earning $$$ as a professional pilot. Not that there'll be a Lion King-style stampede of job offers at my door, but still, it's a very exciting and humbling prospect.
Fortunately, I've combated this by purposefully scheduling early morning flights back in the Cessna and plenty of textbook review. Simply staying on guard against complacency consumes a tremendous amount of energy, especially without an individually assigned instructor for this phase of my program. There are positives and negatives to this, with the major advantage being I get to see and hear several different critiques of my performance in a relatively short period. The major downside, of course, is that I usually end up being tossed around like one of the Kardashian sisters. Since every instructor is different, each has their own idiosyncrasies that can't help but be encountered during a lesson. A checklist flow method that generates applause from one instructor might result in a tongue-lashing from another. Trying to keep them all straight almost requires the use of Microsoft Excel. Today's flight was spent with the most experienced instructor our school has, a guy with nearly 1,700 hours on his resume and enough confidence to salvage a middle school homecoming dance. His penchant for crazy unusual attitude training notwithstanding, the guy knows his stuff and is an excellent instructor. It's hard not to feel intimidated around the more experienced, battle-tested pilots. I look forward to the day when I'm considered a peer, rather than just another student climbing the ladder that seemingly lacks a top step.
A quick glance at my logbook says the 200 hour mark is fast approaching-the minimum benchmark when applying for a commercial pilot's license. Training for the commercial checkride really is a lot less awful than, say, drinking a sewage-flavored smoothie. The new maneuvers aren't all that difficult; it's mostly a refining of the basic skills I learned back in my private pilot days. What's mainly giving me trouble during my training flights is a maneuver responsible for the majority of botched checkrides at this stage, known as a power-off 180. Simply put, it's a simulation of a failed engine while in the traffic pattern of an airport. While parallel to the landing zone, approximately 1,000 feet off the ground, I cut the throttle to idle and begin turning the aircraft back down towards the runway, with the goal to put the wheels of the plane down exactly on a pre-determined spot. Sound easy? The margin for error here is +200 feet, -0 feet. If I land it a foot short, too bad, it's a failure. Also in play: accounting for the wind factor. At no point am I allowed to increase the throttle-my only weapons are adding flaps or performing S-turns while I lose altitude. It is a constant blend of determining position and airspeed while slight adjustments to align the aircraft correctly. To be honest, the few times I've successfully pulled it off so far could be attributed to minor miracle. And even while demonstrating it to me, the instructors repeatedly botch it as well. The moral of the story: hope for a checkride day with zero wind and pray for leniency from the examiner. It's more than that, and with two training flights before the moment of truth I'm sure my proficiency will increase, but it'll be interesting to see how I perform. From this point on, I'm calling it the $400 maneuver. To see it done at a passing level, click here.
There are days I'd love nothing more than to sleep in and lay around, but both of those are incongruent to the ultimate goal and the magnitude of what's at stake here. Seeing the big picture requires loads of discipline, but I'm getting weary. In my downtime I've realized how much I miss family and the structure of normal life. This is the longest I've gone without seeing any of them-4 months. And all the things I miss about my 'normal life', like sleeping in a bed long enough for my 6'4" frame. Morale remains high, and the end is in sight, but man, I am ready for some home cooking. As I finish my final few weeks of training, the sandwiches are rapidly beginning to lose their flavor. Marked on my calendar after this week's checkride: a trip to China World's massive buffet. Motivation for passing never tasted so good.
The other day, a fresh new batch of students came in, all excited and ready to get started with their private pilot program. It strikes me as fascinating that my two classmates and I are now the self-proclaimed big dogs around here, the ones who supposedly know the drill and are viewed as the wise old sages. Let me be the first to say that I feel grossly unprepared for that mantle. What's even more alarming to me is that after Friday of this week, barring a complete disaster up in the air, I will be qualified to begin earning $$$ as a professional pilot. Not that there'll be a Lion King-style stampede of job offers at my door, but still, it's a very exciting and humbling prospect.
PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 131
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
