By Alin Gruia, EAA 1335773
It was the first day of that November when I took to the sky, all by myself, for the first time.
But my journey started almost four months earlier. I had been thinking about taking flying lessons for some time and I had started dreaming about aviation much longer before that. As a kid, commercial flying was always a thrill. I would not take my eyes off the window from the moment I was seated, until we deplaned. But my seat was never good enough. I wanted the one up front and I don’t mean first class. My seven-year-old mind would wonder, what kind of superhero the man flying this airplane must be. I would peek into the cockpit each time we boarded and again, each time we left the aircraft. “How do they know what all of those buttons, levers, lights, and gauges do?” Children become fascinated with all sorts of things, but for me, this one fascination with flight never ended.
In the summer of 2011, I did my research, calculated the cost multiple times, and finally pulled the trigger. I was working full time as a driving instructor and loved it. When I mention cost, I refer to both time and money. I only had one day off each week. If I were to take more, I would have been able to get more than one flying lesson per week. But, I would not have been able to pay for it. In many ways, this give and take now reminds me of drag and lift; we need to balance them perfectly in order to stay in the air.
I met my instructor for an introductory flight at a small, family-owned airport. Twin Oaks [7S3] is situated just outside of Hillsboro Municipal Airport [HIO] airspace, in the majestic state of Oregon. I had spoken with him once over the phone and now we were shaking hands in a small and seemingly flimsy aircraft. It was an early model Cessna 172. Today, I do not see it as flimsy or small.
He explained a few things to me regarding what to expect, walked me around the airplane, and then showed me how to get in. I was briefed again on safety and then we shut the doors. Mine did not shut all the way and I had to try it a few more times. I was instructed to “slam” it and then, it was good. To this day, I remember that as being the scariest part of the flight.
The instructor flipped a few switches, pushed some levers, and then called “clear” out the window. Then, the engine came to life after a few rotations of the propeller and wind instantly entered the cockpit as both our windows were open. This felt great on the unusually warm fall day.
We taxied to the rather short runway, rolled for what seemed like a few seconds to me, then we broke ground. Those first few moments in the air made me instantly realize that this is something I want to do for the rest of my life. It felt like we were floating on a cloud. We climbed to 3,000 feet and he asked if I wanted to take the controls. I responded with enthusiasm and moments later, there I was: flying. Nothing would have been able to erase that big smile on my face as I made a few shallow turns, as to get a feel for the aircraft.
The introductory flight ended much too soon for me, but I was hooked. We scheduled the next few lessons, one week apart since that was all I could afford. This also gave me seven days to dream about the next lesson and my chance to be in the air again. I made good progress on my ground studies in between flights and was able to make the most of my time in the air, as limited as it was. I did my other lessons in a smaller Cessna 150. This was just big enough to fit the two of us but also saved me some money on renting it, versus the larger 172. The Cessna 150 with full tanks and the two of us was literally as close to its maximum weight limit as I’d ever want to be in any aircraft.
The summer went by too quickly and soon, it was fall. Oregon weather can be unpredictable at times and that year, we were blessed with good weather much later than we had expected. This was good for my training and with each lesson I felt closer to my solo day.
After the last lesson in October, my instructor declared me ready to go solo. I was so excited! We planned on doing it the following week.
On the first of November, we met at Twin Oaks. I conducted a thorough preflight inspection as if my life depended on it, and it literally did. Since then, I have conducted all my inspections in the same fashion.
The wind was moderate, and clouds were scattered at about 4,000 feet. McMinnville airport [MMV] is only a 15-minute hop from 7S3 and has a runway twice the size. We decided that this would be my first solo airport. We flew to MMV, made a few landings, and went over emergency procedures one last time. I had controlled the entire time while my instructor observed every move I made.
We made one final landing with a full stop, taxied off the runway and turned off the engine.
“Well, this is where I get off,” he said to me as he unhooked his headset. He was to listen to my radio transmissions from the ground, via a handheld transceiver.
That must have been the most intense portion of my solo: him stepping out and slamming the door. I was alone. The feeling was slightly unsettling but exponentially more exciting. I started the engine, gave my instructor one final salute, and started taxiing to the runway. I did a short runup, took a deep breath, and rolled onto the numbers. Full throttle and a few seconds later I was in the air. As soon as this happened, time seemed to stop, sound ceased to exist, and that first feeling of floating on a cloud came back with increased intensity.
I had been advised to expect different performance from the aircraft and this was perfectly true. I had never maneuvered the 150 without another person next to me. In such a small airplane, weight loss makes a huge difference. The takeoff roll was shorter, my climb was faster, and I was at pattern altitude quicker than ever before. Now, we all know how underpowered a Cessna 150 can be. But to me, at that point in time, it was a sports car racing through the sky.
It was only when I made my next transmission: “McMinnville traffic, Cessna 16058 turning left downwind runway 04, McMinnville,” that I realized I had a huge smile on my face and could not shake it off. In many ways, that first lesson and my first solo were so wonderfully similar. I turned onto the final, checked everything a million times, brought it to a controlled descent at 60 kts, and made an impressively smooth landing. Well, at least I impressed myself.
I accelerated down the runway again and took off in no time. Twice more, I repeated the exercise, announcing my every move to the traffic, knowing that even though my instructor remained silent, he was listening intently and watching me from the ground.
After the third landing, I reluctantly taxied off the runway and back to my instructor. I say “reluctantly” because I could have stayed up all day if it were up to me. But I was excited to hear what my instructor had to say and so I parked the old aircraft next to him, shut it off, and jumped out. He shook my hand and, even though I did not have a certificate yet, I felt like a pilot for the first time. Nothing was going to stop me and those 20 minutes in the air, all by myself, proved that.
I continued my training as planned, did my cross-country solo, long cross country, nighttime flying, and so on. I took my written exam and got a nice, 95 score. Several flight hours later, I took my checkride and obtained my private pilot certificate. Every moment in the air, up to that point and ever since, has been indescribably beautiful.
Now, 12 years later, I own a Commander 112TCA, a big step up from what I started with. Each time I take to the sky, that feeling of adventure and excitement fills my heart. Two years ago, I had the pleasure and privilege of taking my son Max, who had just turned two at the time, up with me. He is four years old now and loves it so much every time we fly together. Hopefully one day, I can be his superhero.
I cannot remember every flight I ever made, nor do I try. But every second of that first solo will live with me forever. Once you get the “flying bug” you can never get rid of it, and frankly, I don’t know anyone who would want to.
Pilots come from so many different walks of life. Some are born into a family immersed in flying or have access to resources that propel their flying dream much easier. Others, like me, start from zero, not even knowing anyone else that flies, and work their way up through flight school until the dream comes true. Whatever your background is, no matter where you are from or what resources you may or may not have, we all inevitably share this passion that so many have aspired to since the dawn of mankind.
I am forever grateful that I was born in a time where such an “impossible” dream has become possible and as the cliche states: the sky’s the limit.