By John Wyman, EAA 462533; Chapter 266 Montreal
I suppose it is a mid-life thought, but recently I was reflecting on what it is to “go solo” in an airplane and how that one event in your life can dramatically change your perspective of the world. The thought came to mind when a friend of ours, Louise, in the Oshawa area, was commenting on her flight training progress and how she was expecting “things to pan out” in the coming months toward completing her private license. It got me thinking about what it is to go solo and what that milestone means toward expanding your horizons.
I remember my first solo in a Schweitzer 2-33 glider with the Air Cadets like it was yesterday. I’ve never forgotten the thrill of what it was to be finally released from the trainers, to do your own thing with the stick and rudder, and to glide and successfully come to a landing through your own skill — without any commentary and hints from the backseat. It was a moment not to be forgotten when I reached my release altitude of 2,000 feet and was left to my own to decide what to do with my 1,000 feet of “free time” to practice what you wish and then join the pattern for a downwind to the active runway. The glider in question was C-FACY, a sister ship to the glider that we would take our group picture in front of before graduating from the camp.
So when my friend announced that she was released to practice landings in the circuit, it got me reflecting on all the great solo moments I have witnessed or heard of so far in my lifetime. Right up there next to the glider was my own solo, under the guidance of an Air Canada pilot, who very unselfishly rented me his Aeronca Champ for building time (about 35 hours) toward a checkout at the local gliding club in Hawksbury, Ontario. That particular flight, after obtaining my license in a Cessna 150, again with the Air Cadets, was a feeling of utter elation, knowing that I was now checked out on taildraggers and if luck would have it, I’d soon be towing gliders in an L-19 Bird Dog, the taildragger of taildraggers built by Cessna. The Champ was a great training aircraft (still is, a close cousin of the J-3, but with slightly better “cruise” performance and over-the-nose visibility) and because of its “flaws” vs. a Cessna, it taught you how to use a rudder and what it was for in the first place, owing to the inherent adverse yaw that those large ailerons produce, which is good for a new student pilot to experience with the slightest turn. In other words, if your feet ain’t following the airplane, you’re behind it. Flaps? Forget that! A sideslip will suffice nicely, thank you. It teaches you again what those darn pedals are for!
My fondest solo recollection was checking Dad out in the Cessna 120. For years, Dad had toiled away fixing it but had never thought, or bothered, to ask me about flying it. I guess it was his quiet-spoken nature that kept him from jumping the gun. I bought the 120 in December 1991 and Dad brought it up to spec, faithfully signing it out and seeing that it was operationally, A-Okay. About three years later, he fessed up and told me he’d like to fly it if that was alright by me. I couldn’t see any reason why not and asked, rather nonchalantly, why he had given up flying in the first place. I learned that Dad had once been berated by an instructor to the point that he had decided in 1974 that he’d give it up if the experience of flying would come at a cost of being chided as a complete incompetent idiot when he had decided to get “checked out” on a C-172 with the sole goal of taking me up for my seventh birthday. Apparently, he couldn’t do anything right in the eyes of the instructor who he was assigned. This, from a pilot who’d once flown J-3s and who’d accumulated about 150 hours since he first started flying in 1955. How he wasn’t up to par, I will never know, but I do think that this story couldn’t have been farther from the truth as, up to this point, anything I did know about airplanes had always come from Dad. So now, it was up to me to check him out in an airplane that he’d come to know inside and out, at our local airport in St. Lazare, Quebec, exactly 22 years since he’d last touched the controls in 1974. Long story short, it was the easiest of checkouts (really, my first) where Dad showed me what he was capable of in about 4.5 hours. Not bad for someone who was absent from the scene for so long! I capped off the experience by opening the Cessna’s door after landing, getting out midfield, just like my Air Canada pilot trainer had done with me in the Champ, proudly instructing Dad to, “take er’ around the patch a couple of times and I’ll see you back at the clubhouse in a few minutes.” I didn’t have the slightest doubt about letting him go. Dad, with his jaw initially ajar, understood what I was saying. He was confident so there weren’t any doubts. That’s really what it’s all about, confidence. He flew around the patch doing a couple of touch and go’s on the grass strip and then a final sideslip to landing on the compacted gravel. Boom! Solo! And now the airplane was his to fly, too! Eventually, he’d log another 1,300-plus hours on the Cessna over the next 20-plus years. My, does time fly.
Another unforgettable solo was that of my wife, Sandrine, in the same type of Cessna, except with flaps — the Cessna 140. She had already earned her private pilot license the previous year in a Cessna 172 in St. Hubert, Quebec, and was now ready to give it a try in the 140 where she’d be released to build time at her pace. She knew the basics but next was the tailwheel aircraft. It had been a challenging two years to get her ticket in the fall (owing to aircraft availability, a common struggle of the student pilot) and now it was her chance to prove to herself that she could do it and confidently track the “squirrely” Cessna that doesn’t necessarily want to go where you want it to go. Once a crosswind did develop at our grass airstrip, we had the optimal test conditions. Having it too easy for a first solo isn’t necessarily a good thing. A taildragger takes a concerted effort to keep straight and it just so happened that with the treeline on either side of the runway, the crosswind was going to add enough burbles to make it interesting. By the time I did let her off to practice, the wind had increased to a good 12 knots at 90 degrees. Her first landing resulted in a go-around where she wasn’t quite at ease with how the flare was evolving, but that soon led to a successful one, giving her just the right amount of confidence that she could fly the tailwheel Cessna and build experience. Having an airplane in the yard greatly affords one the opportunity to fly when you want to. I am proud to say that she has flown 200-plus hours since that “first” solo.
Another first solo that comes to mind was of my last student on the Champ (there will probably be more when I get the airplane back up and running). He’s now a commercial airline pilot, but back then (several years ago) he was keen to build time towing the same gliders I did out in Hawksbury with the MSC (Montreal Soaring Council). He was a busy and determined commercial student at the time, simultaneously doing everything at once with the goal of getting to an airline. A particular memorable moment for me was when I got testy and had to ask Ari if he was there to fly the airplane or if he was going to continue to let the airplane fly him? I needed him to step up to the plate and show me and the airplane WHO was BOSS! We took a break from the training out on the wide-open grass runway in Alexandria, Ontario, and talked it over. Bit by bit we dissected his control inputs (or lack thereof), and, over the course of the chat, we came to an understanding that he just wasn’t reading the aircraft properly, thinking that if he applied brake here or there that the airplane should follow his “one” control input. I also stressed that he could make more of an effort to keep it centered in the middle of the runway and not just be satisfied of plus or minus three feet of the centerline. I said, “If you’re going to shoot for the center, make it the center!” I think that resonated with him (he later confirmed that), finally understanding it was the combination of all his inputs that would bring about directional control with the Champ. He needed to be present and in sync with the airplane versus just thinking that if it does one thing, I’ll just do the opposite and hope for the best. It was an “a-ha” moment and wouldn’t you know it, after that break, Ari was off to the races for the next three touch and go’s were perfect, allowing me to bail from the airplane and set him free with the “I’ll meet you back at the clubhouse” speech.
Ultimately, “flying solo” sets you on a course to learn on your own. It gives you the space and time to process everything you’ve learned up to that point. It lets you practice at your pace and perhaps, hopefully with your own airplane, to do as you please, opening up your horizons to the wonders and joy of flight.
John Wyman, EAA 462533, Chapter 266 Montreal, is a passionate aviator. When he isn’t in the saddle at the airline, he can be found out at the airfield doing any number of things. He likes to fly gliders, practice aerobatics, work on airplanes, and fix stuff.